THE RUMORS

CLAIRE ANDERSON 

The coffee cup sits on my desk like a silent accusation, the paper surface still bearing the faint stain of this morning's disaster. I haven't touched it since I retrieved it from Xavier's office, and I don't plan to. Every time I look at it, I see his grey eyes, cold and unreadable, watching me like I'm nothing. I've shoved it to the corner of my desk, hidden behind my laptop, but I can still feel its presence, a constant reminder of everything I'm trying to forget.

The campus cafeteria is buzzing with the usual lunchtime chaos—students laughing, trays clattering, the distant hum of conversation that fills every corner of the building. I sit alone at a table near the window, picking at a sandwich I have no appetite for. My phone is face-down on the table, and I'm trying not to look at it. I'm trying not to think about the text from Xavier—"You can pick it up from my office tomorrow." I haven't replied. I don't know what to say. Part of me wants to throw the coffee cup away and pretend the whole thing never happened. But another part of me knows he's not going to let me forget.

I hear the whispers before I see the source. A group of students at the next table are huddled together, their voices low but not low enough to escape my hearing. "Did you hear about Professor Carrington?" one of them says, a girl with sharp eyes and a knowing smirk. "I heard he ruined a student's career. She rejected him, and he made sure she never got a job in this city."

My stomach lurches. I try to focus on my sandwich, but my ears are straining, desperate to hear more.

"That's nothing," another student chimes in, her voice dripping with gossipy glee. "My cousin's friend had him for a seminar last year. She said he's dangerous. Like, actually dangerous. He got someone pregnant and paid her off to keep quiet. The girl disappeared after that. No one knows what happened to her."

I feel the blood drain from my face. My hands are trembling, and I press them flat against the table to steady them. I know I shouldn't listen. I know I should walk away, go somewhere else, find Martha and let her distract me. But I can't move. I can't breathe. The rumors are like poison, seeping into my veins, making me question everything I thought I knew about him.

The girl with the sharp eyes lowers her voice even further. "My friend said he's got connections. Like, mafia connections. She said he's not just a Professor, he's running some kind of empire. That's why no one ever crosses him. He's got people who make problems disappear."

I push my chair back, the legs scraping against the tile floor. The sound is loud enough to draw glances from the table next to me, and I feel my face flush with heat. I grab my tray and walk toward the trash can, my hands shaking so badly I can barely hold onto it. I dump my untouched sandwich and hurry out of the cafeteria, my heart pounding in my chest.

The hallway is quieter, the noise of the cafeteria fading behind me. I lean against the wall and press my hand to my stomach, trying to quell the nausea rising in my throat. The rumors are terrifying—billionaire, cold, dangerous. Ruined careers, disappeared students, mafia connections. None of it sounds like the man who whispered "Are you sure?" in the dark. But then again, I don't know who that man really is. All I know is that he's my professor, and he's pretending I don't exist.

I find myself in the bathroom, the fluorescent lights harsh and unforgiving. I stand in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection. My eyes are red, my cheeks pale, and there are dark circles under my eyes from nights of restless sleep. I look like I've aged ten years in three days. I look like someone who's carrying a secret too heavy to bear.

The bathroom door swings open, and Martha walks in. Her face lights up when she sees me, but the smile fades quickly when she gets a closer look. "Claire! There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you." She steps closer, her green eyes narrowing with concern. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I shake my head, forcing a weak smile. "Nothing. I'm fine. Just tired."

"You're not fine." Martha crosses her arms, her expression skeptical. "You've been acting weird all day. Ever since that professor talked to you after class, you've been walking around like a zombie. What happened in there?"

I can't tell her the truth. I can't tell her that I slept with the professor, that I gave him my virginity, that he's pretending I don't exist. It's too big, too shameful, too impossible to explain. So I lie. "I don't know. I just—he makes me nervous. There's something about him that scares me."

Martha's expression softens, and she pulls me into a hug. "Oh, honey. It's okay. He's just a professor. He can't hurt you." She pulls back, her hands on my shoulders. "Besides, he's the hottest professor on campus. I heard half the girls in this school would kill to have him look at them the way he looked at you."

I laugh, a hollow sound that doesn't reach my eyes. "That's not funny."

"I'm not trying to be funny. I'm trying to make you feel better." Martha's eyes flicker with something—curiosity, maybe, or suspicion. "But seriously, why is he talking to you? You're a first-year. He's a guest lecturer. Why does he know your name?"

I shrug, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I don't know. Maybe he saw my name on the roster. Or maybe he's just one of those professors who likes to intimidate students. You heard the rumors."

Martha's eyes widen. "Oh, the rumors. Yeah, I heard them. Some of them are crazy. I heard he's a billionaire. I heard he's dangerous. I heard he's got connections to the underworld." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Honestly, I don't know what to believe. But I do know that he's way too young to be that scary."

I force a smile, grateful for her attempt to lighten the mood. "I guess you're right."

Martha squeezes my shoulder. "Look, whatever's going on, you can tell me. I'm your friend. I'm not going to judge you." Her green eyes are earnest, and for a moment, I almost want to tell her everything. But the words die in my throat. It's too soon. It's too raw. And I don't trust her not to look at me differently.

"I know," I say. "Thank you. I'll be okay."

Martha studies me for a moment longer, then nods. "Okay. But if you ever need to talk, I'm here." She turns toward the door, then pauses. "And Claire? Don't let him get to you. He's just a man. He doesn't have power over you unless you give it to him."

The door swings shut behind her, and I'm alone again. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, and I realize my bag is open. The silver cufflink is visible, peeking out from the side pocket. I grab it and shove it deeper into the bag, my heart racing.

Martha didn't see it. She couldn't have. But her curiosity is growing, and I can't shake the feeling that she's watching me more closely than before. I can't shake the feeling that she wants something more than friendship.

I leave the bathroom and walk back to the classroom, my mind churning with questions I don't have answers to. Who is Xavier Carrington? Why does he haunt my thoughts? And why can't I stop thinking about him?

I'm terrified of him. But I'm also fascinated. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.