“Sophie’s having a whole-ass relationship via text,” Cleo announces to Ayden.
“I am not-“
“Speaking of relationships,” Ayden perks up like a gossip-hungry golden retriever, “did you guys hear the latest Professor Lewis tea?”
Here we fucking go.
“Ugh, not you too,” I groaned.
“What ‘me too’?” Ayden grins. “I’m just saying Sarah from stats claims her roommate hooked up with some senior who swears Lewis has a whole Red Room of Pain situation.”
“Stop.” Cleo literally moans. “I can only get so wet.”
“You’re both disgusting.”
“I’m horny,” Cleo corrects. “There’s a difference. That man could read me the phone book and I’d come.”
“He’s our professor.”
“He’s also criminally hot. Those suits, that voice, the way he intellectually murders people…” She fans herself. “I’d let him give me detention any day.”
Private Room Service: What are you doing?
Me: Listening to my friends discuss our professor’s alleged sex dungeon.
Private Room Service: Interesting topic.
Me: Welcome to college. We gossip about everything.
Private Room Service: Including your professors’ personal lives?
Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t make me sound like a complete disaster, Ayden throws a pillow at me.
“That smile is definitely not nobody,” he says. “You look like you’re planning either an orgasm or a murder.”
“Why not both?” Cleo adds helpfully.
***
Walking into Professor Lewis’s lecture the next morning feels like entering a gladiator arena where the weapons are words and the casualties are GPAs.
I’ve actually done the reading this time, which in Lewis’s class is like bringing a knife to a nuclear war-better than nothing, but still probably insufficient.
The man himself stands at the front looking like he stepped out of a fucking magazine spread for “Professors Who Could Destroy You Academically and You’d Thank Them.” Charcoal suit, perfect hair, expression that suggests he’s mentally cataloguing everyone’s intellectual deficiencies.
His eyes find mine immediately.
Shit.
“Miss Hale.” His voice cuts through the room’s chatter like a scalpel. “Since you seemed so… engaged in personal matters during our last discussion, perhaps you’d like to redeem yourself today.”
Every head in the room swivels toward me. Great. Public execution it is.
“I’d love to,” I reply, matching his tone.
“Wonderful. Foucault’s disciplinary power. Modern surveillance state. Connect the dots.” His smile could freeze hell. “Take your time.”
I can feel the trap, but I dive in anyway. “Foucault argued that disciplinary power creates compliant subjects through surveillance and normalization. The panopticon model-constant potential observation controls behavior even without actual watching.”
“Adequate.” The dismissal stings. “But you’re missing nuance. Self-discipline’s role?”
“Self-discipline becomes internalized surveillance,” I continue, irritation building. “People police themselves based on perceived social expectations.”
“Better. Still surface-level.” His eyes never leave mine. “Contemporary applications?”
My face flushes. “Social media platforms function as digital panopticons. Users perform their lives for invisible audiences, creating voluntary surveillance that reinforces existing power structures while creating false illusions of freedom.”
“Marginally improved.” The condescension makes my jaw clench. “Perhaps less time on personal conversations, more time developing sophisticated analysis.”
Direct hit. The entire room watches this academic bloodbath unfold.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Professor,” I say, sarcasm dripping.
“See that you do. Class participation: thirty percent of your grade.” His smile is predatory. “Hate for you to disappoint yourself.”
As he turns to terrorize someone else, I sink into my seat, heart hammering.
Cleo leans over: “Holy shit, he just intellectually throat-fucked you in front of everyone.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re totally turned on right now.”
“I am not.”
“Your face is redder than my worst period, girl.”
“Miss Hale,” Lewis’s voice cuts across the room again. “Since you’re determined to continue disruptions, share your insights on voluntary servitude.”
I meet his gaze dead-on. “I was discussing how some people mistake control for competence, Professor. Fascinating psychological phenomenon.”
Something flickers across his face-almost like he’s fighting a smile. “Indeed, Miss Hale. Indeed.”
My life has officially split into two parallel universes of psychological warfare.
Universe One: Professor Lewis turning every lecture into my personal academic Hunger Games, complete with intellectual bloodsport and the kind of eye contact that makes me question whether clothes are actually necessary.
Universe Two: Mystery Man turning my phone into a confession booth where I apparently spill every dark thought I’ve ever had about wanting someone to take control of my perpetually responsible existence.
Tonight, I’m sprawled on my bed at 11:47 PM, staring at my phone like it holds the secrets to my rapidly unraveling sanity.
Private Room Service: You’ve been quiet tonight.
Me: Recovering from another day of academic humiliation.
Private Room Service: Your professor again?
Me: Yeah, he has this way of making me feel simultaneously stupid and turned on. It’s psychologically disturbing.
Private Room Service: Is it the authority that appeals to you, or the challenge?
I stare at the question, my pulse quickening. We’ve been dancing around this topic for weeks now, but tonight feels different. More direct. More dangerous.
Me: Both, probably. I spend my entire life being the responsible one, making decisions, taking care of everyone else. Sometimes I want someone else to be in control for once.
Private Room Service: What kind of control?
My fingers hover over the keyboard. This is territory I’ve only explored in the dark romance novels I hide on my Kindle, in the late-night fantasies that leave me breathless and slightly ashamed.
Me: The kind where I don’t have to think. Where someone else makes the decisions and I just… submit.
Private Room Service: Submit how?
Me: God, you really want me to spell it out?
Private Room Service: I want you to be honest. Complete honesty, or we stop here.
The ultimatum sends heat straight through my core. But also? Perfect opening. Time to see if Mr. Mysterious actually gives a shit or if I’m just convenient entertainment.
