Chapter 2

Anya worked at a small bookstore café where I had gone to rest my feet. She noticed me staring at the page of a book I held, not really reading through. 

“You’re not from here, are you?” she asked gently as she brought me my mug of coffee.

Her voice was warm and kind.

“No,” I admitted. “I just arrived.”

“Looking for a place? For work?”

“Yes, please.”

She studied me for a moment, then smiled. “You look like you need more than coffee.”

Something in her tone broke my last wall of pride.

“I’m trying to start over,” I said quietly.

She didn’t ask too many questions. She just nodded.

“Well,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron, “my roommate moved out last month. I have a small spare room. It’s not fancy, but it’s safe.”

Safe. That was all I needed. But then…

“You don’t even know me,” I said.

She shrugged lightly. “Sometimes you just know.”

I don’t know why I trusted her. Maybe because she looked at me without suspicion. Without judgment. Or maybe it was just the undiluted warmth in her voice.

That evening, I followed Anya to her apartment. It was small but clean. The spare room had a narrow bed and a window that overlooked the street.

“It’s yours for now,” she said. “We’ll figure out the rent later.”

I sat on the bed and cried again. But this time, they were grateful tears.

---

Over the next few weeks, Anya became more than just a housemate. She became my friend. She helped me rewrite my resume, guided me through job applications, and even practiced interview questions with me.

“You have impressive qualifications,” she said one afternoon, adjusting her glasses. “You shouldn’t hide that.”

“I’m not hiding,” I said. “I just… forgot my worth for a while.”

She squeezed my hand. “Then remember it.”

Crestwood College called me two weeks later.

It was a prestigious institution which had wealthy students and high standards. When they invited me for an interview, my hands shook just holding the phone.

The campus was breathtaking—wide lawns, tall buildings, students dressed in designer clothes. I felt small walking through those gates.

But when I stepped into the lecture hall during the teaching demonstration, something changed.

This was my space.

I spoke clearly. Confidently. My voice did not shake. For the first time in years, I felt like myself again.

A week later, it arrived–my offer of professorship.

I stared at the letter for a long time before running to Anya with tears in my eyes. 

***

I began my first week there with stiff shoulders and a determined smile. Crestwood was the kind of place that smelled of excellence, old money and affluence. The buildings stood tall and proud, covered in ivy that probably cost more than my yearly rent. Luxury cars lined the parking lot like a showroom display.

And then there was me with two suitcases, sharing one small apartment in the city with someone, A teaching contract I could not afford to lose.

I was a literature professor now. “Professor Evelyn Reed.” The title sounded heavier than it felt.

The students wasted no time reminding me where I stood in their world.

In my third week at work, a girl with diamond earrings and glossy hair tripped beside me at the cafeteria. Her iced coffee spilled all over my skirt.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, though she did not look sorry. “I’m so clumsy.”

Her friends laughed—not loud enough to get into trouble but loud enough for me to hear the mischief in it.

“It’s fine,” I said, though it wasn’t.

Another day, two boys in the back row commented on my jacket.

“Vintage?” one asked.

“More like thrift store chic,” the other replied.

They did not bother to lower their voices.

I pretended not to hear them. To them, I was entertainment. A scholarship kid who had somehow climbed into their golden tower and dared to stand at the front of the classroom.

I hated what they represented. I hated how easy life seemed for them. The way they talked about vacations as though it were a trip to the grocery store. They had never known what it meant to count coins before buying groceries. They weren't used to being in difficult situations, so I obviously couldn't blame them.

My classroom often felt like a battlefield. I would walk in with my notes and lesson plans, ready to discuss symbolism or character arcs, and within minutes someone would test me.

But none of them tested me the way Elroy Vans did.

Everyone knew his name.

Even before I met him, I knew his face. It stared down from billboards across the city—sharp jaw, perfect hair, eyes that seemed to say the world belonged to him. The Vans family funded half the buildings at Crestwood. Their name was carved into stone and metal all over campus.

Elroy sat in the third row, always perfectly dressed. He listened more than the others, and that was the unsettling part.

He was brilliant. I would ask a question about a passage, and while others stumbled through half-formed answers, Elroy would dissect it with ease. He understood tone and context, and sometimes he explained it better than I did.

If he had stopped there, I might have liked him.

But he never stopped there.

There was always a tilt to his smile. A look in his eyes that said he knew he was smarter—and richer—and untouchable.

He leaned back in his chair like the classroom was his and I was borrowing it.

One afternoon, with only five minutes left in class, I was wrapping up a discussion on modern tragedy when Elroy raised his hand.

I hesitated before nodding. “Yes, Vans?”

He stood slowly, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his blazer. “Professor Reed, I was just wondering… how exactly does this connect to the broader socio-economic structures of pre-industrial Europe?”

The question had nothing to do with what we were discussing.

A few students glanced at each other.

“That’s not relevant to today’s topic,” I replied calmly. “If you’d like to explore that, you may do so in your essay.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “So you’re saying it doesn’t connect?”

A faint snicker rose from the back.

“I’m saying,” I answered, keeping my voice steady, “that it’s outside the scope of this lesson.”

He tilted his head. “Or perhaps it’s difficult to connect?”

There was more laughter now, louder this time. Heat crawled up my neck.

“I assure you,” I said, meeting his gaze, “I have no difficulty connecting themes. Please sit down.”

For a second, I thought he would obey.

Instead, he smiled.

“I’m just concerned,” he continued, “that if we can’t examine literature from multiple angles, we might be limiting our understanding. Don’t you think?”

It was subtle. Polite, but sharp.

He was questioning my ability to teach. And he was doing it so much ease. The class watched me carefully, waiting for a crack. I swallowed the urge to snap at him. I would not give them that satisfaction.

“Mr. Vans,” I said evenly, “if you would like to challenge my lesson plan, I suggest you enroll in the faculty meeting.”

A ripple of laughter spread across the room—this time not entirely at my expense.

For a moment, something flashed in his eyes. Surprise, maybe.

Then the bell rang. Relief washed over me like cool water.

“Homework,” I announced quickly, before they could rush out. “A two-page analysis of today’s reading. Due tomorrow.”

Groans filled the room.

I met Elroy’s gaze as I spoke. “No extensions.”

He stood, slinging his leather bag over his shoulder. As he walked past my desk, he leaned slightly closer.

“I’ll see you later, Professor,” he murmured.

His voice was low, but smooth. I felt a shiver crawl up my spine. I watched him leave, surrounded by laughter and expensive cologne.

When the room was finally empty, silence settled around me. I exhaled slowly and began arranging the scattered papers on the desk.

This was my life now, I reminded myself. A new city, a new start. Crestwood was supposed to be my escape.

I was just beginning to walk out of the lecture room when my phone chimed, stopping me.