"Your analysis lacks intellectual rigor, Miss Valenti. This reads like a high school essay, not university-level work."
Professor Chen slides the paper across his desk, red ink bleeding through every paragraph.
I stare at the C-minus. My scholarship requires a B-plus minimum. "Professor Chen, if I could revise—"
"The deadline passed. International Relations builds on Political Thought. If you're struggling here, Professor Larsen's class will destroy you." He turns to his computer. "Consider something less demanding. You have until midterms to improve, or I'll have to recommend academic probation."
The paper crumples in my fist. Six weeks into university, already drowning. My phone buzzes—Victor's lecture, ten minutes.
I slip into the lecture hall, choosing the upper row shadows.
Victor moves behind the podium, navy blazer crisp against his shoulders, wire-rimmed glasses catching the overhead lights. His salt-and-pepper temples give him an air of distinguished authority, and when he gestures toward the projected slide, the room leans forward collectively.
Why hasn't he done anything?
My pen hovers over my notebook, but I write nothing.
I cannot focus on dead philosophers when a living man refuses to behave the way every other man in my life has behaved.
I know what I look like in those photos.
The thought burns through me like acid. I spent a year with Kilian learning exactly what my body could do to men.
Is he really not interested in me?
I watch Victor pause mid-sentence to answer a question from a student in the front row, his tone patient but firm.
I haven't met a man who could resist me.
But Victor Larsen looked at me like I was a math problem he already solved.
"Miss Wilson, would you like to share your interpretation?"
A girl two rows ahead stumbles through an answer about social contracts, and I use the distraction to study him properly.
The way he tilts his head when listening. The way his fingers tap the podium in a steady rhythm. The way he never once glances toward the back of the room.
He knows I'm here.
A man like Victor Larsen notices everything.
Why won't he look at me?
Two rows down: "God, I'd sacrifice anything for one night with him."
"Sarah, you're insane."
"Those hands probably know exactly what they're doing."
Mom's third husband said I had her mouth when I was fourteen. By fifteen, I knew what that meant. By eighteen, I used everything I'd learned on Kilian at that dive bar—played virgin while knowing exactly how to hook him.
"You seduced me," Kilian had slurred that last night. "Just like your whore mother taught you!"
He wasn't wrong.
If Victor thinks he's different, if he thinks he's above the biological imperative that rules every other man, I'll prove him wrong. I have to.
Lecture ends. Students scatter. I remain. Our eyes meet across the emptying hall.
"Four o'clock," he mouths.
His office is all dark wood, leather books, and academic intimidation. I knock at 4:00 exactly, wearing a strategic skirt and rebellious sweater that keeps sliding off my shoulder.
"Come in."
He's massacring essays with a red pen, shirtsleeves rolled up, those forearms on full display.
"Professor Chen thinks I should drop your class." I place my paper down, bending forward deliberately—the sweater gaps, showing the lace edge of my bra.
His pen stops moving. I watch his knuckles whiten slightly around it.
There it is. You're not immune. You're just better at pretending.
"Chen couldn't identify brilliance if it came with neon signs." His voice comes out rougher than before. "Sit."
When I settle into the chair, I cross my legs slowly, watching his jaw tighten. My skirt climbs higher.
"Maybe I need personalized instruction." I lean forward, elbows on his desk, chin in my hands—the pose pushes my breasts together.
It's the same move that had Kilian reaching for his wallet within ten minutes.
"One-on-one attention to really grasp your... theories."
Victor picks up my paper, but his eyes flick to my exposed shoulder before he catches himself. He clears his throat, adjusts his glasses. "Miss Valenti, what exactly are you doing?"
"Understanding Hobbes better, Professor." I shift, letting the sweater slip further, revealing the sharp line of my collarbone.
My tongue traces my bottom lip—quick, like I don't realize I'm doing it. He watches the movement. His breathing changes, just slightly.
Got you. You're just like the rest. All that control, all that propriety—it's just a performance.
"Hobbes didn't write about—" He stops, scanning my paper with sudden intensity, like he needs something else to focus on. "This is... Jesus Christ, this is actually terrible."
"Excuse me?"
"You start three different arguments in your introduction alone."
He flips the page, and I use his distraction to uncross and recross my legs, making sure my thigh catches his peripheral vision.
His pen pauses mid-air. A muscle jumps in his jaw.
"Page three, you confuse Hobbes with Locke." He looks up, and for a moment, our eyes lock. His pupils are dilated. "Did you even read the assignment?"
I stand, move around his desk like I'm trying to see the corrections. My hip brushes his shoulder as I lean over him.
"Please show me where I went wrong, Professor."
He inhales sharply. "Sit. Down."
The words come out strangled but I don't move, let my hair fall forward, almost brushing his cheek. "I learn better when I can see—"
"Is this about the photos?" He pushes his chair back abruptly, creating distance.
Blood drains from my face. "What photos?"
"Anonymous email, six weeks ago. 'Your newest student.' Very creative." He's standing now, putting the desk between us. "I deleted them."
"You... deleted them?"
Liar. No man deletes those kinds of photos.
"What did you expect? A special folder?" He's gripping the edge of his desk like it's keeping him upright. "Whatever game you're playing—"
"I'm not playing games." I move closer again, see the way his eyes track my movement. "I just need help with my paper."
"Stop." The word cracks like a whip. "Just... stop."
"Stop what, Professor?"
"This." He gestures at all of me—the calculated outfit, the practiced poses. "You think I don't recognize seduction when I see it?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "I don't know what—"
"The way you bend. The leg crossing. The lip thing." His laugh is harsh, humorless. "You're working through a checklist. Probably worked on men before. But here's the thing, Miss Valenti."
He leans forward, and for one insane second, I think he might grab me.
"It's a pathetic attempt."
The word lands like a slap.
"Watching you debase yourself for a grade you could earn with actual work?" He returns to his chair, dismissing me entirely. "It's embarrassing for both of us."
"I should go."
"You should. And next time—if you come back—dress like a student, not a walking daddy issue. I'll have Liv schedule it. She seems invested in your academic success."
"Why would I come back after this?"
"Because despite this pathetic display, you're not actually stupid."
At the door, I turn. "You felt something. I saw it."
"What I felt was disappointment." But his voice catches, just slightly. "Goodbye, Miss Valenti."
The hallway feels arctic. My phone buzzes—Liv invites me to Friday's party at the club—but all I hear is that word. Pathetic.
Except…
Except for how he needed to put a whole desk between us like I was radioactive.
Men don't run from things they don't want. They run from things they want too much.
Every man breaks eventually. Victor Larsen is no different.
I have time until midterms to either salvage my GPA or perfect the kind of seduction that makes middle-aged professors forget their principles.
Guess which one I'm actually good at, Professor.