Heiress and Her Dangerous Professor

Chapter 3: Unwanted Attention

Freya's POV

Once we were a safe distance from that strange man and completely out of earshot, Stella shed all pretenses. The too-wide fake smile slipped off, replaced by a grimace, and she yanked her hand free like my touch had burned her.

"You just made me really interested in you, Freya," she hissed. "This is the second time today. Think you've won something?" She shook her head. "No, you just started a war. This is only the beginning!" She spat in my face, then stormed off, heels clicking like gunshots against the pavement.

I didn't go after her. Not with the other students trickling past, heads turned and eyes wide like they'd just caught the final scene of a drama they hadn't been invited to.

Once she was out of sight, I went back to Grace, who was still sitting listlessly where I'd left her.

Thankfully, the strange man, Stella, and her little gang were all gone.

And so were my plans to go job hunting that night.

__________________________

Back in the dorm, Grace sat on the edge of her bed. Her hands were still curled tightly around my shirt, draped over her shoulders, and though her eyes had stopped watering, she was a far cry from the bright, bubbly person I'd met just hours ago. The tension in her jaw hadn't eased, and even in the comfort of our dorm room, she looked too ashamed to meet my gaze.

“Thanks," she mumbled. “For stepping in back there. I… I didn't know what to do."

“You don't have to thank me," I replied, flopping onto my bed. “It was the right thing to do. In fact, I'm sorry. For not coming earlier."

Grace hesitated. “Still… if it weren't for me, you wouldn't have gotten into this mess with Stella. I... I dragged you into it."

I chuckled. “Grace, I was already on her blacklist. She hated me the second I spilled coffee on her Chanel skirt this morning. Helping you didn't change anything. If anything, it just moved me from wherever I was on her to-bully list to the top."

At my what-should-be-careless words, Grace gave me something real—something other than despair or that hollow listlessness she'd been stuck in. Her eyes widened. She sat cross-legged on her bed, hugging a pillow to her chest, then finally looked at me properly for the first time since we'd gotten back to the dorm.

“It's not that easy, Yaya."

Oh, and now I even have a nickname.

“You don't get it," she said softly. “Stella isn't going to back off just because someone interrupted her. She never stops until she gets what she wants."

That made me raise an eyebrow. “And what is it that she wants from all this?"

“To feel powerful," Grace replied without hesitation. “She's been like this since high school. Cheer captain. Daughter of a millionaire. Always surrounded by people who worship her—boys and girls. Everyone either wanted to date her, be her, or stay far enough away to avoid trouble. She's always used that to her advantage."

I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees. “So she's not just another spoiled brat with a chip on her shoulder?"

“No, Yaya. She's so much worse than that," Grace said, her voice tinged with something heavier now—something close to fear.

“She's smart about it. She doesn't bully in ways that leave bruises. No. She corners you where no one's looking. Toys with you inside her little circle. And sometimes, when she's feeling bold, she'll involve a crowd—but always in a way that makes it seem like everything was your fault."

I frowned, watching her carefully. “How do you know all this? Were you friends with her or something?"

“Of course not," Grace said quickly. “She… she bullied me in high school."

I blinked.

“She always said she'd take over her dad's company," Grace went on. “No one expected her to go into law. Least of all me. I never thought I'd see her again, let alone end up at the same school."

She hugged the pillow tighter. Her voice lowered.

“When we bumped into each other during orientation, I was terrified. But she smiled and said she was happy to see me. Wanted to reconnect. Acted like we were old friends."

Grace finally looked at me. Her eyes were hollow.

“But I knew better. She wasn't happy to see me. She was just excited to have an old toy back."

My stomach twisted.

“It's been just three days since we met again, and every time she spots me, she drags me into the nearest corner like I'm some toy she enjoys breaking apart."

The silence that followed stretched uncomfortably. I thought of saying sorry, but it didn't feel right. I've always believed that “sorry" doesn't fix anything—not like a real solution.

Thankfully, Grace broke the silence.

“Why didn't you say anything when that man showed up? He looked like he could help us. I mean, he has to be faculty, right? From the way he was talking… If we'd told him the truth, maybe he could've stopped her."

I shook my head slowly. “It's not that simple."

“Why not?"

“Because guys like him don't always listen," I said. “Especially not to girls like us. Stella's rich, beautiful, and socially untouchable. You think someone like him—someone who probably answers to donors and alumni—is going to take our word over hers?"

Grace didn't reply.

“I've been through this before," I said quietly. “Back in high school, it was the same. There were always girls like Stella. They could scream, cry, lie through their teeth, and the teachers would still believe them. The rest of us? We were lucky if anyone even heard us."

Grace sighed, resigned. “You're right. No one really bothered with me in high school either, even when Stella was making my life hell. I guess I'll just have to live with it."

“That's where you're wrong, Grace. Don't wait for someone to believe you," I said, standing up. “Just make sure she doesn't get the chance to strike again."

Grace looked at me, eyes wide, like something had just clicked. “You're really not scared of her, are you?"

I met her gaze. “Not even a little."

______________

The next morning, Grace was already buzzing with energy before I even rolled out of bed. Honestly, if I hadn't lived through last night myself, I might've chalked it up to some bizarre stress dream.

