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My fingers curled over doorknob, but I made no move to go inside my office.
“I just don’t get why you don’t end things with her—”
A chair screeched, and the sound echoed down the hall. “Whitney Dahl is mine. She’ll be the housewife her parents promised me she’d be when we came to this arrangement. Her dad offered me a seat on the executive board of his company when we marry, and I’m not giving that up. I told her as much when I met her at the coffee shop today. If she thinks going to graduate school is going to stop us from getting married, she’s delusional.”
I almost let go of the knob and walked over to where the group of men was lingering but stopped myself. I gritted my teeth against the rush of fury I felt as they continued to talk about Whitney like she was just an object, something to be traded or sold.
What the hell was going on at this university?
The conversation moved on from Whitney and to the party I’d witnessed on my walk home the other night. More crude comments were exchanged, and I’d had enough.
I walked down the hallway and turned into the alcove. Four men were seated, and Christian leaned against one of the windows, his arms crossed over his chest.
He looked over at me. “What do you want?”
I tucked my hands in the pockets of my jacket and eyed him sternly. I’d known men like him. I’d gone to school with them and been stuck on research projects with them as well. Pompous, arrogant pricks who thought the world revolved around them.
Christian thought so, and based on what I knew about him and the fact he was supposed to be taking one of my entry-level classes this semester, despite his inability to show up for it, he likely used the fact his parents made massive donations to the university to his advantage.
I wouldn’t be swayed by money, and I sure as hell wouldn’t allow these kinds of conversations to continue. Especially when they were about Whitney.
“Get out of here, all of you.” I looked from man to man and waited. The seated men stood, smirking at each other as they grabbed their backpacks and shoved past me into the hallway. I didn’t so much as move.
Christian rolled his eyes, fixing me with a charming smile. “We’re allowed to study here.”
“You weren’t studying.”
Christian eyes settled on mine. “Who the hell do you think are?”
“I’m a professor here. You would’ve known that had you showed up to your Sociology 101 class yesterday, Christian Brockford.”
“Oh,” he laughed. “You’re Professor Ellis, huh? Should’ve known. You’re the talk of the campus, you know that? Everyone wants a piece of you.”
“Get out of my sight. If I see you and your friends here again doing anything less than studying the courses you signed up for, I will make sure to take this issue all the way to the chancellor.”
He stepped toward me, puffing out his chest. “What issue?”
“Whitney Dahl,” I said.
His eyes flashed with understanding ,and a cruel smile twisted over his face. He chuckled, looking me up and down, sizing me up. “Got a little crush, Professor? Look, you’re new here. You don’t know really know who I am. But I can do whatever the hell I want, and all you need to worry about is making sure I pass your class, okay?”
“That’s up to you,” I said calmly, giving him a soft smile. “It’s an easy one, Christian. You’re the only senior in the class, you know.”
His eyes blazed with sudden fury, mouth twitching at the corners with whatever unsaid words were trying to piece themselves into a coherent sentence in his miniscule brain. “You’ll be sorry if you mess with me.”
“You’ll be sorry if you fail my class.”
He narrowed his eyes, shoved past me, and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hallway until the receded out of earshot. I gave myself a minute to regain my composure before walking back to my office and closing myself inside. The snug room was all dark wood and old books with a desk in the center. I set my laptop bag on the desk and sat down in the chair, running my finger through my hair before taking my glasses off and setting the on the desk so I could rub my tired eyes.
I sat there with my head in my hands, my temples pounding, when a knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” I said. The door opened, and Dan Montague stepped inside.
“I’m not bothering you, am I?”
“No,” I breathed, leaning back in my chair.
Dan sat on a worn leather chair, pulled out a flask from his jacket pocket, and set his thermos on the desk. “Got a mug?”
