My Professor's Dirty Little Secret

Sloane Mercer POV

—

I adjusted the strap of my leather satchel and drew in a deep breath, trying to steady myself against the swirl of nerves and excitement in my chest. Haleton University wasn’t just another college; it was a crucible of intellect and prestige, a place where the best students from across the country came to test themselves, and to prove they belonged. I had spent my entire summer buried in literary theory, parsing postmodernist essays and rehearsing arguments that I hoped to voice in seminars, but nothing could have prepared me for the sheer scale of the campus.

The quad teemed with students, clusters of polished boots and designer bags moving with practiced confidence. I walked among them, boots clicking against the cobblestones, head high. I ignored the whispers and glances; I didn’t need their approval. Not yet.

Ahead, the lecture hall loomed, its arched doors and ivy-clad stone intimidating but thrilling. I slipped inside, scanning for a seat and immediately caught sight of him.

Dr. Dalton Avery.

He stood at the front of the room, dark hair falling just enough to shadow a brow, eyes sharp and calculating. His posture was impeccable, shoulders squared, every movement deliberate. I felt a small spark of something, challenge, maybe fascination, ignite in my chest. I slid into a seat near the back, keeping my posture casual, pretending to take notes, though my gaze kept flicking to him.

“Everyone is to call me ‘Professor Dalton.’ Dr. Avery is my father.” He stated

There was something in the way he commanded attention without raising his voice, the subtle precision of his movements. And then he looked at me. Just for a second, but long enough to make my pulse quicken. He was assessing me, measuring me. I smirked inwardly, feeling that familiar surge of thrill I got from a challenge.

This class was going to be different. I could feel it already.

As he moved into the lecture, I tried to focus on the syllabus, but my mind kept wandering. I noted the crispness of his voice, the meticulous choice of words, the way he didn’t just teach, he asserted control. It was intimidating, but I didn’t intend to back down. Not from him, not from anyone.

I adjusted my notebook, pretending to jot something down, though I wasn’t. I could feel my pulse racing, not from fear, but anticipation. There was something about him that promised a battle of wits, and I was ready to fight.

I felt his gaze linger a moment longer than necessary, sharp and deliberate. This class is going to be more than I bargained for… I thought, a thrill rising in my chest. Then, almost imperceptibly, I caught a faint smirk tug at his lips, as if he already knew the game that was about to begin.

I shifted in my seat as Professor Dalton began the lecture, trying to focus on the syllabus. I had spent hours preparing for this seminar, memorizing theories and arguments, yet there was an edge to him that I hadn’t anticipated. He spoke with precision, every word chosen to assert authority, every example a demonstration of his intellect. Most students might have nodded politely, accepting his interpretation without question. I, of course, was not most students.

My hand shot up before he could finish a particularly sweeping claim about postmodern narrative. “Excuse me,” I said, voice steady. “I don’t think you can completely dismiss authorial intent in this example. Doesn’t the author’s background still shape the reader’s interpretation?”

The room went quiet, tension suddenly thick. Dalton’s dark eyes flicked toward me, and for a moment, he seemed amused, until I continued.

“Reducing the argument to purely reader perception ignores context. I mean, if we strip the author entirely, aren’t we risking—” I paused, realizing too late I was building my case in full view of the class.

“Miss Mercer,” Dalton interrupted, his voice sharp now, cutting through the murmurs of the room. “You are allowed to challenge ideas, but please… do not mistake stubbornness for insight.”

I bristled. Stubbornness? I wasn’t stubborn, I was precise. And the faint annoyance in his tone only made me push harder.

“Respectfully,” I said, leaning forward slightly, “I think it’s a valid point. If we ignore context entirely, we risk misinterpreting the text. That seems… reductive, don’t you think?”

Dalton pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, measured exhale, his jaw tightening. “Miss Mercer,” he said, voice low and tense, “you may be intelligent, but confidence without restraint is dangerous. If you continue to interrupt or challenge without listening, I will have no choice but to mark your participation accordingly.”

My pulse quickened, not from fear but frustration. I wasn’t trying to antagonize him; I just refused to sit quietly. And yet, something in the way he stood, taut with control, suggested I might have pushed a line he did not appreciate.

Still, I couldn’t help myself. “With all due respect, Dr. Avery, I’m not here to… tiptoe around ideas. I’m here to discuss them. That’s what seminars are for, isn’t it?”

Dalton’s expression darkened slightly. His hands clenched the edges of the podium. “Discussion, yes,” he said, voice low and controlled, “but there is a difference between discussion and deliberate defiance. Remember that. And I am to be called Professor Dalton.”

