Chapter 6- He's My Professor?

MIA

A month passes in a flash.

I've been too busy preparing for school to think about anything else. Packing. Buying textbooks. Filling out forms. Charlotte has been amazing—letting me crash on her couch, feeding me, listening to me ramble about my fears and excitement.

And now today is my first day.

It's been a month since I left Justin. A month since I made the best bad decision of my life. I've seen that man twice on two different Tuesdays since that night. He was there, in his usual corner, reading his book. I served him once. He didn't look up. I didn't say anything.

Of course we didn't talk. We're strangers. That's what we agreed on. That's what it was supposed to be.

I'm in a cab heading to the school. The streets pass me like frames—Bleecker Street, Broadway, Houston Street. The city is alive. Busy. Indifferent. I'm just another person in a yellow cab, heading somewhere important.

I stare out the window. My reflection stares back. I look different. Maybe it's the new outfit. A cream-colored blazer from Zara, dark skinny jeans, my favorite ankle boots from Stuart Weitzman. I wanted to look like I belong. Like I deserve to be here.

I actually got in. Oh my God. This is wonderful.

After about thirty minutes, the cab pulls up to the address. I pay the driver and step out.

Kingston Business School.

The building is massive. Glass and steel. Modern. Imposing. It towers over the street, reflecting the gray sky. Students mill around the entrance, laughing, talking, carrying coffee cups and messenger bags. They look polished. Confident. Like they've always belonged here.

I take a deep breath. Then I walk in.

The lobby is even more impressive. Marble floors. A massive chandelier. A reception desk that looks like it belongs in a five-star hotel. I feel small. Out of place. But I don't let it show.

A girl is waiting for me. She's holding a clipboard and wearing a bright smile. Red hair, sleeked back into a low ponytail. Sharp green eyes. She's wearing a tailored navy blazer and a name tag that says "Emma."

"Mia Scofield?" she asks.

"That's me."

"I'm Emma. Your orientation guide. Welcome to Kingston. I'm here to give you a grand tour before your first class."

I smile. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

She leads me through the building. Her heels click on the marble floor. I follow, taking mental notes.

"These are the main lecture halls," she says, gesturing to a row of doors. "General studies are held here. You'll have your morning classes in this wing."

We pass a massive library. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Rows and rows of books. Students hunched over laptops, studying. It's quiet. Intense.

"The library is open twenty-four hours," Emma says. "You'll probably be spending a lot of time here. Everyone does."

We walk past a courtyard. Glass walls. A fountain in the center. Students sitting on benches, eating lunch, scrolling through phones.

"This is the student lounge. Great place to decompress between classes. Coffee shop is just through those doors."

She points to a café. A line of students stretches out the door.

"The food is decent," she adds. "Expensive, but decent."

I nod. Keep walking.

"The career center is on the second floor. They'll help with internships, job placements, networking events. You'll want to get on their radar early."

We pass a gym. A student center. More lecture halls. Everything is modern. Clean. Impressive.

After what feels like forever, we stop in front of a door.

"And this is your first class," Emma says. "General Studies. Room 204. The professor is... well, he's tough. But fair. Don't be late, and don't be unprepared. He doesn't tolerate nonsense."

I swallow. "Got it. Thanks, Emma."

"Good luck, Mia." She smiles. "You've got this."

She walks away. I stand there for a moment, staring at the door. Room 204. My first class. My first step into this new life.

I push the door open.

The classroom is huge. Tiered seating. A massive screen at the front. Students fill the rows—chatting, laughing, scrolling through phones. They look confident. Like they own the place. Some are in suits. Others in casual clothes. The energy is loud. Rowdy. Electric.

I find an empty seat near the back. Settle in. Pull out my notebook and pen. My heart is pounding.

The students keep talking. Someone's joking about a party last weekend. A girl in the front row is applying lipstick. Two guys behind me are arguing about a football game.

I sit there. Watching. Waiting. Trying to calm my nerves.

Then the door opens.

The room goes quiet.

I look up.

My heart stops.

— — —

ALEXANDER

I walk into the classroom.

The noise dies down immediately. Students scramble to sit up straight, put away phones, look alert. Good. They know better than to waste my time.

I set my briefcase on the desk. Pull out my notes. I'm wearing a charcoal gray Brioni suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. The fabric is expensive. The cut is impeccable. I look like I belong here.

