Taught by him

There is an unwritten rule at Blackwood University. 𝓓𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓰𝓮𝓽 𝓸𝓷 𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓯𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓸𝓻 𝓑𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓴'𝓼 𝓫𝓪𝓭 𝓼𝓲𝓭𝓮. Blackwood is old. Ivy-covered. The kind of university where tuition costs more than a house and everyone pretends they belong. Stone buildings, stained glass libraries, rain that never stops in October. And Professor Ethan Black is its king. 29. Oxford PhD. Published author. Guest lecturer at Harvard and Cambridge. He wears all black like he is mourning something, speaks three languages fluently, and has a reputation for destroying students who waste his time. He never smiles. He never dates. He never mixes his personal life with work. And for some reason, he hates me. I am Aria Vale. 21. Final year English Literature. Scholarship student. 4.0 GPA. I have never missed a deadline. I annotate every book until my fingers hurt. But in his Advanced Literary Theory class, I don't exist — unless he's calling me out. "Miss Vale." His voice slices through the quiet seminar room. Twelve students. A round oak table. Everyone turns. I freeze, pen mid-air. "You quoted Woolf in your paper. Beautifully. But you completely ignored the contradiction in her own argument about independence versus isolation. Why?" My throat dries. 𝓑𝓮𝓬𝓪𝓾𝓼𝓮 𝓘 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓽𝓻𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽. 𝓑𝓮𝓬𝓪𝓾𝓼𝓮 𝓘 𝓻𝓮𝔀𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓪𝔂 𝓯𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮𝓼. "I thought the prompt was focused on feminist narrative, Professor." A faint, humorless smile. "You thought wrong." Someone stifles a laugh. Heat rushes to my cheeks. I look down at my notebook, at the messy notes I wrote at 2am. He moves on. But I feel his eyes. They don't leave me for the rest of the class. After, my roommate Lila grabs my arm in the stone corridor. "Okay, what did you DO to him? He literally only looks at you. Like he wants to fail you or... something else." "I have no idea," I whisper. And I don't. That night, I'm in the Blackwell Library. 10:47 PM. It is enormous, gothic, with tall windows and ladders that touch the ceiling. Rain drums against the glass. The library is almost empty. I have his book in front of me — his debut novel, _The Art of Ruin_. Everyone says it's semi-autobiographical. About a man who lost everything. I hear footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. I assume it's the librarian. It's not. The scent hits me first. Dark, expensive, rain and cedar. "Still trying to figure me out, Miss Vale?" Professor Black. I shoot up, my chair scraping loudly against the marble floor. He's there, in a black shirt, sleeves pushed up, hair damp from the rain, a stack of old first-editions in his arms. Outside class, he looks younger. More dangerous. He glances at my desk. At my annotated copy of his book. At my notebook where I wrote: _Why does he write like someone who is grieving?_ My stomach drops. "I... I was just studying—" "My work." He steps closer. Too close. In the dim library light, I can see the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the tension in his jaw. "Most students hate my work." "I don't," I say before I can stop myself. "I think it's... honest. Sad, but honest." Something flickers in his eyes. For a second, the cold professor disappears. He looks at me like a man. Not a teacher. "You have no idea what you're saying, Aria." Aria. Not Miss Vale. 𝓐𝓻𝓲𝓪. The way he says it in that low voice makes my breath catch. The moment shatters as fast as it came. He steps back, mask back on. "Library closes at eleven. Don't stay up too late trying to impress me. And rewrite the essay. I want it on my desk at 8am tomorrow." He turns to leave. Then pauses. Pulls a torn piece of paper from his own notebook and places it on my desk. _You quote other people too much. Say what YOU think. — E.B._ He walks away, footsteps echoing. I sit there, heart hammering against my ribs, staring at that note. No professor has ever written to me like that. No man has ever looked at me like that. And tomorrow at 8am, I have to go to his office. Alone. *END OF CHAPTER ONE