Earned it

Lu-rose University 8:47 a.m If humiliation were a subject, I’d be graduating summa c*m laude. My heart pounded as I navigated the crowded room, my world narrowed to the tray in my hands as the half-melted iced coffees dripped, and sweat threatened to undo my carefully applied concealer. When life delivered its latest punch in the gut. The glass door to Lu-rose University's lecture hall, which I was beyond doubt not supposed to be in with outside drinks—slammed shut on my hip, knocking one of the cups directly onto my white shirt. "You're late," Professor Addisson called from the front of the lecture hall, not even looking up from his attendance sheet. I choked out a few words that sounded like ‘kill me now” and dragged myself toward the only open seat to the left of the front row, like this wasn’t the worst day yet. Spoiler-it was. Lu-rose University wasn’t just elite—it was practically dipped in 24 karate gold and bathed in a generational sense of superiority. Every hallway had a chandelier. Every dorm had a chandelier. I was 95% sure the library and bathrooms had chandeliers too. Meanwhile, I was privileged to share a room the size of a coffin with a girl named Zoe who talked in her sleep and yet still became my greatest companion here. Right before I took my notebook out from beneath my desk where I placed my back. I heard my name “Miss Grace,” Professor Addission said flatly,with a look that cut through the air, framed by his glasses. “I assume you’ve come to enlighten us about 19th-century romanticism?” “Only if there’s extra credit for suffering,” I muttered. A few snickers broke out. Professor Addission began the lecture about power dynamics in literature—something I’d normally eat up like a bag of skittles after rent was due. But then, right as he started the discussion, the side door slid open. He walked in. My gaze drifted upward and my fever took off. There he stood. Tall. Chiselled. And wearing a garment that understands my very being. Louis Maddox. I didn’t know his name yet but I knew his kind. The kind of man whose watch cost more than my tuition. Tall crips suit no tie. His presence filled the room with a weight of unspoken significance washing over us—no introduction, no explanation. Just cool confidence and the audacity to look like a villain in a romance novel. He rested his weight against the wall, his gaze distant and lost, arms crossed, watching. I tried to look away. I really did. But there was something about him—like he was carved out of stone and money and secrets. Dark hair, parted just enough to be a little messy. Sharp cheekbones, full lips. And those eyes—gray, glacial, and lifeless. “Mr. Maddox, your new Professor for the semester” Professor Addission said, almost deferentially Maddox? As in Louis Maddox? As in the Louis freaking Maddox—billionaire media mogul, alumni benefactor, rumored sociopath with cheekbones that could slice glass? I looked back at him, wide-eyed, hoping he didn’t notice the latte handprint across my chest as he walked to the back of the class. He noticed. Our eyes met. He didn’t smile. He didn’t look away. He just looked at me—cold, calculating, and slightly amused, like he was burying my entire soul into a mental folder titled Whirlwind in Leggings. ‘Please tell me there’s a mirror at home,’ he said smoothly. Giggles rippled through the room. I considered incinerating him with my mind. Instead, I smiled, all saccharine and shark teeth. “I was under the impression ethics involved not publicly shaming people for status. My bad.” The room went silent. Louis blinked once. Then, to my chilling dread, the corners of his mouth lifted. Not a smile—more like a dangerous curve. Touché said that look. “Noted,” he replied, turning back to the board. “Now, if we can all pretend punctuality is real again—let’s discuss Brontë’s work.” I got pulled into a debate. A guy in a velvet blazer (who probably owned a yacht named Existential Crisis) said: “Heathcliff was the ultimate romantic hero. He was passionate.” I snorted. Out loud. “He was a possessive jerk with unresolved childhood trauma. Not a romance icon.” Velvet Blazer gasped like I’d kicked his puppy. Louis Maddox raised a brow. “Miss Grace, would you care to elaborate?” he said as he read my name from the attendance sheet. “I mean—sure. Heathcliff’s love for Catherine wasn’t love. It was an obsession dressed up in poetry. He didn’t want her to be happy—he wanted her to belong to him.” I glanced back at Louis Maddox. He was still watching me. Not blinking. Not bored. Just... interested. Which was worse. Then, the bell rang and we all rushed out like we had life altering things to do outside that class. Before I could walk out the door. “ I read your admissions essay.”he said ‘Your file. Impressive mind. Sharp tongue.” His head lolled to the side,eyes narrowed to slits. “A dangerous combination for someone still learning who she is.” My heart stuttered. “What do you want from me?” Louis’s smile was small. Not cruel. Not kind. Just... measured. “I want you to work for me.” My stomach dropped. “What?”