Professor Lucien

Screw Perfect

Sofia Pov

I must’ve fallen asleep—I jolt awake to the sound of aggressive pounding on my bedroom door.

Who the hell wants to break the door down this early? It’s definitely not Grandma Tessa. She doesn’t have that kind of energy. I glance at the alarm clock. 1:47 p.m. Crap. I’ve been out for over two hours. I was supposed to be in class.

Worse—I was supposed to come up with a plan to get my phone back from Professor Lucien and convince him not to report me to the Disciplinary Committee.

I groan as the office scene threatens to replay in my head, but I shut it out. Not now. I can’t afford a breakdown.

Groggy, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing my eyes. I hadn’t even changed before sleep took over.

The banging only grows more frantic.

“I’m coming!” I grumble, dragging myself to the door and yanking it open.

And there she is. My mother. Wearing her signature scowl and judgmental gaze like a second skin.

“Mom?”

“Sophia,” she snaps, already in full attack mode, “you’re at home sleeping during lecture hours? Are you even okay?” Her eyes narrow. “And what on earth happened to your hair? You can’t even do your hair right.”

God. This is exactly who I don’t want to deal with right now.

“Hello, Sophia,” she says mockingly, flicking her fingers in front of my face. “I’m talking to you. A little acknowledgment would be nice.”

“What are you doing here, Mom?” I ask flatly, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind me.

She scoffs, flashing her perfectly manicured nails like they’re part of the conversation. “Look, Sop—”

“It’s Sophia, Mom.” I wince, the sound of my name dragging memories of Professor Lucien to the surface. “You know how much I hate the shortened version.”

“And I don’t give a damn, Sop.”

“Mom. Sophia.”

“I’m not here to argue with you, young lady,” she says, yanking at her well-pressed suit jacket. “I’m here because you’re skipping school, and I want to know why.”

“Waist pain. I had waist pain,” I lie, hoping she’ll just let it go.

She crosses her arms, clearly not buying it. “You can feed that nonsense to your grandma, but I’m not stupid enough to fall for your little games.”

“I’m not lying.”

She glares, her voice rising. “Come off it, Sophia. Last semester’s results clearly show what a disaster you are at school.”

“Mom—”

““I’m not dealing with you like you’re some clueless kid.”

“Mom—!”

“I just don’t get it,” she goes on, barely pausing to breathe. “How hard is it to concentrate on your studies? When I was your age, I was at the top of my class, already winning academic awards, but you—”

“I’m not you,” I snap, cutting through her nostalgic rambling.She doesn’t care how I feel. It’s always about grades, appearances, and her goddamn reputation.

She pauses, her lips twitching. Her styled hair makes her look like she just walked off a movie set. She looks younger than most moms—but colder too.

“Wow,” she says finally, voice flat. “You finally talked back at me. Pack your things. You’re coming with me.”

“Mom—”

“Don’t you ‘Mom’ me. I warned you. Fail another subject, and you're coming home.

“But it’s just one and I haven't failed yet—”

“No excuses, Sofia. I’m tired of your carelessness.”

"Mom..."

“You’re going to pack your things this minute,” Mom snaps, her voice cutting through like blade. “Say goodbye to your grandma. She’s too soft on you.”

She doesn’t ask if I’m okay. She never does. I’m not even sure she notices the way my fingers are curling into my palms, how hard I’m trying not to break in front of her. Because if I do, she’ll just call it drama. She’ll say I’m weak. Spoiled. Ungrateful.

But I’m not. I’m just tired. Tired of trying to measure up to a woman who only sees flaws when she looks at me. Tired of pretending like her words don’t turn my insides to stone.

Grandma's house is the only place that doesn’t feel like a battlefield. And now, even that is being taken from me.

I lift my chin and meet her cold stare, but inside, I’m crumbling.

"I cannot live with you, Mom. Or your new husband. I don't fit in there," I plead, my voice trembling with rage.

And it’s true. I don’t fit in. My mother is a lawyer, and her new husband is an attorney. A perfectionist, just like her. Two egotistical people—no, rephrase that—three. He has a daughter from a fling before settling down. Miss flawless GPA and perfect ballet form. I’m supposed to smile and ‘fit in’?'. A perfect breakfast to me is a little nourishing drink and a few slices of Grandma’s cake. But in her new house, it means three perfectionists sitting together, barely touching their meal while discussing a possible criminal case.

Right. And I’m the odd one out—because I want to be a journalist, not some top-tier lawyer.

“You would fit in just fine. And you’ll start by getting to know Brianna. She likes you a lot,” Mom says.

I scoff. More like she rubs her intelligence in my face at every chance she gets.

"I don't want to fit in, Mom. I just—"

"Stop being so dramatic," she snaps. "Even my stepdaughter doesn’t stress me this way."

I flinch. Not from her tone... but from the comparison.

"I'm not Brianna. Just leave me alone."

Mom rolls her eyes. "If you were even 25% as composed and well-behaved as Brianna, I wouldn’t have to babysit you every second."

I try to convince myself she didn’t just say that—but she did.

"Stop stressing me and go in there. Pack your bags. Get into the car."

The door adjacent to mine opens. Grandma Tessa steps out.

"What’s with all the noise, Becky?" she asks, glancing at me. "Why can’t you just talk to your daughter peacefully?"

I avoid her gaze. If she looks at me with pity, I’ll break.

"Mom, you’re too soft on her," Mom fires back. "Just look at her nails. The polish is chipped. She’d rather party than fix herself. And her hair—seriously thinning. Probably too much alcohol. Bad diet."

"Becky, she’s your daughter. Not a lab rat."

My lungs tighten. I try to drown out their voices.

"Mom, you’re to blame for coddling her."

"You shouldn’t raise her like your father raised you."

"Mom..." she scoffs. "That’s different. I’m trying to make her better."

"The way you’re going about it is wrong."

"She’s coming with me. That’s final."

"Becky, let her be. Let her find her own breakthrough. Just like I did with you."

The images blur. Their voices start to fade.

"Good advice, Mom. But newsflash—Sofia might never find her breakthrough."

My knees wobble. I stumble forward, clutching my head.

"Sofia—"

"Sofia—"

My name echoes, but I can’t tell who’s calling me anymore.

And then everything goes black as my body hits the floor.