I sat back, feeling a flash of irritation. Deliberate defiance? I’m just arguing my point. I could sense the tension in the room, in the slight tightness of his posture, in the faintly sharp tone he now used when addressing me. I didn’t back down. Instead, I scribbled notes furiously, trying to contain my impatience.

When the lecture ended, I grabbed my bag, the weight of unspoken conflict hanging between them. Some of my classmates avoided eye contact; others whispered quietly, clearly enjoying the spectacle of their duel. My own pulse thrummed in my chest, half frustration, half anticipation.

Dalton’s gaze landed on my as I moved to leave. “Miss Mercer,” he said, his tone cool but firm, carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of warning, “be in my office tomorrow afternoon. We need to… discuss your approach.”

I froze for a heartbeat. Discussion? I had no doubt it would be confrontational, maybe even uncomfortable. And yet, a stubborn part of me refused to shrink back. Fine, I thought. I’ll show him exactly why I’m not just another student.

—

I stormed down the crowded hallway, weaving between clusters of chattering students, but I didn’t slow my pace. My satchel felt heavier than usual, though I had only brought the bare minimum, just enough notebooks and pens to survive the first seminar. My mind, however, felt overloaded.

I clenched my jaw, replaying the lecture in my head. Dalton had been infuriating. Every time I thought I had made my point clearly, he had cut me off, not with reason, but with thinly veiled admonishment, a reminder of the hierarchy in the room. Hierarchy? I thought bitterly. I wasn’t trying to undermine him; I was trying to think critically.

My irritation boiled further as I remembered the last words he had spoken before dismissing the class: “Be in my office tomorrow afternoon. We need to discuss your approach.” The calm, measured tone only made my blood pressure spike. Discuss my approach? If by approach he meant my audacity to not sit silently while he mansplains, then yes, let’s discuss.

By the time I reached the dorms, I was practically muttering under my breath. My roommate, Lila, a cheerful junior who always managed to look impossibly put together, was sitting cross-legged on her bed, flipping through a stack of papers. I glanced up as I slammed the door, eyebrows raised.

“Whoa. Sounds like someone had a rough first day,” Lila said, eyebrow quirked.

I tossed my bag onto her bed, pacing. “Rough? Lila, he’s infuriating. Every time I open my mouth, he shuts me down. Not like a polite disagreement, like really shuts me down, like I’m a… a misbehaving child.”

Lila laughed softly, but I caught the undertone of amusement that felt just a little too knowing. “Sounds like you made quite an impression,” Lila teased.

I whirled toward her, eyes blazing. “Impression? Maybe. But it wasn’t a good one. He’s smug, condescending, and, oh, I don’t even know! He looks at me like I’m supposed to shrink in my seat. Like I’m some kind of… test he’s going to pass or fail!”

Lila smirked, holding up her hands. “Okay, okay, calm down. But admit it, there’s something about him, right?”

I groaned, running a hand through my hair. “I don’t know, Lila. I’m not saying anything like that.” I felt heat rise in my cheeks at the thought, more frustration than anything else. “All I know is… I hate feeling like I can’t get a word in. And he’s going to make me go to office hours tomorrow. Can you believe that?”

Lila tilted her head. “Well, maybe he’s trying to teach you something… like how to survive seminars with impossible professors.”

I snorted. “Survive? More like… I don’t know. Test my patience to the point where I either scream at him or storm out.” I flopped onto her bed, glaring at the ceiling. The thought of sitting in his office, alone with him, made my stomach tighten, not with excitement, but with annoyance and challenge. I hated being told what to do, and I hated feeling small in someone else’s presence.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I replayed the conversation again: my points, his interruptions, his tight jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes whenever I argued. The man clearly did not expect to be challenged, and yet here I was, more than willing to do exactly that.

My mind wandered, imagining how the office hours confrontation might go. I imagined myself leaning forward, pointing out inconsistencies, defending my arguments, refusing to cower. And then, half in irritation, half in spite, I imagined him growing frustrated, maybe even pissed off. The thought made a small part of me smirk despite myself.

I took a deep breath and muttered to no one in particular, “Fine. Office hours. Let’s see who really wins this… or at least who loses less.”

I sat back, letting the room spin a little with frustration and anticipation. My phone buzzed on the desk, an email notification from Haleton’s office hours system, confirming my appointment with Professor Dalton. My fingers hovered over the screen, tension coiling in my stomach. Tomorrow, I thought grimly, this is going to be a war.