Chapter 8
Alex
And here we were again.
I waited a beat before resting my chin on my hand, looking at her with a smirk. “And what sort of night did you have?”
She groaned, the sound completely muffled by her arms. “A late one.”
I laughed. "I can see that.”
Mo and Abdul sat down across from us, both of them instantly laughing at Holly, who stuck her middle finger up at them without fully lifting her head from the desk. I smirked and raised an eyebrow at the boys. “What have I missed?”
Mo grinned. “Hallway party at Liberty last night.”
“Fucking hell.” I laughed and shook my head. “So, sweetheart, was one of those flats yours by any chance?”
Holly groaned dramatically, burying her head completely into her arms. I chuckled and rubbed her back gently. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
The sharp, distinct click of heels against the floor made her bolt upright.
Everyone went dead silent as Dr. Carter walked into the room.
The woman looked as entirely powerful as usual, wearing tailored black trousers and a deep blue silk shirt.
I subtly cracked my neck, feeling a familiar tension coil through me as her cool gaze swept across us all.
Her eyes held mine for a single, highly charged second before she turned to the whiteboard and began today’s introductions.
“This week,” Dr. Carter began, her voice cutting across the room with precise, academic clarity, “we will be concentrating heavily on microeconomics—specifically, the behaviour of individual agents within a market.”
I settled back into my chair, absorbing the rigid professionalism.
She moved straight into the basic principles, lecturing flawlessly on supply and demand shifts and elasticity.
She could have been reading straight from a textbook, yet her command of the subject was sharp enough to keep the class from drifting off entirely.
I tried to pay attention, I really did, but the tension from the weekend was still humming violently beneath my skin.
Every time she gestured or turned to the board, I subconsciously tracked the sharp lines of her navy shirt, my mind unhelpfully flashing back to the provocative view of that dark red blouse and pencil skirt in her car.
After twenty minutes, she paused. “I’ve prepared some discussion prompts to guide this analysis.”
She moved through the room, her heels clicking rhythmically against the linoleum. When she reached ours, she placed the sheets down with an almost perfunctory efficiency.
I glanced up, my eyes meeting the level plane of her chest as she laid the documents down.
Just a natural glance. I waited for the faintest acknowledgment—a twitch of the lip, a fractional narrowing of the eyes, anything that whispered of the late-night pick-up, the way she took down some prick to protect me, or the shared secret of a drive thru.
But there was nothing. Her gaze swept right over me, colder and more distant than it had been even last week. She didn't hesitate, she didn't blink, and she didn't break her stride. She moved right on to the next table, already instructing them in the exact same detached tone.
I let out a measured, quiet breath and picked up the worksheet. I knew it was just the way she had to be: frosty, professional, utterly impersonal in front of the students. And yet, I couldn't stop the private smile that played on my lips as I started on the first prompt with Holly, Mo, and Abdul.
Cold and distant. Yes, absolutely. But there was something else there that weekend.
A barely veiled rage, a terrifying protective streak, and the husky sound of her calling me a brat.
Fuck, just thinking about that word made me shiver.
Those moments were reserved only for when the two of us were entirely alone, cocooned in the heavy silence of her car.
The contrast was intoxicating. She could play the untouchable Dr. Carter here, but I knew the truth: she was the woman who slammed doors, bought me chips, and floored a guy twice her size for daring to touch me.
I thoroughly enjoyed this specific brand of in-class invisibility.
It was confirmation that the chaos of the weekend was our little secret.
I managed to wade through the discussion prompts, occasionally kicking Holly’s foot under the table when she threatened to pass out, and whispering quick explanations to Mo and Abdul.
The truth was, I was cruising on pure adrenaline and the residual buzz of the weekend.
I glanced at the clock; the final twenty minutes were approaching.
Sure enough, Dr. Carter commanded everyone’s attention again, moving back to the whiteboard at the front of the room.
“Right. Let’s consolidate these points. Mo, what did your group determine regarding the concept of Elasticity of Demand?”
Mo delivered a solid textbook definition. Dr. Carter acknowledged him with a crisp, “Excellent,” and proceeded to smoothly work through the main principles, fielding answers and gently correcting students. She was flawless, controlling the pace and the narrative of the room with surgical precision.
