Grade Me Harder

Chapter 1

ARIA'S POV

I sat in history class, twirling a strand of blond hair between my fingers, jaw working lazily as I chewed on a piece of sour cherry gum. The gum snapped with every bite, the sound lost under the buzz of chatter, clinking phones, and someone’s weak attempt to freestyle at the back. The air smelled like stale coffee, too much cologne, and the faint mildew of the ancient radiator groaning by the window. Even the tasteful war memorabilia on the walls looked like it was over it—tape giving up, corners curling, just like our collective will to live.

I didn’t care. My eyes were glued to the door.

Waiting. For him.

“Hey, look!” Seraphina said, shoving her phone so close to my face I nearly bit her.

I blinked down, finally breaking my deadlock with the door. The screen glowed with chaos—a grainy video from last week’s party. Dim lights, bass drops, limbs everywhere. No clothes. Bottles tipped over. Someone was dry-humping a statue. Another was peeing on a beanbag.

“Shelia sucked Hilton’s c**k?” I said flatly, watching a drunken Shelia disappear under a frat boy’s sagging pants.

“Mhm,” Seraphina grinned like the devil. “After swearing on her dead grandma’s urn that she was saving herself for Jesus.”

I snorted. “Rest in peace, granny.”

She cackled, slumping back in her chair like the gossip just made her day. I tuned her out, letting the noise around me fade into a low static. I loved this school. Still do, honestly. I just didn’t love being broke while loving it.

If my parents cut me off one more time and tell me to “learn independence,” I swear I’ll sell my soul.

And if not for him.

God, I hated that man. Professor Kian Heyness.

Stupidly perfect face. That stupid little frown he wore like he was allergic to fun. Arrogant, flawless bastard.

Okay, maybe that was just my defense mechanism talking. Maybe I didn’t really hate him.

Maybe when I touched myself at night, it was his voice I heard, and his name I moaned against my pillow.

But whatever.

When I’m thinking clearly, I’m convinced I despise him. The way he walks in like he owns the earth we breathe. The way everyone folds the second his name is mentioned. Please. He’s a professor, not a warlord.

Still, I live for the challenge. I like pushing buttons, and Kian has a full keyboard waiting for me. Those sharp, glacial blue eyes always find me, like he’s debating whether to give me detention or drag me into his office and ruin me.

Either option sounded fun.

The door slammed open and my second-best friend, Isolde, burst in like her life depended on it.

“He’s coming!” she yelled loud enough to scare a flock of pigeons. Phones flew into bags. Gum disappeared under desks. Voices vanished. It was like watching a military operation activate in real time.

“Cowards,” I muttered, peeling dried paint off my thumb.

“You look hungover,” I said to Isolde with a playful scoff as she collapsed beside me, out of breath. “Looks like you had a five-star Friday night.”

“Oh, I did. I tell you,” she giggled, cheeks flushed, her lashes still smudged with yesterday’s mascara.

I turned, giving her a lazy, knowing smile.

“You should get your nails done,” she added, glancing down at my chipped polish like it offended her. “They look tragic.”

“Wow,” I said, dramatically placing a hand over my heart. “Thank you for that life-changing advice. I feel so seen.”

She rolled her eyes, flipping her hair as the door creaked open again.

Silence. Graveyard-level silence.

Breaths held. Spines straightened. A pen rolled off a desk and no one dared to pick it up.

And in he walked.

Professor Kian Heyness.

Tall. Built like a Roman statue. Black suit. No wrinkle in sight. Hair slicked back just enough to look accidental. Beard trimmed to perfection. He looked like he belonged in a luxury watch ad, not into a hall full of Ivy-League burnouts.

I wondered if he took three hours each morning to look that good. If he practiced his indifferent scowl in the mirror until it was just sharp enough to make girls stutter.

It worked. Every single time.

My eyes followed him as he stalked to the podium—fix: the front of the class, boots hitting the floor like measured threats—and stood there like the air bent to his will. He cleared his throat. His eyes scanned the room like searchlights until they landed—right on me.

I didn’t look away.

Instead, I gave him a slow, bold wink. Just a flick of mischief for his eyes only.