“You ready?" she asked, way too chipper for how early it was. She'd dressed in a neatly pressed white blouse and slim-fit navy trousers. Her braid was tighter than it had been yesterday, and her eyeliner had just a bit more edge.

“Define ready," I mumbled, dragging myself upright.

Grace held up her course notebook as if it were a golden ticket. “It's our first Criminal Law class. You know, the one I kept talking about? The legend himself is teaching it today!"

When I didn't respond—and judging by the confusion on my face—she added, “Yaya, I'm talking about Professor Clarence Finerman! I heard he's really picky about who he recommends, so ta-da..." She did a little spin in place.

“Do I look professional?" she asked.

I just smiled and shook my head.

“Hey," Grace pouted. “First impressions matter, okay? Maybe once he sees me, he'll think, 'Wow, what a sharp young lawyer. Let me add her to my list.' You have to dress up too."

I gaped at her. “You're planning your recommendation letter on day two?"

“Of course," she said proudly. “By the end of this semester, he'll remember my name. Maybe even quote me in one of his lectures."

I snorted. “Dream big, Grace."

She grabbed her bag and checked her reflection in the mirror for the fifth time. “You should dream big, too, Yaya. We both got in. We both belong here."

I didn't answer that. Not because I didn't believe her—just because I wasn't sure I believed it for myself.

We made our way across campus. The morning sun was still low, casting pale gold light over manicured lawns and wide stone walkways. Students buzzed around us, some rushing with coffee in hand, others yawning through early conversations. Everything about the college felt crisp and clean—new, even though the buildings looked like they had history carved into every brick.

We reached the law faculty building with a few minutes to spare. Grace practically skipped to the classroom door, while I trailed behind, more interested in finding a back corner than making any kind of impression.

Inside, the lecture hall was smaller than I expected. Maybe thirty seats, arranged in clean arcs around a low platform with a whiteboard and podium. A few students were already seated, flipping through notebooks or chatting quietly.

And standing at the front, adjusting a stack of papers on the desk, was a man in a deep blue button-down shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows.

I froze.

No.

It couldn't be.

Grace plopped into a seat in the second row without hesitation. I stayed rooted to the floor near the back.

The man straightened and looked up at the room.

Gray eyes. Clean, sharply angled features. That same quiet authority in his stance. Sleeves rolled just high enough to show lean forearms.

The same guy who'd told us “That's enough," like he didn't need to shout to be obeyed.

The one I'd dragged Stella away from.

Damn. I was so screwed.

He didn't see me – small mercies.

I slipped into the last seat by the wall and tried to vanish into my jacket. So, he was faculty. I'd guessed as much. But 'the Criminal Law professor?' The one everyone had been whispering about?

I let out a sharp breath. If he'd had so much as a blurry LinkedIn headshot, we'd have known who he was last night. But no—this man had to be a popular ghost. What bad luck!

Up front, Grace had no clue. She was too busy aligning her notebook and uncapping her pen like a surgeon prepping for delicate work.

I had a flicker of curiosity about how she'd react when she realized her “dream professor" had seen her sobbing on the floor the night before. Then again, at least she hadn't been the one yanking Stella off in front of him.

I kept my head down, praying he wouldn't notice me.

The room filled fast. Students trickled in with that stiff, alert energy only overachievers could sustain at 8 a.m. You could feel the tension. Everyone wanted to be noticed.

Except me.

I wanted to disappear.

“Good morning," the man said. His voice was smooth and composed, just as it had been last night. “Let's begin."

I risked a glance. His eyes scanned the room, calm and unreadable. If he recognized me, he gave no sign.

“I'm Professor Clarence Finerman," he said. “Yes, that Finerman, in case you were wondering." He paused as a ripple of murmurs and a few excited squeals rolled through the room. “And I'd appreciate it if we kept the noise down."

The chatter vanished.

“As your professor, I'll be leading this course and handling all your lectures for the semester. I hope we get along well."

He gave no smile. Just moved forward.

“This class will not be easy. Criminal Law demands structure, logic, and a very short memory for excuses. If you're here to coast, I suggest dropping the course now before the workload buries you."

The room fell into a pin-drop silence.

He looked us over again, slower this time. “This is a first-year course. I don't expect you to be experts. But I do expect you to work. That starts with showing up, staying awake, and learning each other's names."

He picked up a clipboard. My stomach twisted.

“Roll call," he said simply.

I sank lower in my seat.

He started from the top.

“Aaron Blake?"

“Here."

“Alyssa Chang?"

“Present."

The names kept coming, like footsteps echoing down a hallway. I counted in my head, breath shortening as mine approached.

And then—

“Freya?"

It hit like a brick in the chest.

I froze.

My cheeks burned instantly. A slow, creeping heat crawled up the back of my neck and settled behind my ears.

A couple of students turned to look. Someone behind me whispered, “Who's Freya?"

I stared hard at my desk. Half of me wanted to raise my hand like a normal person. The other half wanted to evaporate.

The silence stretched.

“Freya?" he repeated, calmly.

If the floor had a trapdoor, I'd have pulled it without hesitation.