Chapter 3
Alex
Sweet fuck, why did I do this to myself.
I thought the jet lag of early mornings would start to fade, but instead, I felt just as bad as I had on Monday.
It was only Wednesday, and I truly thought I’d be past this phase.
But no—I felt like I’d been pulling all-nighters for a week straight, when in reality, I’d been getting more sleep than usual because I just got home and basically passed out. Still, I kept moving.
I stood in front of my mirror, tilting my head.
I’d layered my jeans with a simple white T-shirt and thrown on one of the few blazers I owned.
It struck the perfect balance—both casual, yet put-together.
I was starting to weirdly enjoy feeling a bit more dressed up; I had gotten far too accustomed to living in joggers or my Dam uniform. I felt like an adult. Nice.
Today was a brutal block: Business Management Seminar, International Business Lecture, and Economics Seminar—all back-to-back, all before noon.
My Business Management teacher was a young guy who instantly gave me the ick.
Not like most men did, who just reminded me every day why I’m a lesbian.
No, I meant he had a creepy, self-satisfied smirk.
He was the type of guy who thought he was a billionaire entrepreneur but was just 'Mr. Hubbard'—not even a PhD, which every other lecturer I’d encountered had. He had zero reason to be this smug.
His seminars were far worse than his lectures. In the latter, he mostly just droned on, reading off a PowerPoint, so I could tune him out. But his seminars were pure self-absorption, where he used management theories exclusively to inflate his own ego. Just... ew.
When I got to Business Management, I slouched down next to Holly.
I’d actually been grateful for her presence that week so far.
She was nice. Not overly talkative unless I seemed in the mood, she didn’t pry, and she’d groaned far less about her tiny accommodation than I had expected—which I was secretly grateful for.
I’d kill just to be in a simple flat share, not surrounded by fairies and glittery stickers.
The moment Mr. Hubbard walked in, I suppressed a deep groan. He beamed at us all, clapping his hands together with forced, corporate excitement as he began to dive into the next mind-numbing management theory.
Mr. Hubbard launched himself into the presentation with an almost offensive enthusiasm. He bounced on the balls of his feet, his arms slicing the air with overly dramatic gestures. Within seconds, the seminar had completely devolved into an ego-boosting monologue about his own "successes."
He was talking about some management principle—Synergy, maybe?
—but every example was immediately filtered through the golden sieve of his self-proclaimed brilliance.
“I remember when I implemented this model at that startup I consulted for…” He had barely finished a sentence before interrupting himself with a new, equally pompous anecdote.
A couple of keen students tried to join the discussion, genuinely attempting to add their own observations or questions, but he steamrolled them instantly, using their input as a springboard to talk about himself even louder.
I did my absolute best. I really did. My attention snapped to only two things: the key terms displayed on the slide and the specific management theories he explicitly named.
Those were the nuggets I needed to mine for the coursework.
Everything else was a bunch of shit. I tuned out every other word he used, especially those used just to talk about himself.
I let his voice become a dull, irritating buzz in the background, focusing instead on formulating a concise, theory-heavy paragraph in my head that would earn me top marks, far away from his smug, self-satisfied smirk.
I whispered to Holly, “Do you reckon we could just stop showing up? We’d probably get the same marks either way.” Clearly, he wasn’t actually teaching us anything useful.
Holly smirked, then sighed. “I wish, but the thought of skipping makes me feel physically sick.”
I groaned. Yeah, fine, I wasn’t the type to skip either, but this was bloody torture.
Or, maybe not.
The door swung open and Blondie walked in.
She was extra distracting that day, wearing a pencil skirt paired with a soft, ruffled blouse tucked in, and her hair even had a bit of a wave.
Every time I saw her, I got a little thrill.
This had never happened to me before—running into someone from the club, especially not one I then saw almost every day.
She avoided my gaze at all costs, and it thoroughly entertained me.
She hadn’t even attempted to speak to me or give any indication that we’d met before.
But there was nothing she could do to stop the immediate blush that crept up her neck when she caught me looking at her, or what flashed through my mind when my eyes scanned her curves.