I don't look at the students. I don't need to. I know they're watching me. Judging me. Trying to figure out if I'm going to be an easy professor or a hard one.

They're about to find out.

"Good morning," I say. My voice carries through the room. "Welcome to General Studies. I'm Professor Morreti. This is a required course for all first-year MBA students. You will learn the fundamentals of business strategy, market analysis, and decision-making frameworks."

I move as I speak. Pacing the front of the room. My hands clasped behind my back.

"Some of you think you already know this material. You don't. Some of you think this class is a waste of time. It isn't. And some of you are already planning to coast through on charm and good looks. You will fail."

A few students shift uncomfortably. Good.

"This course will challenge you. It will push you. And by the end of the semester, you will either rise to the occasion or you will drop out. The choice is yours."

I turn to the board. Pick up a marker. Write a question.

What is the primary driver of sustainable competitive advantage?

I turn back. Scan the room. A boy in the back row raises his hand. He's wearing a hoodie. Looked like he just rolled out of bed.

"Mr...?"

"Thompson," he says. "And the answer is innovation."

I stare at him. "Innovation?"

"Yeah. You know, new ideas. Cutting-edge technology. Being the first to market."

"That's the answer you're going with?"

He nods, looking proud of himself.

I shake my head. "Wrong. Completely wrong."

His face falls. The room is silent.

"Innovation is a tactic. A tool. It can be replicated, stolen, or made obsolete overnight. The primary driver of sustainable competitive advantage is value creation. Can you create value that your competitors cannot easily replicate? That is the question you should be asking."

I cross my arms. Look at the rest of the class.

"Does anyone else have an answer? Or is this the level of critical thinking I should expect from Kingston students?"

Silence.

No one raises their hand. No one meets my eyes.

"This is very disappointing," I say. My voice is flat. Cold. "You were supposed to come to class having read the material. You were supposed to have some understanding of the concepts we're covering today. Instead, I'm getting guesswork and empty confidence."

I walk to my desk. Pick up a stack of papers.

"You've left me no choice. This is going to be your first test. Tear a page from your notebooks. Put your name at the top. You have twenty minutes."

Groans erupt from the class. Students scramble for paper. Some look panicked. Good. They should be.

I walk up the stairs. Moving slowly. My eyes sweep over the rows of students. Some are writing furiously. Others are staring blankly at the page. A few are sneaking glances at their neighbors' papers.

I keep walking. All the way to the back row.

I see her.

She's trying her best not to be seen. Hunched over her paper. Her brown hair falling forward, hiding her face. Her glasses are perched on her nose. She's writing something, her hand moving quickly across the page.

I stop.

Something about her is familiar. The way she holds her pen. The curve of her neck. The way she bites her lip when she's concentrating.

I step closer. Peer down at her paper. She looks up.

Familiar brown eyes stare back at me.

What the fuck is she doing in my class?

My brain short-circuits. For a second, I can't move. Can't think. I'm staring at the woman from the bar. The woman who asked me to fuck her. The woman I spent an entire night taking apart.

She's staring back at me. Her eyes are wide. Her face is pale.

We stare at each other for what feels like forever. Then I walk past her. Like she's nothing. Like she's no one.

She is nothing. She is no one. We just happened to have fucked. That's all. That's all it was.

I make my way back to the front of the room. My heart is pounding. I don't show it. My face is stone.

"Submit your tests on my desk," I say. "When you're done, you can leave. But I expect better next time. Much better."

Students file down. Dropping their papers on my desk. Some mumble apologies. I ignore them.

She's the last to submit. She walks slowly. Her eyes are fixed on the floor. She drops her paper on the pile and turns to leave.

She walks out.

I watch her go. Then I look down at the paper. My eyes instinctively find her name.

Mia Scofield.

So that's her name.

I pull out my phone. Text Dean.

"I need you to find out everything about a Mia Scofield. I'll send you her details."

Dean runs an intelligence company. He can find out anything about anyone. He's done it for me before.

My phone buzzes.

"Mia Scofield, huh? Interesting. Who is she?"

"Just find out."

"Is this stalking?"

"It's not stalking. It's due diligence."

"Sure. I'll be in touch."

I put my phone away. I can't focus. My mind keeps drifting back to her. To the way she looked at me. The way she looked in my bed.

This is going to be a fucking problem.