The classroom was pristine, the walls painted a soft shade of cream, with sunlight filtering through the large glass windows, casting long, narrow streaks of golden light onto the polished wooden floor. Outside, the winter wind howled faintly, swirling the snowflakes that danced beyond the glass, but inside, the air was thick with tension.
Matteo stood at the front of the class, holding his project in trembling hands. His breath came uneven, and his fingers felt frozen despite the warmth of the room. His heart pounded against his ribs, each beat an unbearable weight pressing down on him. Before him stood Professor Eliane, a woman feared as much as she was admired—cold as the Swiss winter, yet radiant like the sun that illuminated her.
She held Matteo's report in her delicate hands, her long, manicured nails pressing into the pages. Her icy blue eyes scanned the document with a blank expression before she let out a short, mirthless laugh.
"This," she said, her voice sharp as a blade, "is pathetic."
A wave of laughter erupted across the room. Matteo clenched his jaw. He wanted to protest, to say that he had stayed up the entire night, pouring his mind and soul into this project. But his throat locked, his voice swallowed by the fear of humiliation.
The professor's eyes darkened as she turned the pages, then, with a swift motion, she ripped them apart. The sound of tearing paper echoed like thunder in the silent room. Matteo watched in horror as the shreds of his hard work fluttered to the ground like dying autumn leaves.
"Redo it," Eliane ordered, tossing the remains onto his chest. The pages slipped through his fingers, falling to the floor.
A suffocating silence filled the air. Matteo felt a sharp sting at the back of his eyes but forced himself to keep his gaze down. He was twenty-two. A man. He could not cry. His parents were working long, brutal hours to put him through university. They expected him to become someone great. Someone strong.
The laughter returned, growing louder this time.
"He must have written it with his feet," a male student sneered.
"Maybe he copied it off a ten-year-old," a girl added, her voice dripping with amusement.
Matteo's hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palm. He could feel his own pulse hammering against his skin, but he said nothing. His voice, his courage, all of it had been shredded along with his project.
Professor Eliane turned away, her expression unreadable, and as though his suffering was beneath her notice, she simply picked up her phone and walked out of the classroom, her black suit skirt swaying with the rhythm of her confident steps.
As soon as she left, the students descended upon him like vultures.
Matteo barely had time to collect himself before a splash of ice-cold water crashed over his head.
"There," one of his friends mocked, grinning. "Cool yourself down. You looked like you were about to cry."
More laughter. His soaked hair clung to his forehead, and cold water dripped down his face, seeping into his clothes. His body shivered, though whether from the cold or the shame, he wasn't sure.
Then, unexpectedly, a girl approached him. She had a tissue in her hand, her eyes soft with amusement rather than malice. Matteo stared at her, momentarily stunned by the rare gesture of kindness.
She dabbed at his face, wiping away the water, her fingers grazing his skin. He felt something warm, something human—something he had been deprived of in this cruel environment.
"Thank yo..."
Before he could finish, the girl's lips curled into a smirk. She reached behind her and, in one swift motion, poured a cup of steaming hot milk over his head.
"This is better," she said, laughing as she tossed the empty cup aside.
The warmth of the liquid stung his scalp, the sudden contrast from the icy water sending a shock through his body. His fingers twitched, and his knees buckled, but he refused to fall. He wouldn't give them that satisfaction.
Then, a heavy force slammed into his back.
He crashed onto the cold, hard floor.
The classroom erupted with cheers, students clapping and hollering as though celebrating a grand performance. Matteo lay there, stunned, his vision blurry. His wet clothes clung to his skin, the scent of milk mixing with the faint perfume of paper and ink that filled the air.
He heard their voices, the whispers, the comments about Eliane's beauty as though his suffering had already been forgotten.
"She's like a goddess," one male student murmured.
"Every guy wants her," another agreed.
"Her figure is perfect," a girl said bitterly. "Of course, she must have a boyfriend."
"Nah, no way. She's too cold for that."
As they gossiped, their words floating above him like distant echoes, Matteo remained on the floor, his body numb.
No one helped him up.
No one even looked at him anymore.
The professor, the one who had humiliated him, had already left, her phone in hand, detached from the suffering she had inflicted.
Outside, the winter wind howled again, pressing against the windows, rattling them like the bones of a forgotten soul.
And Matteo, broken, humiliated, and utterly alone, could do nothing but stare at the ceiling—his spirit crushed beneath the weight of a lesson far crueler than any found in a psychology textbook.
I can describe Professor Eliane's appearance in detail, including her body structure, but I'll keep it tasteful and fitting to the story's dramatic tone rather than overly indulgent. Here's a refined scene that captures her presence and personality while maintaining a sense of depth and atmosphere.
Eliane stood before the full-length mirror in her dimly lit apartment, the golden glow of a single bedside lamp casting soft shadows across her reflection. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the candle she had forgotten to blow out the night before.
She reached for the buttons of her tailored suit jacket, her fingers moving with practiced precision. As the fabric slipped from her shoulders, she revealed a form sculpted with elegance and discipline. At twenty-five, she carried herself with the grace of a woman well aware of the effect she had on others.....tall, poised, and impeccably refined.
Her frame was slender yet firm, her waist naturally narrow, accentuating the soft but defined curves of her hips. She wasn't delicate, nor was she overly voluptuous—rather, her body held an understated allure, a balance between sharp professionalism and effortless femininity. Her skin was porcelain, smooth and untouched by blemishes, a stark contrast to the dark lace of her undergarments.
She reached behind her back, unzipping her pencil skirt, allowing it to slide down the length of her toned legs. Years of maintaining perfect posture and movement had left her with a lithe, almost statuesque elegance. Long, well-defined legs, her calves subtly shaped from the habit of walking in heels, carried her with the confidence of someone who had never needed reassurance.
Her reflection stared back at her...icy blue eyes framed by dark lashes, lips full but rarely smiling. There was beauty in her, undeniable and almost cruel in its perfection, but there was also something distant about it. She exuded an aura of unattainability, as if the very air around her kept people at a distance.
Reaching for a silk robe draped over her chair, she wrapped it around herself, tying the sash with a careful knot. The softness of the fabric against her skin was almost foreign....comfort was not something she allowed herself often.
She exhaled, her expression unreadable, and turned away from the mirror. There was no need for admiration. She had long since stopped looking for anything in her reflection beyond what the world expected her to be.