I noticed Holly was struggling again, her eyes glazing over as Dr. Carter explained how the price of an inelastic good shifts the supply curve. Holly leaned toward me, whispering a frantic, low-volume question. “Wait, wait. If demand is inelastic, why is the curve—”
I leaned in, keeping my voice barely audible, trying to quickly break down the subject for her alcohol-fuelled mind. “The lack of substitutes, Hol. They’ll pay anything, so the supply shift is steeper, see? Because—”
My explanation was cut abruptly by a sound that felt louder than the last-call drinks bell at The Dam: my name.
“Alex.”
The single word sliced through the classroom air, stopping all conversation cold. Every single head in the room swivelled to our table. The silence was immense, heavy, and immediate.
Dr. Carter was standing at the front, her tailored shoulders perfectly squared, her posture radiating controlled fury.
She wasn’t looking at the board; her dark eyes were locked entirely onto me, burning with the same intense, lethal expression she had when she gripped that prick’s arm at the weekend.
I felt the familiar, sickening lurch of fear and fucking heat mix in my stomach.
“While I appreciate the need for collaborative learning,” she began, her voice tight, low, and utterly unforgiving, “this is not the time for private tutorials. If you have a question, you raise your hand. We are reviewing material for the entire class, not merely for those who were incapable of remaining focused this morning.”
The insult stung, not just for me, but for Holly, who sank down in her chair, utterly mortified. But the true weight of her command was reserved strictly for me. She stared me down, daring me to challenge her, daring me to offer one of my usual boundary-pushing retorts in front of everyone.
I swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise rapidly in my cheeks. I leaned back slightly in my chair, slowly nodding my head, giving her the exact obedience she demanded.
“Understood, Dr. Carter,” I replied, my voice quiet, offering absolutely no further apology.
Dr. Carter held my gaze for one more excruciating second, ensuring my silence was absolute, then she delivered the final, calculated blow.
“Good,” she said, her voice snapping back to its high-caliber academic register, though now edged with a deliberate, pointed scorn. “I would hate for anyone to waste the significant investment in their university education by disrupting my seminar.”
Well, fuck you then.
That jab hit harder than she probably meant it to. She had no fucking idea how much a comment like that burned under my skin, because she had no fucking idea how much I had to scrimp and save, how many disgusting nights at The Dam I’d pulled, just to be sat here right now.
The heat and attraction from the weekend evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, furious resentment.
She wasn’t a hot supervillain anymore; she was just someone with an inflated sense of importance and boundary issues.
A rich prick. I could barely bring myself to look at her for the rest of the class.
As soon as class was over, I shoved everything into my bag and left without even glancing in her direction.
I marched down the corridors, feeling the raw frustration tighten my body; my shoulders were rigid and my jaw was clenched.
I stood outside in the cold, letting the wind whip up my now untucked shirt.
You’re spiralling, get a grip. I took a few centring breaths, running a harsh internal monologue: She doesn't know. You're taking it too personally. Don’t let that chip on your shoulder make you break down now.
I opened my eyes and realised I was standing right at the main business building.
Maybe I could use this new pent-up energy to make a cute blonde blush?
I could try and bruise my own ego back into shape so I didn’t fall into a pit of despair about being a poor loser.
I straightened my shirt and jacket, gathered my focus, and headed into the building toward Blondie’s office.
When I got down the right hallway, it was deserted, as always.
I checked my reflection quickly in the glass display case.
My hair was slightly wavy that day—a few loose strands framing my face.
My shirt was light blue striped, and my jeans were tight.
I adjusted my jacket—a simple, black, warm one my dad had proudly given me—wiped away a rogue smudge of mascara, and gave myself a quick wink of confidence.
I leaned against the wall next to Blondie’s office and knocked on her door, trying to portray an air of effortless nonchalance.
I heard some movement inside, and my stomach flipped in immediate anticipation.
Billie opened her door and instantly did a double-take when she saw me standing there. I smiled, casual and confident. “Hey.”