forbidden lectures

​Chapter 1: The Three-Car Convoy ​The morning sun over Saint Jude’s Elite University was usually greeted by the quiet rustle of leaves and the soft chatter of students heading to the library. Today, however, the peace was shattered by the rhythmic, heavy thud of three identical black SUVs roaring through the campus gates. They didn't park in the student lot; they screeched to a halt directly in front of the Humanities Building, blocking the entire fire lane. ​The doors swung open in perfect synchronization. Out stepped four men in tailored black suits and earpieces, their faces like stone. One of them, a man named Marco, stepped toward the middle vehicle and opened the door with the kind of reverence usually reserved for royalty. ​Out stepped the girl—the center of the chaos. ​At eighteen, she was a vision of expensive silk and polished jewelry. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, and her smile was wide and bright, though it carried the dangerous edge of someone who had never heard the word "no." This was the Mafia King’s daughter, and to her, the university was just another playground her father had bought for her. ​"It’s so… green," she chirped, adjusted her designer sunglasses. "Marco, why is there so much grass? It looks messy." ​"It’s a campus, Miss," Marco replied, already loaded down with three of her shopping bags from a "pre-class" emergency trip to the city. ​"Well, tell someone to trim it. It’s offending my shoes." She tapped a high-heeled toe against the pavement, looking around. Behind her, her brother stepped out of the third car. He was older, sharper, and his eyes scanned the rooftops with a predatory focus. He didn't say a word; he just adjusted his jacket, ensuring the silhouette of his holster was hidden but accessible. ​The group began their march toward the lecture hall. Students scattered like pigeons in their wake. They had heard the rumors—that the new girl wasn't just rich, she was "untouchable." ​Inside Lecture Hall 4B, the atmosphere was a stark contrast. It was silent, cold, and smelled of old paper and expensive espresso. At the front of the room stood the Professor. He was twenty-six, with a jawline that could cut glass and eyes that seemed to find every flaw in a person’s logic. He was dressed in a simple, dark turtleneck and charcoal trousers. To the students, he looked like a brilliant academic who probably lived in a tiny apartment surrounded by books. ​He didn't look up when the doors at the back of the hall creaked open. He didn't look up when the heavy footsteps of four grown men echoed against the floorboards. ​"You're late," the Professor said, his voice a low, icy baritone that carried to the very back of the room. He was still writing a complex sociological formula on the board, his handwriting perfect and sharp. ​"Oh, are we?" The girl’s voice rang out, bubbly and loud. She walked down the center aisle, her heels clicking like a countdown. "The traffic was just horrid. Someone decided to protest something in the street. I told Marco to just drive over them, but he’s so sweet, he refused." ​The students in the room went pale. Some stared at their desks; others looked at the four bodyguards now standing like pillars at the corners of the room. ​She reached the front row, directly in front of the Professor’s desk. She didn't sit down. Instead, she dumped her $5,000 handbag onto the mahogany surface, right on top of his lecture notes. ​"I’m here now, though!" she said, flashing that brilliant, spoiled smile. "I’m the daughter of—" ​"I don't care whose daughter you are," the Professor interrupted. He finally turned around, his charcoal-gray eyes meeting her gaze. He didn't look intimidated. He looked bored. "I care that you are twelve minutes late. And I care that your bag is currently obscuring my notes on the stratification of social classes." ​The girl’s smile flickered for a second, then widened. Nobody spoke to her like that. "You’re funny. You’re the new guy, right? Professor... what was it?" ​"Professor Julian Vance," he said, his voice flat. "And you are?" ​"The person who’s going to make your life very interesting," she giggled, finally sliding into a seat. She snapped her fingers, and Marco immediately placed a venti, triple-shot, extra-foam latte on her desk. ​Julian looked at the latte, then back at her. "There is no food or drink allowed in this hall." ​"It’s not food, it’s coffee," she argued, opening her compact mirror to check her lip gloss. "And besides, I haven't had breakfast. If I don't have my caffeine, I might get a headache, and then my father gets a headache, and you really don't want that." ​"Marco," the girl said, not looking away from her reflection. "The Professor thinks I shouldn't have my coffee. Tell him why that’s a bad idea." ​The bodyguard stepped forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over Julian’s desk. The other students held their breath. This was it. The Professor was going to back down. He was just a teacher, after all. He probably made in a year what she spent on a weekend in Vegas.