Dear Professor, I need you!!!

I knew I didn’t belong the second I stepped onto the stone-paved courtyard. My boots squelched—yes, squelched—because the rain had kindly waited until I arrived to drench me head to toe. Great. First impressions were everything, and I looked like a lost hiker who’d taken a wrong turn into royalty. The university gate loomed behind me, cast-iron and gilded, practically dripping money. Beyond it, towering old buildings rose like castles, vines creeping up the pristine white stone, windows tall and arched. Everything smelled like fresh rain, polished wood, and new paper. It should’ve been magical. But mostly, it made my stomach twist. I tugged my too-big coat tighter. It was an old army green thing, handed down from my cousin. My jeans were fraying at the knees, and my backpack was... patched. Multiple times. With mismatched fabric. My hair was sticking to my face in wet strands and my glasses kept sliding down my nose. I looked like a mess. And they noticed. The students around me didn’t even bother to hide it. A girl in a cream cashmere sweater wrinkled her nose as I passed. A guy in designer sneakers leaned in to whisper to his friend, and they both laughed—too loud, on purpose. I caught the word “charity” before I yanked my hood up and forced my eyes forward. This was Hillcrest University. The Hillcrest. Where billionaires bred their next generation of world rulers. Where the walls bled legacy and old money, and people like me—people who’d grown up counting grocery discounts and dodging mold in leaky apartments—had no place. Except I’d gotten in. Scholarship. Full ride. A miracle. Or maybe a punishment. Hard to tell right now. The main building sat at the center of the quad like a palace. Students lounged on marble benches, some sipping iced lattes, others with their noses buried in expensive-looking tablets. Even their umbrellas looked like they had brand names. My arm was starting to cramp from gripping mine so hard. I made it halfway to the admin office before it happened. My bag strap snapped. With a soft pop, everything tumbled to the ground—books, folders, my notebook, even the pen I’d been chewing earlier. I froze, humiliation prickling up my neck. And then he appeared. Tall. Like, stupidly tall. Easily over six feet, in a black coat that swirled around his legs like something out of a noir film. His hair was jet black, styled with effortless perfection, and his jaw could’ve been sculpted by someone with very high standards. Cold gray eyes flicked down at my mess, then back at me. I couldn’t move. I was too busy trying to will the earth to open up and swallow me whole. He crouched and silently began picking up my things. No smile. No words. Just efficient hands sliding my water-warped folder back into my bag. I scrambled to help, fumbling with a half-mashed granola bar and a bent paperclip. “Thanks,” I mumbled, not looking at him. He handed me the notebook last—my name scribbled in pink gel pen across the front like an elementary school project. I cringed. “Be careful,” he said flatly, his voice low and cool. Then he stood and walked off without another glance. I blinked after him, heart thudding for no good reason. I wasn’t even into tall, broody types. He looked like the kind of man who fired people over lunch breaks. Definitely not a student. I had no idea what a person like that would be doing here. Focus, Madeline. I shook it off and scurried toward the office, bag clutched to my chest like a shield. The front steps were slick, and I nearly slipped. Of course. Of course that would happen. Inside, the building was warm and smelled like old books and lemon polish. The admin assistant was a lady in a tweed blazer who gave me a tight smile and a massive stack of orientation material. I nodded politely, clutching everything like it might vanish if I blinked. “I’m... Madeline Hart,” I told her. She barely looked up. “Scholarship student, yes? You’ll be in Dorm A3. Third floor. No elevator.” Figures. By the time I got to my room, my arms were shaking and my thighs were burning. The dorm was... okay. Smaller than expected, with creaky floors and walls thin enough to hear someone sneezing three doors down. But it was mine. I dropped my stuff and collapsed onto the bed. The springs squeaked. I didn’t care. I stared up at the ceiling and let out a long breath. Okay. So. Not a great start. But I didn’t come here to impress them. I came here to survive. To study. To earn that degree and get out. I’d worked for this. I’d aced every exam, devoured every book, and clawed my way through high school while working night shifts at the diner. I wasn’t going to let some spoiled rich kids break me. They could whisper. They could laugh. I wasn’t here to make friends. I was here to build a life. My fingers curled into the blanket, still damp from the rain. I glanced at the window. Outside, the courtyard looked postcard-perfect. Not a hair out of place. Unlike me. That man’s voice echoed in my head again—Be careful. Cold. Direct. Like the kind of person who didn’t waste time with pleasantries. I wondered who he was. A TA? A staff member? He didn’t wear a lanyard. Maybe he was just a grumpy upperclassman with no time for clumsy scholarship girls. Either way, I wasn’t going to see him again. Hopefully. I sat up and grabbed my schedule. My first class was tomorrow morning. Early. Economics 101. Great. My weakest subject. Time to start panicking. I reached for my crumpled notebook, opened it, and scrawled a quick line in the corner: Don’t stand out. Keep your head down. Study hard. Then I added one more sentence: No one’s going to hand you anything, Madeline. You earn it. Like always. And maybe, just maybe, if I survived this year without tripping over another mysterious man in a coat, I’d make it through.