6. Alexandra
The campus hums with life around me.
Sunlight glints off concrete paths, students sprawled across the quad in loose groups, laughter drifting lazily through the air. It almost feels peaceful. Normal. Like nothing bad could happen here.
I sit on the low stone wall outside the main building with a handful of girls from my program, my backpack resting at my feet. They’re animated, leaning into each other as they talk.
“Oh my God, have you seen Professor Whitmore up close?” one of them says, eyes bright. “It should be illegal to look like that and also grade exams.”
A ripple of laughter moves through the group.
“He’s so young for a professor,” another adds. “Like, actually young.”
“And hot,” someone sighs. “Those arms? I’d fail his class on purpose if it meant more one-on-one time.”
They giggle again.
“Did you hear about his start-up?” a third girl chimes in, lowering her voice like she’s sharing something important. “Some software thing. My cousin’s in tech and says it’s actually legit. Like, investors legit.”
“No way.”
“Yes way. Apparently it’s supposed to take off after this semester. That’s why he’s only teaching part-time.”
“Of course he is,” someone mutters. “Brains and money. Unfair.”
“And he comes from a really good family,” another adds. “My roommate Googled him. Private schools, connections, the whole deal.”
I stay quiet, my fingers absently twisting the strap of my bag.
I don’t say that I don’t see it the same way. Objectively, Justin Whitmore is attractive. Polished. Well-spoken. The kind of man who looks trustworthy at first glance. The kind people instinctively side with.
A familiar unease crawls up my spine.
I glance up.
He’s there.
Standing near one of the benches across the quad, phone in hand. He’s not looking at it. His attention is fixed on us. On me.
Our eyes meet.
A slow, knowing smile curves his mouth. Not warm or friendly.
Predatory.
My stomach tightens.
***
I’m sitting in his classroom now, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The air smells faintly of dry erase markers and stale coffee. Laptops are open around me, keys clicking in rapid bursts.
Back-end development.
My nightmare class.
I stare at the screen in front of me, lines of code swimming until they blur together. I understand the concepts. I really do. I know what the code is supposed to do.
But writing it myself feels like trying to build a house when all I’ve ever done is decorate the inside.
Back home, projects are group work. Collaborative. I thrive there. I design interfaces, map user journeys, focus on UX and structure. I understand enough code to contribute—but I’ve never been responsible for the entire thing.
Here, I’m on my own.
“Alexandra.”
I look up.
Justin Whitmore stands beside my desk, hands resting casually on the back of the empty chair next to me. He glances at my screen, then back at me.
“You’re struggling,” he says softly.
It’s not a question.
Heat creeps up my neck. “A bit.”
He considers me for a moment, then nods, like he’s already decided something. “I can help you.”
Relief floods me. “Really? Thank you so much!”
“Come by my office after class,” he says. “We’ll go over the material together. Just us.”
The last part is said casually, almost as an afterthought — like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
His office is small and neat. One wall is nothing but bookshelves—rows of academic texts with spines so stiff they looked like they’d never been opened. His degree hangs behind his desk in a heavy gold frame. He offers me water, asks about my background, my exchange program, how I’m finding the U.S.
He listens. Nods. Smiles.
“I can help you,” he says finally. “But it’ll require focused time. One-on-one.”
“I’d really appreciate that,” I say quickly. “I don’t want to fail.”
“Good,” he replies. “Then Friday. Six p.m.”
I hesitate. “Here?”
“My place,” he says smoothly. “It’s quieter. Easier to concentrate.”
Something twists uneasily in my gut.
But he’s still smiling. Still calm. Still the professor who just offered to help me.
And I need this class.
“Okay,” I say.
***
Friday comes.
I’m standing in his apartment, my bag still slung over my shoulder. The space is modern, minimalist, almost sterile — the kind of place that feels more like a showroom than a home.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the couch.
He offers me a drink. I decline. He nods, unbothered.
“Why don’t you put your bag down?” he says. “You won’t need it.”
I hesitate, then tell myself I’m overthinking it. I set it down by the couch anyway. The moment I do, my unease sharpens, like I’ve just given something up without meaning to.
He watches me, then smiles. “Better.”