Mr. Hubbard, oblivious to the fact that my passing interest in his seminar had been completely hijacked by the sudden appearance of a beautiful woman, immediately cornered Ms. Davies.
He leaned in far too close, invading her personal space while presumably droning on about his "management style.
" I watched him, and a low, simmering annoyance started to burn in my chest. I genuinely hated the casual, proprietary way some men treated women they found attractive.
When Ms. Davies finally pulled away from the conversation, she turned—and her eyes landed directly on me.
For once, she didn't flinch away. I was still shooting a fierce, concentrated glare right past her shoulder, aimed squarely at Mr. Hubbard's smug face, who remained none the wiser as he adjusted his tie.
She raised a questioning eyebrow at me, clearly asking: Are you glaring at me?
I held her gaze, but subtly shifted my chin, making it abundantly clear that the fury in my eyes was directed entirely at the man still standing beside her.
Ms. Davies looked momentarily confused, processing the redirection. Then, a slow, genuine smirk touched her lips, and the inevitable blush started to rise on her neck. She turned to leave the room, carrying that secret, playful acknowledgement with her.
I enjoyed that thoroughly. I wasn’t interested in Blondie for anything more than a bit of fun—a welcome, intrusive thrill—but I didn't think any woman deserved to be pursued by the sheer ick that was Mr. Hubbard.
Business Management finally scraped to a halt. The moment Mr. Hubbard released us, I was out the door and heading straight for the International Business lecture.
It wasn't bad. The lecturer, Dr. Sinclair, was an interesting woman—a bit older with elegant streaks of silver in her dark hair, but she had a genuine air of youthfulness that kept me engaged.
She talked about international supply chains like they were something more exciting than pure tax benefits, which was enough to make the hour fly by.
Then came the absolute curse of the timetable: an immediate dash across two university buildings to make it to the Economics seminar. I rushed through the crowded staircases, feeling the residual heat from the blazer against my back, pushing myself not to be late—especially not for Dr. Carter.
I reached the Economics hallway, slightly winded but not visibly sweating, with only two minutes to spare. I paused just outside the classroom door, quickly running a hand over my hair and smoothing out my shirt, trying my best not to look too flustered before making my entrance.
Fuck my actual life.
As I walked in, Ms. Davies and Dr. Carter were both standing at the front of the classroom, huddled in a quiet conversation.
They looked up as I entered, clearly catching my slightly flushed state.
Dr. Carter’s expression suggested I’d just walked in and personally insulted her face.
Ms. Davies, conversely, was visibly trying to suppress a laugh at my expense.
I slumped into my seat next to Holly, who gave me a sympathetic look.
I exhaled hard. “I have a lecture right before this seminar.”
She grimaced. “Shit, that sucks.”
I pressed my lips together and offered a tight, knowing smile.
Mo and Abdul sauntered in a few minutes later. The door barely closed before Dr. Carter’s voice, icy cold, broke the silence of the room. She didn’t look up from flicking to the next slide on the PowerPoint.
“Out.”
She said it calmly, but sternly enough to make them both halt mid-step.
They stared at her, wide-eyed, but she didn’t repeat herself. She simply waited, the silence growing heavy. They exchanged a quick, defeated look. As they turned to leave, Mo muttered loudly enough for the front row to hear, “Bitch.”
Jeez.
She was harsh, but it was their fault for being late; she had made the rules crystal clear on day one.
They were in the same lecture as me, and I rushed but didn't run, so they must have dawdled or stopped on the way.
If this had been any other place, I would have immediately barked back at him for that comment.
I hate it when men call women a bitch. They only ever deploy that word when a woman is being authoritative or opinionated—qualities a man would be commended for.
The temperature in the room felt as if it had dropped ten degrees. I could see the tension in Dr. Carter’s posture; she obviously heard him, but she was choosing to ignore it completely as she carried on with the seminar.
Dr. Carter tapped the board, flipping to a slide with the next set of basic principles—more definitions, more concepts to tackle. Her voice, still laced with that underlying frostiness, instructed us to begin table work immediately.
Holly and I were suddenly a pair instead of a group of four. Great. The permanent seating arrangement just became a lot tighter, and the twins were already on thin ice. We leaned in, trying to dissect the information just the two of us.