The Teacher's Supernova Trap - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
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After hearing the full story, I turned to Old Man Walter. "Sir, does Sophia have a twin sister?"
"Not a chance," he snapped. "I met her family once. She's got a younger brother—spitting image of her, but that's it."
A brother?
A twin brother?
I dragged a hand through my hair, frustration boiling over. Was it possible the person I'd been with that night was her brother?
Jesus.
Just the thought made my skin crawl. I could scrub myself raw and still feel filthy.
I left Walter's place and slumped into my car, chain-smoking like my life depended on it, but the gnawing unease wouldn't let up.
Pulling out my phone, I replayed the video Sophia had sent me.
The footage was HD, no room for doubt—the person in that bed was unmistakably a woman.
Which left me with two options:
One, Sophia's brother had gone full Ladyboy and taken her place.
Two, this woman was just a dead ringer for Sophia.
But why would her brother impersonate her?
Revenge?
If that was the play, why come after me instead of Dylan and the others?
Didn't add up.
So it had to be option two—some random camgirl with Sophia's face, spinning lies about teaching at the school.
Lesson learned: never trust a pretty face.
The last few days replayed in my head like a bad movie—stumbling onto Sophia's stream, our one-night stand, now her dangling that video over my head.
And still, I couldn't crack her game.
No money demands. No smear campaign.
Was this really just some twisted power trip? Turning me into her personal toy?
And sending me the footage—wasn't she worried I'd flip the script on her?
My skull pounded from the mental gymnastics. Before I knew it, over an hour had slipped by.
My phone, tossed carelessly on the passenger seat, buzzed to life.
Sophia's face flashed on-screen—video call.
I answered and unloaded.
"Who the hell are you? What's your endgame? Why film us? Spit it out."
On screen, Sophia lounged on a hotel bed, barely covered by sheer black lace.
Every curve teased through the fabric. One look, and my resolve crumbled.
Damn her.
She knew exactly how to wreck me.
"Sweetheart, show me where you are," she purred, her gaze locking onto mine like a predator's.
Without thinking, I angled the camera, catching Brookfield High in the background.
Sophia's lips curled. "So you did go to the school. Get your answers? Or just more questions?"
She stretched like a cat. "Want the truth? Come to the hotel. Same room. I'll be waiting."
A blown kiss, then the screen went dark.
Same room. Same game. What was her move this time?
But I was done playing detective. I gunned the engine and peeled toward the hotel.
Already got recorded once. What's one more?
Besides, the truth was two blocks away.
Face-to-face with this doppelgänger, I'd get my answers.
Human or demon, I was walking in alone.
At the front desk, I cut to the chase.
"Miss, who's registered in 808?"
I knew the drill—hotels don't spill guest info. But money talks. I slid two grand across the counter.
Rules are flexible when cash is involved.
The receptionist tapped her screen. "Room 808 is under Isabella Roland."
Not Sophia.
So just a lookalike camgirl named Isabella Roland.
The knot in my chest loosened.
I beelined for 808.
Call me paranoid, but after getting filmed without consent, I wasn't taking chances. I crouched, phone recording under the door gap—no ambush in sight.
Then I dialed her number.
If no phone rang inside, or if the face wasn't Sophia's twin, I'd bolt and call the cops.
Worst case? New city, new identity.
The ringtone echoed. Seconds later, the door cracked open.
Sophia's mirror image peered out, scanning the hallway behind me.
Satisfied I was alone, she grabbed my collar and yanked me inside.
Before I could speak, her lips crashed into mine, hot and demanding.
The room filled with the sound of ragged breaths and the kind of hunger that doesn't ask questions.
"Not a chance," he snapped. "I met her family once. She's got a younger brother—spitting image of her, but that's it."
A brother?
A twin brother?
I dragged a hand through my hair, frustration boiling over. Was it possible the person I'd been with that night was her brother?
Jesus.
Just the thought made my skin crawl. I could scrub myself raw and still feel filthy.
I left Walter's place and slumped into my car, chain-smoking like my life depended on it, but the gnawing unease wouldn't let up.
Pulling out my phone, I replayed the video Sophia had sent me.
The footage was HD, no room for doubt—the person in that bed was unmistakably a woman.
Which left me with two options:
One, Sophia's brother had gone full Ladyboy and taken her place.
Two, this woman was just a dead ringer for Sophia.
But why would her brother impersonate her?
Revenge?
If that was the play, why come after me instead of Dylan and the others?
Didn't add up.
So it had to be option two—some random camgirl with Sophia's face, spinning lies about teaching at the school.
Lesson learned: never trust a pretty face.
The last few days replayed in my head like a bad movie—stumbling onto Sophia's stream, our one-night stand, now her dangling that video over my head.
And still, I couldn't crack her game.
No money demands. No smear campaign.
Was this really just some twisted power trip? Turning me into her personal toy?
And sending me the footage—wasn't she worried I'd flip the script on her?
My skull pounded from the mental gymnastics. Before I knew it, over an hour had slipped by.
My phone, tossed carelessly on the passenger seat, buzzed to life.
Sophia's face flashed on-screen—video call.
I answered and unloaded.
"Who the hell are you? What's your endgame? Why film us? Spit it out."
On screen, Sophia lounged on a hotel bed, barely covered by sheer black lace.
Every curve teased through the fabric. One look, and my resolve crumbled.
Damn her.
She knew exactly how to wreck me.
"Sweetheart, show me where you are," she purred, her gaze locking onto mine like a predator's.
Without thinking, I angled the camera, catching Brookfield High in the background.
Sophia's lips curled. "So you did go to the school. Get your answers? Or just more questions?"
She stretched like a cat. "Want the truth? Come to the hotel. Same room. I'll be waiting."
A blown kiss, then the screen went dark.
Same room. Same game. What was her move this time?
But I was done playing detective. I gunned the engine and peeled toward the hotel.
Already got recorded once. What's one more?
Besides, the truth was two blocks away.
Face-to-face with this doppelgänger, I'd get my answers.
Human or demon, I was walking in alone.
At the front desk, I cut to the chase.
"Miss, who's registered in 808?"
I knew the drill—hotels don't spill guest info. But money talks. I slid two grand across the counter.
Rules are flexible when cash is involved.
The receptionist tapped her screen. "Room 808 is under Isabella Roland."
Not Sophia.
So just a lookalike camgirl named Isabella Roland.
The knot in my chest loosened.
I beelined for 808.
Call me paranoid, but after getting filmed without consent, I wasn't taking chances. I crouched, phone recording under the door gap—no ambush in sight.
Then I dialed her number.
If no phone rang inside, or if the face wasn't Sophia's twin, I'd bolt and call the cops.
Worst case? New city, new identity.
The ringtone echoed. Seconds later, the door cracked open.
Sophia's mirror image peered out, scanning the hallway behind me.
Satisfied I was alone, she grabbed my collar and yanked me inside.
Before I could speak, her lips crashed into mine, hot and demanding.
The room filled with the sound of ragged breaths and the kind of hunger that doesn't ask questions.
End of The Teacher's Supernova Trap Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to The Teacher's Supernova Trap book page.