I fold my arms. “I thought we were going to go over the material.”
“We are,” he says easily. “But you’re clearly tense.”
“I’m fine.”
He steps closer — not close enough to touch, but close enough that I’m aware of him. “You won’t be if you stay wound up like that.”
"Why don't you start by taking off your jacket?" he said.
He said it like he was suggesting I sit down for tea. It was reasonable enough that I actually did it. The second the fabric left my shoulders, the office air felt ten degrees colder, hitting my skin like a warning.
"Good," he murmured, his eyes never leaving mine. "Now the rest."
My breath hitched, catching on a jagged edge in my throat. "The rest of... what?"
He just sat there, leaning back in that expensive leather chair, looking at me with the kind of calm patience you'd show a slow child. "Your clothes, Alexandra."
I let out a short, sharp laugh—the kind that comes from total disbelief. "You're joking."
"I’m not joking."
The air in the room seemed to vanish. A sudden, sharp chill carved its way through my chest, turning my blood to slush.
"This isn't funny," I snapped, my voice cracking as I took a stumbling step toward the door. "I’m leaving. Now."
I reached for my bag, my fingers brushing the strap, but I never made it.
His hand clamped around my wrist. His grip was a cold, iron band that locked my bones in place.
My heart slams against my ribs. “Let go.”
“You don’t get to walk away,” he says, voice sharp now. “Do you know how easy it would be to make your life very difficult?”
I freeze.
He talks about visas. Deportation. About how students like me don’t have power here. How a broke European exchange student wouldn’t be able to afford lawyers. Or police. Or anything.
“I’ll call the police,” I say, my voice trembling.
He laughs. “With what money?”
Panic explodes inside me.
I wrench my arm free and bolt for the door—but he’s faster. He shoves me back, his weight crushing me down onto the couch. My bag falls to the floor.
“No—stop—!”
He pins me, his hands everywhere, his breath hot against my neck. I thrash, kicking, clawing, but he’s stronger. The room spins. My scream gets stuck in my throat.
I can’t get away.
This time, I don’t run.
This time—
I wake up screaming.
My body jerks violently, legs kicking, hands flailing as terror rips through me. My throat burns, lungs gasping desperately for air.
“Get off me—!”
Strong hands catch my wrists, firm but careful.
“Lex. Hey—Lex, wake up.”
I fight harder, sobbing, trapped between terror and reality.
“Baby. Look at me.”
The word cuts through the panic like a blade.
My eyes fly open, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Darkness. For a heart-stopping second, I thought I was still in Justin’s apartment. But the shadows here were different. Wider. The air didn't taste like a trap.
He’s there.
Prez. Stone.
His face is tight with concern, eyes sharp and steady as he holds me in place.
“You’re safe,” he says firmly. “It was a nightmare.”
I suck in a broken breath.
Then another.
My body gives out.
I collapse forward, clutching his shirt with both hands, sobs tearing out of me as the terror finally loosens its grip.
“I didn’t get away,” I choke. “This time I didn’t run. He—he—”
Stone wraps his arms around me instantly, pulling me against his chest. His heartbeat thunders beneath my ear, solid and real.
“He will never touch you again,” he says, voice low and unyielding. “I promise.”
I cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping me upright, crying until my chest aches and my head throbs.
He doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t speak again. Just stays.
Eventually, the sobs quiet. My breathing evens out, shaky but slowing.
I pull back slightly, wiping my face.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Don’t,” he says gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Silence settles between us. I’m suddenly aware of how close he is. Of how safe I feel with him here.
The thought scares me.
“Would you… stay?” I ask softly.
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Stone searches my face, making sure this is what I want. Giving me room to take it back.
“You sure?” he asks.
I nod. “Please.”
He exhales slowly.
“Okay.”
I shift to make room, and he lies down beside me, careful, leaving space until I close it myself. I curl into him, resting my head against his chest.
He doesn’t trap me. Doesn’t pull me tighter than necessary.
He just holds me, one arm around my shoulders, his hand warm and steady against my back.
His heartbeat lulls me, grounding me.
As sleep pulls me under again, one last thought drifts through my mind, soft and dangerous all at once:
I don’t know what this is.
But I know I don’t want to be without it.