Livia
My jaw dropped, like literally.
The silence in the lecture hall was so deafening
This was our lecturer? This entire time, while I was sitting three feet away from him, judging his expensive shoes and assuming he was some trust-fund brat who found his way to this school, he was actually the man in charge?
A wave of embarrassment hit me hard.
I had spent fifteen minutes eye-rolling his cologne and his "clean look," only to realize I was sitting next to Professor Sterling.
"I will be covering for Prof. Johnson, who is currently... unavailable," he continued.
His voice was smooth but had a hint that suggested he didn't tolerate nonsense.
"I expect everyone to continue taking this course seriously," he added, his gaze sweeping the room. "In fact, I will be significantly stricter regarding the quality of the work submitted. If you were looking for an easy credit, you are in the wrong room."
A low murmur began to spread through the hundred or so students. It was a mix of excitement and pure dread. Mr Sterling looked up with his cold, grey gaze, and the murmuring died instantly.
The next hour went by in a blur. Despite his intimidating presence, Mr. Sterling is, without a doubt, the most brilliant lecturer I have ever encountered in my three years of college. He didn't even read from slides like other lecturers did.
He broke down complex theories and rebuilt them using real-world examples. Even the most boring topics felt so interesting under his guidance. I found myself scribbling notes so fast my wrist ached.
The second the lecture ended, I dashed out of the hall to a quiet area. My heart was thumping against my ribs as i kept thinking about the $70 per hour. It had to be real. It had to be.
I dialed the number. Ring. Ring. Ring. Voicemail.
I tried again, my fingers shaking as I hit redial and still nothing.
"What if this really is just some kind of scam?" I muttered, and leaned my head on the cold brick wall.
Of course it was. Who pays a college student three hundred and five bucks a night to watch a child? I gave a short, dry laugh. I couldn't believe I actually fell for this joke.
Roxy still wasn't picking up her calls, and I was more or less done for the day. With no other choice, I headed home.
If only it was actually a home to look forward to.
**************
"What do you mean by you didn't get the job?" my aunt demanded. She stood in the kitchen, and looked really pissed.
"I don't know, Aunt. I just didn't get it," I said, trying to brush past her toward the basement stairs. I hated when she did this; when she dragged out every conversation.
"They don't just refuse to give you a job, Livia. There is always a reason," she stated, stepping into my path. She wasn't letting me go that easily.
"Aunt, please," I pleaded, "I promise I will get something soon. I have sent my CV to five more places today, and i am positive I will get a call soon".
"Really?" She crossed her arms and leaned back on the doorframe with a sneer. "You think you can get a decent job with a body like that? Look at you. You're taking up half the hallway just standing there."
Her words stung hard but I didn't flinch. I was already used to this daily dose of cruelty. I wasn't even "fat" by medical standards. The worst part was that these words was coming from the only family I had left.
"Just make sure you don't go sleeping around," she spat. "Because that's what girls with your body type do."
"Aunt, are you seriously saying..."
"I am saying pay your part of the rent and the utility bills soon, because the deadline is in three days," she snapped, cutting me off. "I already have too much on my plate, and I cannot afford to have yours in the mix."
She gave me one last long, disgusted glare and walked out.
I released the air I didn't know I was holding all this time, the moment I entered my room. I threw myself onto the bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling. A million thoughts raced through my mind at that moment, all at once.
Just then, my phone began to vibrate. I reached into my bag and pulled it out with a groan.
"Took you long enough," I said the moment I answered.
"I am so sorrrrrry, Livvvvvv!" Roxy's voice squealed through the speaker.
"What happened, Rox? I waited for you and even called ten times after class."
"Yeah... but something came up, you know?" She said, but didn't sound truthful.
I rolled my eyes. "Something? Or someone?"
"Okay fine! You got me okay. Well...Ryan came over and we... well, we got busy."
"I don't want the details, Roxy," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. "But wait, isn't Ryan your ex? The one who cheated on you with your cousin? What are you doing with him?"
"You know how he is, Liv. He apologized! He said he wasn't in his right mind. I truly believe he is changed."
"So you just forgave him? Just like that?" My anger flared. "Roxy, that guy is a professional liar. This is the third time he is 'changed' this year."
"I know... I just ....really love him, okay?" she whispered.
"And that's what gives him the power to hurt you.
There was a small pause. " I hate to see you get hurt."
"Don't worry about me, I'm fine! Plus, the sex is super gooooood," she squealed, her mood flipping back to manic in a heartbeat.
"And again, I don't want to hear it. Anyway, we have a new professor. His name is..."
"Hold up, Liv, Ryan is calling my other line. I will see you at school tomorrow, okay? Love you, bye!"
Click.
Great. Abandoned for a cheating ex.
Just as i was about to stand up to take a shower, my phone rings again. I didn't even look at the screen this time.
"Roxy, at least let me finish a sentence before you hang up next time!" I snapped.
"This is not Roxy," a deep, masculine voice responded.
My pulse raced as I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at the screen. It wasn't Roxy. It was a number I didn't recognize-the number from the flyer.
"Who... who is this?" I stammered.
"You called me at 3:00 PM today. Twice," the voice said. He sounded cold and disturbingly familiar.
"3:00 PM... oh. Yes. I, uh... I called about the babysitting advert?" I tried to sound professional, but it came out as a shaky question.
There was a long, agonizing pause on the other end. I could hear the faint sound of typing.
"Meet me at the High Flyers office tomorrow at 12:00 noon," he said. "Bring every form of identification you have. Do not be late."
Without another word, he hung up.
I stared at the screen for two full minutes, my mind spinning. The High Flyers office? That was the exclusive, restricted wing of the university reserved only for the most elite senior faculty and visiting dignitaries.
My blood ran cold as I realized why the voice sounded so familiar.
I looked down at my notes from earlier today, my eyes landing on the name I had underlined three times in thick black ink:
Professor Sterling.