He didn’t flinch, but something in his jaw tightened.

And then his voice rolled out, low and smooth and lethal.

“Good morning, class,” he said, voice like crushed velvet wrapped around a dagger.

God, even his voice was expensive. Like he gargled with aged whiskey and arrogance.

He turned toward the board and picked up a marker with precision, as though anything less than surgical would offend him. He launched into the lesson—something about revolutionary transitions and power vacuums post-colonialism. His words were crisp, his tone clinical, the kind of delivery that could make a eulogy sound profound.

My eyes drifted across the room. Everyone was laser-focused, or at least pretending. Pens scribbled at a frantic pace, laptops clacked with typed notes no one would ever read again, and the occasional subtle glance flicked up to him like they were trying to inhale his brilliance. I didn’t even bother pretending.

I stared at the ceiling for a bit. Counted water stains. Thought about ordering tacos after class.

Time passed. The clock ticked in mockery. I shifted in my seat.

“And what do we learn,” Professor Kian said, “when power is handed, not earned?”

More silence. Probably because no one wanted to risk being told they were wrong. Again.

I rolled my eyes and muttered, “That professors love the sound of their own voice.”

Seraphina’s elbow jabbed me like a dart. “Please, no. Not this morning. He doesn’t look like he’s in a good mood.”

I smirked. “Is he ever in a good mood?”

Before she could stop me, my hand went up.

A wave of collective dread moved through the class like a cold breeze. Heads slowly turned. Mouths opened but didn’t speak. Everyone knew what was about to go down.

Professor Kian paused, and for a moment, I could swear I saw his soul leave his body. His jaw flexed, hand halting mid-sentence on the board. He turned around slowly, eyes scanning until they landed on my raised hand.

“Yes, Miss…” His voice trailed off.

Of course. He didn’t even know my name.

Figures.

“Aria,” I supplied with a sugary smile.

He gave a stiff nod. “Miss Aria.”

“I was just wondering,” I began, letting my voice carry across the room, “isn’t it a bit simplistic to say that power must always be earned? Historically, plenty of regimes thrived because power was inherited or seized. Shouldn’t we consider the nuance?”

A few heads turned toward me with the sort of reverence reserved for someone walking into traffic on purpose.

He clasped his hands together like he was containing an explosion. “Nuance exists. But inherited power rarely leads to sustainable governance. Earned leadership establishes credibility—”

“Tell that to monarchies that lasted for centuries,” I cut in, tone light, eyes sharp. “Some were more stable than democratic regimes. Is sustainability really tied to merit?”

He took a step forward. “Merit provides accountability. Monarchies often collapsed under corruption. When leadership isn’t earned, it lacks connection to the governed.”

“And yet we’ve seen elected leaders be just as corrupt,” I countered, fingers tapping my desk lazily. “Democracy doesn't guarantee virtue. It just disguises power behind process.”

His gaze narrowed, the muscles in his jaw working harder now. “You’re conflating isolated examples with systemic norms. Democracies, for all their flaws, adapt. Monarchies stagnate.”

I tilted my head. “Maybe, or maybe adaptation is just rebranding. Same manipulation, different packaging.”

He leaned forward slightly. “Miss Aria, I suggest you read the material thoroughly before attempting to deconstruct it.”

I smiled wider. “Oh, I did. Twice. That’s why I’m not convinced.”

He blinked once.

“Is that your best argument, Professor?” I asked, sweetly venomous. “Because I’m not convinced.”

The class froze.

A few desks behind me, Isolde gasped. “Girl, you bold today,” she whispered, horror-struck. “Do you wanna get murdered?”

I didn’t look at her. My gaze was locked on him.

He stared at me. I stared back.

The tension stretched so tight you could hang someone with it.

Then his lips parted.

“See me after class,” he said coolly, like handing down a sentence. And then, without missing a beat, he turned back to the board.

The lesson continued. Like I hadn’t just poked a lion in the face.

But I saw it. The flicker. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Like I’d done something unexpected.

Class ended ten minutes early.

He didn’t say why. He didn’t need to.

Everyone filed out in silence, giving me looks like I’d just triggered the apocalypse.

And I stayed seated. Smiling. Waiting.