4. Victoria
4
VICTORIA
Monday, September 2
“God, he’s such an asshole, but he’s so hot.”
I inhale and try my best to ignore the two girls sitting behind me. They’ve been at it for the last two minutes, ever since Professor Moretti handed out his syllabus and began explaining his strict rules and unyielding expectations. He’s wearing black slacks and a white button-up shirt that’s rolled up to the crook of his elbows, revealing veined forearms that my classmates can’t stop tittering over.
He says he’s here to teach music and that’s it.
Shocker. Professor Moretti is all music and no empathy.
After everything that happened Saturday, I realized Professor Moretti was never going to be my biggest fan. No, he’s just waiting to pounce on whatever I say that he can twist around to draw the worst conclusion. He has no intention of getting to know anything remotely personal about any of his students, not even the ones caught up in shit with his own nephew.
He came to Thronewood for one thing and one thing only—the violin. Professor Moretti wants his students to shut up, play, and leave him alone.
“I don’t accept tardiness,” he continues, pacing along the front row. Normally, the front of the classroom is my go-to spot, but I made sure to find a seat somewhere in the middle. I don’t intend to ever sit there.
Professor Moretti already thinks I’m a moron, so I’ll keep my distance and just learn what I can from afar this semester.
No need to add to my stress levels.
“If you’re not here to learn to play the violin , drop my class immediately,” Professor Moretti instructs with a growl of irritation. His jaw is locked, disdain written all over his face. He acts like he was forced to teach this class, like the act of teaching is somehow beneath him.
Maybe that’s his default setting—Grade A asshole.
“I’m here to learn how to play his violin,” the girl behind me mutters. Professor Moretti’s head snaps in our direction with a look that could level mountains.
“Did you have something to say Miss Waldorf?” he barks out with a sneer. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Fuck.
I can take the hit or throw the chick running her mouth under the bus.
She’s lucky I’m not a whiny snitch.
“I apologize, Professor,” I answer as timidly and sincerely as I can. “Just making sure I wrote everything down. I tend to talk to myself without realizing it.”
He stares at me for a beat. “You might want to get that checked out.”
I bow my head, breaking his heated stare, but he doesn’t stop there.
No, he’s more than happy to embarrass me in front of the whole class rather than let me off easy. If he had been paying any attention, he would’ve noticed that my damn lips weren’t the ones moving.
“Will this be an ongoing problem, Miss Waldorf?” he continues. “Adults know how to shut their mouths when other people are speaking.”
I feel my face heat with a blush before Professor Moretti dismisses me, turning his back and walking toward his desk. But I can’t let that sort of insult go. I deserve at least some basic respect.
“Actually, a 2012 study suggested that there are benefits to engaging in self-talk.”
Professor Moretti stops mid-step, slowly turning back around to face me.
I continue, “It’s completely normal. And, while I was muttering—I’m sure you have no idea what I was saying—you shouldn’t be worried unless I’m hallucinating. Which I’m not. Talking to yourself can actually improve control over a task, focusing and enhancing problem-solving skills. I can assure you that I heard everything you said. Plus,” I raise his syllabus up in the air, “you were so generous to type it all out for us.”
He stands there, seemingly digesting my words, but I’ve learned he’s fast on his feet and has a pathological need to have the last word.
“Do I need to make an edit for next semester? Perhaps a note reminding students not to be entitled smartasses, Miss Waldorf? Or would you like to cite a study regarding the relationship between sarcasm and intelligence? Because it would seem you have heaps of the former and little of the latter.”
“My grades say otherwise.”
“But your poor choices don’t, do they?” He folds his hands behind his back. “If I need to stop my lecture again for another of these thrilling conversations with you, Miss Waldorf, I’m kicking you out of my class. Understood?”
I give a curt nod, deciding one clapback was enough for today.
Professor Moretti glances up as the grandfather clock in the corner chimes the hour. “Well, that’s the end of our time together. Make sure your instruments are tuned before you come to class Wednesday. And you should have a piece of chamber music prepared so that I can assess your skills.”
