On My Professor's Desk

The sound of heartbreak wasn’t a sob.  

Louis: It was just a bet, babe. Chill.

That was it. No guilt. No denial. No shame.

Just the cold truth — that their entire relationship, every stolen kiss, every whispered promise — was a game. A bet. A sick dare between Louis and his frat boy friends to see who could take “the icy virgin” down first.

And he won.

Ava stared at her phone in disbelief, her hands shaking, her stomach hollow. Rage boiled beneath her ribs, but the tears never came. She refused to give Louis that satisfaction.

“We’re going out,” Camille said firmly, pulling the phone from Ava’s hand. “You’re not crying over that dickhead. You’re dancing.”

---

The club was dark, loud, and pulsing with energy — the perfect place to drown out betrayal in bass drops and cheap tequila.

Ava let Camille drag her into the chaos, the lights flashing across their skin, the music pounding against her chest like a second heartbeat. The first few drinks went down hard. So did the bitterness.

She wasn’t ready to flirt. She wasn’t ready to feel anything. Every man who glanced her way looked like another version of Louis — all charm, no soul.

So when she saw a tall man in a dark suit leaning a little too close to Camille at the bar, she didn’t think. She reacted.

Smack!

Her palm connected with his cheek before either of them had a chance to speak.

“Back the hell off,” she snapped, shoving between him and Camille like a shield. “She said she’s not interested.”

The man turned toward her slowly, and the second she saw his face — the clean jawline, the cruelly handsome smirk, the sharp, stormy eyes — her stomach flipped.

Camille choked. “Ava… he wasn’t hitting on me. He was asking for directions to the VIP lounge.”

Ava blinked. Twice.

The man didn’t speak. He just stared, one eyebrow arched, hand still on his cheek where she struck him. Not amused. Not angry. Just… calculating.

She should’ve apologized.  

Instead, she gave him a long, unapologetic once-over, rolled her eyes, and turned on her heel like he wasn’t even worth her breath.

Because after Louis, no man was.

---

One week later.

Ava was halfway through her notes in her Modern Literature class, trying to block out the endless whispering about some hot new professor, when the door opened.

Footsteps.

Silence.

Then a smooth, commanding voice cut through the room like velvet laced with danger.

“Good morning. I’m Dr. William Reid. I’ll be taking over this class for the semester.”

Ava froze. Her pen dropped.

Camille turned pale.

They looked up in unison — and their jaws hit the floor.

It was him.

The man from the club. The man she slapped. The man she eyeballed and walked away from like he didn’t exist.

He stood at the front of the room, buttoned shirt, rolled sleeves, and a slow, amused smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

His eyes locked on hers.

Unblinking. Unforgiving. Unapologetic.

And Ava Sterling knew…  

This semester just became very complicated.