Chapter seven

Aria’s hand hovered for a second on the cold metal handle, trying to think of possible responses that would save her ass and scholarship, should the conversation steer towards her inappropriate relationship with Professor Jason. Then, she turned the handle and stepped inside.

Dean Hargrove’s office was bigger than she expected. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls, filled with neat rows of academic journals and leather-bound volumes. A large window looked out over the campus quad, winter-bare trees clawing at the sky. The room smelled faintly of paper, furniture polish, and old coffee.

Behind the heavy oak desk sat the man himself. He was in his late sixties, had a silver buzz cut, his broad face lined more by worry than age. His tweed jacket matched the chairs, and half-moon glasses perched low on his nose as he looked up from a file.

“Miss Jenkins,” he said as he gestured toward a leather chair. “Please, sit.”

Aria perched on the edge, her back straight, fingers clenched aroun