As everyone quickly stands and moves to get the hell out, I grab my backpack and case and prepare to follow the crowd. But I feel a tap on the back of my shoulder and swing my head around to see a blonde with hazel eyes that glimmer with a hint of mischief, like we’re sharing a secret.
I guess we are.
“Thanks, girl,” she whispers as if Professor Moretti has supersonic hearing. “Sorry you got in trouble.”
I shrug. There’s nothing either of us can do about it now. “It’s alright. Just keep it down next time.”
She bobs her head immediately. “Absolutely. No more sexy talk about the grumpy professor.” Her hand shoots out between us. “I’m Bailey. Can I buy you a coffee or something?”
“Yeah, actually…that sounds great. My next class isn’t for another hour.”
She beams at me. “Awesome. We can?—”
“Vee!” My body reflexively cringes at the sound of Liam’s voice. Why is he here ? And right after I got my ass handed to me by his uncle?
The last thing I need is Liam creating a damn scene after class and cementing Professor Moretti’s belief that I’m some drama queen.
“Shit,” I mutter, pulling the strap of my backpack over my shoulder as I meet Bailey’s gaze. “Can we hurry up and go?”
She frowns but nods. “Yeah, yeah, sure.”
We begin to move toward the back exit when Liam’s hand wraps around my bicep and forces me to stop.
“Hey—” I jerk my arm away from his touch. I’m over this nonsense.
I don’t want to marry him.
I don’t have any desire to date him.
Liam is a douchebag with too much ego and not enough brains. The stupid ass invited me to a party and then made out with another chick. He had her purple lipstick smeared all over his face. I’m not sure how much tequila he had before then, and I don’t care. I’m done.
“Don’t touch me,” I growl back. “And don’t come to my classes looking for me.”
Liam looks like a sad puppy dog that got left out in the rain, but I have zero sympathy. He’s delusional if he thinks I’ll take his cheating ass back.
“Babe, I’m so sorry,” he soothes, raising his hands in supplication. “It was a stupid dare?—”
“She was on your lap for ten minutes, Liam,” I argue because, no joke, I literally timed them while I downed three drinks and tried to pretend it didn’t matter. “And, honestly, I’ve told you this before, I don’t want to get married. I’m too busy with school to even be in a relationship with you.”
“You don’t mean—” But I’ve said my piece, and I pivot away as I usher my new friend through the rows of desks. We’re just about the only students left in the room and Professor Moretti has a front row seat to this shitshow. Great.
“Victoria,” Liam chides lightly behind me. “We need to talk about this.”
I’d answer, but that would only prolong the conversation and all I want is to be out of this room and away from Professor Moretti’s judgement.
Anything else Liam wants to say, he can say in the hallway.
I’m finally able to get through the double doors and I can breathe again. Bailey hangs back to walk at my side. I’m not sure if it’s to give me emotional support or because she feels bad for me, but I appreciate the backup nonetheless.
“Victoria, I’m not gonna stop.”
Goddamn it.
Why is he so damn adamant about marrying me? I’m twenty years old. We have our whole lives to figure this shit out and he’s acting straight-up obsessed.
“Are you okay?” Bailey asks, her shoulder brushing mine as she keeps up with my brisk pace.
“Yeah,” I manage to get out. “Ex-boyfriend. Caught him making out with some bimbo at a party last weekend.”
“Damn, that sucks. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. It’ll get my parents off my ass about staying with the prick.”
“Really?” she presses. “Your parents want you dating that guy?”
“Our mothers know each other, move in the same social circles. I dunno, it’s like they sat down one day and were like ‘hey, let’s make our kids get married . ’ It’s the most insane thing I’ve ever heard of.”
“Well, if he cheated then you have the perfect out.”
“Yeah. Let’s hope I can keep him out of Professor Moretti’s class so I don’t get shit for this next.”
“He can’t be a hard-ass the whole semester,” she retorts with a small tsk . “I mean, who has the energy for that?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m not about to test his commitment to the part.”
“I hear ya,” she replies as we get lost in the throng of other students.