The moment I step into the classroom, the atmosphere shifts.
Dozens of eyes snap toward me, and an eerie silence falls over the room. The quiet chatter and rustling of notebooks cease, replaced by an almost palpable energy. Then, as if on cue, a wave of soft, sweet smiles spreads across the faces of my students.
Some tuck strands of hair behind their ears, others adjust their skirts, sitting up straighter. A few whisper to each other, exchanging glances. I even catch a couple of them giggling under their breath.
I freeze.
What the hell?
They're all… stunning. Like, ridiculously stunning. A room full of young, beautiful women, all watching me with an intensity that's very unsettling.
I feel my throat go dry. My pulse quickens.
Pull yourself together.
I clear my throat and force a smile. "Uh, good morning, everyone. I—" My voice comes out weaker than I intended, but I push forward. "Apologies for my delay. Something… big came up, and I lost track of time. Won't happen again."
A few girls exchange knowing glances. Some smile, others whisper. A brunette in the second row bites her lip, amused.
I have never felt more like prey in my life.
My eyes dart to the desk at the front of the room. A neat stack of papers sits there, positioned as if someone had set them up for me. A class list. A roll sheet.
Perfect.
At least I don't have to fumble around searching for it.
I stride toward the desk, gripping the list tightly, my fingers slightly clammy. "Alright," I say, trying to sound composed. "Let's take attendance."
The first few names go by smoothly.
Then—
"Lilian Parkers."
A rustle. A pause. Then a sharp voice cuts through the air.
"It's Parker. No s."
I glance up.
Lilian Parker.
She's exactly the type who'd correct someone on a tiny mistake. Her green eyes are sharp, analytical. Her uniform is pristine. She sits with perfect posture, her hands neatly folded on her desk.
There's no hostility in her tone, but there's something in the way she watches me. Like she's observing, assessing.
I quickly nod and make the correction. "Right. My mistake."
She doesn't break eye contact.
I move on, slightly rattled.
The next few names pass without issue. Then—
"Amelia Blackwell."
"Present!"
Her voice is bright, honeyed—too enthusiastic.
I don't even need to look up to know who she is.
When I do, she's already smiling.
It's the kind of smile that's designed to be noticed. Wide. Sweet. Almost innocent—except for the playful glint in her dark brown eyes. She twirls a lock of auburn hair between her fingers, her posture just a little too relaxed.
A few girls exchange glances. One lets out an exaggerated sigh.
Amelia leans forward, resting her chin in her palm. "I was worried you wouldn't show, professor," she says, voice dripping with something that isn't quite flirtation—but it's close.
I swallow. "Wouldn't miss it."
She giggles.
I quickly move on.
The rest of attendance goes smoothly.
By the time I reach the last name, I exhale, feeling the tension in my shoulders.
And then—
The weight of reality slams into me.
I need to teach.
Panic flares in my chest. I have no idea what was covered last time. I have no notes. No plan.
For a few agonizing seconds, I hesitate.
The students notice.
Some glance at each other. A few shift in their seats.
And then—
Lilian Parker.
Her eyes narrow, studying me.
I need to recover. Fast.
I straighten, forcing confidence into my voice. "Alright," I say. "Who can tell me what we covered last time?"
Silence.
A few scattered giggles.
Some students exchange amused looks, as if wondering if I'm joking.
Then, finally—
"Implicit differentiation," Parker says flatly.
I glance at her.
Her expression is unreadable. But there's something behind her gaze. A quiet suspicion.
I nod. "Right. Good."
Move on. Keep moving.
I turn to the board, writing out a few equations. "Let's go through some examples. Who wants to go first?"
Amelia's hand shoots up before I even finish the question.
She practically saunters to the front of the room, moving with the grace of someone who enjoys being watched. She picks up the chalk, twirling it between her fingers before beginning to write.
She stretches just a little too much to reach the top of the board.
Her skirt hikes up slightly.
I look away.
A few students sigh. One girl shakes her head.
This is… a regular thing, isn't it?
Amelia finishes, stepping back with a satisfied smile.
I glance at the equation. It looks fine. "Good work," I say.
A soft giggle. She returns to her seat, slow, deliberate—then, just before sitting down, she winks.
I'm too stunned to react.
Then—
A voice from the back.
"Professor didn't even check the answer," someone mutters.
A ripple of laughter spreads through the room.
I turn.
Victoria Stone.
Dark hair, black nails, arms crossed. She leans back in her seat, watching the scene unfold with mild amusement.
Shit.
Before I can respond, I need a distraction.
I glance at the attendance sheet.
One name sticks out.
"Olivia Prescott," I say.
Her eyes widen slightly in surprise, but she nods and stands.
Unlike Amelia, she doesn't perform. She simply picks up the chalk and starts working. Her movements are careful, precise. No extra flair. No hesitation.
As she writes, I discreetly slide my phone under the desk, quickly typing her solution into ChatGPT. My fingers fumble slightly. The last thing I need is to get caught checking my own classwork.
The result pops up.
It's correct.
I exhale. "Excellent," I say, slipping my phone back into my pocket. "You may sit."
She nods, cheeks slightly pink, before hurrying back to her seat.
And then—
The bell rings.
I exhale. Saved.
Students gather their things. Some glance at me as they leave. Amelia waves. Parker lingers for a second too long before stepping out.
Finally, I breathe.
Then my phone buzzes.
A message.
Unknown Number: Good morning, Nathan. Would you mind meeting up? I'd love to talk.
My stomach drops.
Nathan. My real name.
The sender?
William Clarke.