Submission 101: Sold To My Professor

AVA’S POV

The lecture hall felt like a gladiator arena, and Professor Gabriel Thorne was the emperor deciding who lived or died. I watched from my seat in the middle row as he circled around Marcus, a sophomore who'd made the mistake of trying to answer his question about Victorian literature.

"So you believe," Professor Thorne said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade, "that Dickens wrote merely for entertainment?" His dark eyes fixed on the trembling student. "That his social commentary was... what did you call it... 'just background noise'?"

Marcus's face had gone completely white. His hands shook as he gripped his notebook. "I mean, I thought—"

"You thought." Professor Thorne's laugh was cold and sharp. "How refreshing. Though clearly not very effectively." He turned away from Marcus with brutal dismissal. "Perhaps next time you'll read the actual text instead of skimming SparkNotes."

The entire class seemed to hold its breath. Marcus looked like he might throw up or cry, maybe both. I felt sick watching it, but I couldn't look away. There was something almost hypnotic about the way Professor Thorne commanded the room, the way his perfectly tailored suit moved as he stalked between the rows of desks like a predator.

He was beautiful in the most dangerous way possible. Dark hair that looked like he'd run his fingers through it, sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, and those eyes that seemed to see straight through you. But it was his voice that really got to me – smooth and rich, even when he was destroying someone's confidence.

"Miss Moreau." His gaze landed on me like a spotlight, and my stomach dropped. "Since Mr. Patterson seems incapable of basic literary analysis, perhaps you can enlighten us about Dickens' true purpose in Hard Times."

My mouth went completely dry. Every eye in the lecture hall turned to me, but all I could focus on was Professor Thorne's intense stare. I could feel my cheeks burning as I tried to organize my thoughts.

"I think," I started, my voice coming out smaller than I wanted, "Dickens was trying to show how industrialization was crushing people's spirits. The way he describes Coketown, it's like this grey, lifeless place where—"

"You think." He stepped closer, and I caught a hint of his cologne – something expensive and masculine that made my brain short-circuit. "Miss Moreau, I don't teach you to think. I teach you to analyze, to dissect, to understand." His voice dropped lower, more intimate somehow, which only made it more terrifying. "Your surface-level observation about Coketown completely ignores the deeper philosophical implications of utilitarian doctrine versus human nature."

I felt like I was shrinking in my seat. "But the symbolism of the factory smoke—"

"Symbolism." He said the word like it tasted bad. "How pedestrian. You're scratching at paint when you should be examining the canvas itself." He moved away from me, but I could still feel the weight of his judgment. "See me after class, Miss Moreau. Perhaps we can discuss how to elevate your thinking beyond high school level."

The rest of the lecture passed in a blur. I barely heard anything he said about metaphorical frameworks or socioeconomic critique. All I could think about was how small he'd made me feel, how exposed and stupid.

But underneath that humiliation was something else, something that made me even more uncomfortable – a flutter of excitement at the thought of being alone with him.

When class finally ended, students rushed out like they were escaping a burning building. I packed my things slowly, dreading the conversation ahead. Sophie, my best friend and roommate, lingered by my desk.

"Holy shit, Ava," she whispered, glancing around to make sure Professor Thorne couldn't hear. "He totally destroyed you."

"Thanks for the reminder," I muttered, shoving my laptop into my bag.

"But did you see the way he looked at you?" Sophie's eyes were wide with excitement. "Like, he was really focused on you. That's not normal for him."

I looked over at Professor Thorne, who was gathering his papers at the podium. Even doing something as simple as organizing documents, he looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine. "He focuses on everyone he's about to humiliate."

"No, this was different." Sophie grabbed my arm. "God, he's so scary but so hot. Like, I know he'd probably make me cry, but part of me would enjoy it, you know?"

I did know, and that was the problem. There was something about Professor Thorne that made me feel completely off-balance.

When he looked at me, I felt invisible and exposed at the same time – like he could see right through me but didn't think I was worth really seeing.

"I have to talk to him," I said, my stomach churning.

"Good luck. Try not to let him completely destroy your soul." Sophie squeezed my shoulder and headed for the door.

I approached his desk like I was walking to my execution. He didn't look up from his papers, just said, "Office hours have ended, Miss Moreau. Make an appointment."

"But you said—"