TUTORING THE BAD BOY

The smell of polished mahogany, old leather-bound books, and Principal Hayes’ cheap cherry tobacco filled the administrative office. Outside the tinted glass windows, the autumn sun washed over the pristine lawns of St. Jude Academy, but inside, the air was cold enough to freeze blood. ​Lydia Vance sat straight-backed in the high-backed velvet chair, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her thumb nervously traced the seam of her pleated uniform skirt, a subtle gesture that betrayed the cool, unbothered expression on her face. ​Directly across from her, slouching in an identical chair with complete disregard for decorum, sat George Sterling. ​He looked as chaotic as he did breathtaking. His white collared shirt was unbuttoned at the top, his black tie hung loosely around his neck, and a fresh purple bruise bloomed along his sharp jawline—a souvenir from whatever back-alley fight he’d gotten into the night before. ​He didn't look at Lydia. He didn't look at the principal either. He just stared out the window, spinning a heavy gold ring around his thumb with lazy indifference. ​"Miss Vance," Principal Hayes began, lacing his fingers together over a stack of thick file folders. "I don't think I need to remind you of what is at stake this year." ​"The Sterling Academic Grant, sir," Lydia said, her voice crisp, clear, and measured. "Full tuition coverage for Columbia University, contingent upon maintaining a top-tier GPA and exemplary conduct through senior year." ​"Precisely," Hayes said, adjusting his spectacles. "You are our star pupil, Lydia. Your dedication is unquestionable. Which is why I am turning to you in a matter of extreme urgency." ​Hayes shifted his gaze toward George, his demeanor instantly souring. "Mr. Sterling, on the other hand, seems determined to set his future on fire." ​George didn't even flinch. "It’s a nice bonfire, Hayes. You should come warm your hands." ​"Silence!" Hayes barked, slamming a palm on his desk. "Your father has given this school millions of dollars in endowments, George, but even his influence has limits. You failed Midterm Calculus. You missed six weeks of Advanced Physics. You were caught fighting behind the gym on Tuesday, and your attendance record looks like a game of tic-tac-toe!" ​George finally turned his head, his dark grey eyes—cold, stormy, and completely unreadable—locking onto Hayes. "So expel me. Save us both the headache." ​"I can't expel you," Hayes gritted out through clenched teeth. "Your father made it very clear that if you do not graduate from St. Jude this spring, he will pull every dime of funding from our new athletics complex. But I can hold you back. And if you don't pass Calculus by the end of this semester, you will not walk that stage." ​Hayes turned back to Lydia, his expression shifting into a desperate plea. ​"Which brings me to you, Lydia. Starting today, you will be George’s official personal tutor. Every afternoon, Monday through Friday, 3:30 p.m. to 5:30 p.m. in the main library. You will review his coursework, enforce his attendance, and ensure he gets a B-plus on his final exams." ​Lydia felt her heart drop into her stomach. "Principal Hayes, with all due respect, my schedule is already packed with AP courses, student council, and—" ​"If you refuse, Miss Vance," Hayes cut in smoothly, a subtle threat laced in his voice, "I will be forced to reconsider your nomination for the Sterling Grant. After all, the committee looks for leadership and community service within the school. Helping a struggling classmate fits the criteria perfectly." ​Lydia froze. The breath hitched in her throat. ​He's blackmailing me, she realized with a spike of anger. Her entire future—years of sleepless nights, studying until her eyes bled, sacrificing any semblance of a social life—was being held hostage for the sake of a rich, spoiled delinquent. ​She turned her head to look at George. ​He was watching her now. For a brief, terrifying second, the arrogant mask dropped, and Lydia caught a glimpse of something raw and intense in those grey eyes—a shadow of the boy who used to climb the oak tree outside her bedroom window when they were eight years old. The boy who used to share his lunch with her and promise they'd explore the world together. ​Before the grief of that memory could swallow her, George sneered, leaning back in his seat. ​"Don't look at me like that, Vance," George drawled, his voice deep and mocking. "I don't want to spend my afternoons staring at your color-coded binders any more than you want to look at me." ​Lydia’s jaw tightened. The grief vanished, replaced by a white-hot spark of pride and anger. ​"Fine," Lydia said, looking Principal Hayes dead in the eye. "3:30 p.m. in the library. But if he skips a single session, I report him immediately, and my scholarship remains untouched." ​"Agreed," Hayes said, looking immensely relieved. ​George let out a quiet, dark chuckle, standing up from his chair in one fluid motion. He grabbed his leather jacket off the rack, throwing it over his shoulder as he walked toward the door. ​As he passed Lydia’s chair, he paused. He bent down slightly, his familiar scent of rain and cedarwood brushing against her senses, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. ​"See you at 3:30, partner," he whispered near her ear, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. "Try not to bore me to death." ​Without waiting for a response, he pushed the heavy oak door open and strolled out into the hallway, leaving Lydia sitting alone with her racing heart and the sinking realization that her carefully ordered life was about to explode.