Chapter 27

A/N
Reading the whole course of story from Tiffany’s POV.

Tiffany’s POV

The gates of St. Vesprestan glistened under the early sun, and already the campus was buzzing. A new semester, a fresh crop of bright-eyed prodigies eager to impress. I’d been on faculty long enough to know how it always started: ambition in sharp suits, nerves hidden behind glossy smiles, students convinced they were about to conquer the world.

And then came her.

I didn’t see the car first. I heard it—the low, purring hum of an engine that had no business on an academic campus. A Mercedes Maybach, sleek and polished, sliding through the gates like a declaration. Heads turned, chatter spiked, and when the door opened, I caught my first glimpse of Avery Von Carter.

Yes, that Von Carter.

Her reputation had reached St. Vesprestan long before she set foot on the marble. A spoiled socialite. A tabloid darling. A girl who set fires just to watch the smoke rise. I had no interest in gossip—too much of it swirled around these halls already—but even I had heard her name murmured with a mix of fascination and disdain.

She stepped out like she owned the place. Heels striking the pavement as though it were a runway, hair tossed back in a deliberate flourish. I almost sighed aloud. Theatrics. On day one.

The students near the fountain reacted exactly as expected—whispers, giggles, phones discreetly raised. “That’s her,” one voice breathed. “The playgirl herself.”

Avery’s lips curved into a smirk, the kind that dared the world to judge her.

I told myself to keep walking. I had no business caring about one entitled heiress and the storm she brought with her. But before I could turn the corner, two girls descended upon her—Hale and Marrow, if my memory of enrollment was correct. Loud, dramatic, worshipping her as though she were royalty arriving to claim her throne.

The three of them moved through the courtyard like a scene choreographed for attention. Students parted around them, glances lingering, whispers growing louder. It was ridiculous. And yet, I couldn’t deny it: the girl knew how to command a stage.

I reminded myself, again, to look away.

But fate—or poor timing—intervened in the cafeteria.

❖

The air inside was thick with noise, the usual lunchtime chaos. I’d only intended to pass through, to grab something small before my afternoon lecture. Instead, I found myself colliding with—of course—her.

The impact jolted us both. A splash of hot liquid seared against fabric. My blouse, her blouse. Coffee.

Her eyes snapped to mine, sharp and indignant. For a heartbeat, I saw the legend they all whispered about: Avery Von Carter, chaos incarnate, ready to turn even an accident into scandal.

But I was not one of her admirers.

“Can’t you see where you’re going?” I said, my voice steady, clipped.

The words left my mouth before I thought about the audience. And suddenly, silence spread across the cafeteria like wildfire. Students turned in their seats, riveted.

Avery blinked at me, disbelief flashing across her features. “Excuse me? Did you just—”

“Yes,” I cut in smoothly. I wasn’t going to let her turn this into theater. “I said, can’t you see where you’re going?”

Her pride flared, visible in the stiff set of her shoulders, the curl of her lips. “You collided with me.”

I tilted my head. Calm. Deliberate. “Are you sure? Because as far as I remember, you were walking from the wrong side.”

And she had been. I’d watched her cut straight through the crowd like rules of movement did not apply to her. Typical.

Her jaw tightened. The Von Carter veneer cracked just a little. She didn’t like being corrected.

“So, are you going to say sorry, or what?” I asked.

Gasps fluttered through the room. Avery let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “I’m sorry, what? You spilled coffee on me—hot coffee—and you’re expecting me to apologize?”

I didn’t blink. “Very much.”

More murmurs. The crowd was eating this alive.

Avery’s voice rose, incredulous. “Are you serious?”

“Always,” I replied coolly. Then I glanced at my watch, at the exit. “But it’s fine. My time is too valuable to waste on you.”

I straightened, brushing off the incident, and gave her one last look—sharp, dismissive. “Say anything else, or just get lost.”

And I walked away.

❖

I didn’t look back, though I could hear the stunned silence behind me, the whispers starting to multiply. I didn’t need to see her face to know she was seething. Someone like Avery Von Carter wasn’t used to dismissal. She thrived on attention, on adoration, even on scandal—but indifference? That cut deeper than anything.

As I stepped into the corridor, I exhaled slowly. Perhaps I had been harsh. Perhaps I shouldn’t have provoked the campus’s most notorious arrival on her very first day.

But then again, I had seen something in her eyes. Not just arrogance. Not just pride. A hunger for reaction, a demand to be acknowledged.

And I had denied her that.

For better or worse, Avery Von Carter would remember me.

And though I would never admit it aloud, as I walked away, I felt it too—that strange pulse in my chest, the faint awareness that this girl was not just another spoiled heiress.

She was trouble.

The kind I should avoid.

The kind I already knew I wouldn’t.

The next day, when I stepped into my lecture hall, arranging notes with my usual composure.

I looked up, and there she was. Front row, leaning back like the seat was a throne, lips curved into that insufferable smirk.

I swear, in that moment, my heart skipped—not from delight but from the sheer recognition of impending chaos. The universe was laughing at me.

Her name rolled out during attendance: Avery Von Carter. Of course. The Von Carters—wealth that could buy cities, arrogance that could drown rivers.

I told myself she was just another student. Just another name on my roster. Just another fleeting inconvenience in a long line of entitled youth.

But from the first question she asked—half challenge, half curiosity—I knew she would not be fleeting.

Avery Von Carter had marked herself into my ordered life. And worse—my ordered heart.

❖

I didn’t realize then that this was only the beginning.
The first crack in the glass walls I had built around myself.
The first drop in the storm that would become Avery.

And though I still held my chin high, my voice sharp, my rules firm, somewhere deep inside me, I already feared it—
That this student, this reckless whirlwind, would undo me piece by piece.

❖

Order. That has always been my mantra. Each class I design, each lecture I deliver, every note I scribble in the margins of my plans—it all breathes structure. Students expect clarity, and clarity thrives under discipline.

But then there was Avery Von Carter.

From the very first lecture, she sat in the front row like she belonged there, like the world itself belonged to her. She was not the kind to slouch or to hide at the back with her phone glowing under the desk. No—she wanted me to notice her. And notice her I did, though not by choice.

When I asked a question, she would tilt her head, smile like a cat toying with a mouse, and then offer an answer that strayed dangerously close to arrogance.

And yet… her answers were sharp. Not perfect, not always disciplined, but they had an edge of brilliance wrapped in rebellion. That kind of mind—reckless, untamed, yet undeniably gifted—is the kind that can either transform or self-destruct.

I remember one afternoon when we were dissecting a passage from a text. My students were fumbling with interpretations, some sticking too close to the obvious, others hesitant to voice an opinion. Avery leaned forward, tapped her pen against the desk, and said in that careless drawl:

“Maybe the author isn’t talking about truth at all. Maybe they’re talking about survival. You know, bending words to fit where they don’t belong—like putting on a mask so no one sees the cracks.”

The room went silent. Every eye turned to her. Even mine.

I should have dismissed it, redirected the discussion back to safer territory. But instead, I found myself asking:

“And you believe survival requires masks, Miss Von Carter?”

She met my gaze—head tilted, lips tugging into a smirk that held something more than mischief. “Doesn’t everyone, Professor?”

That was the first time I felt the ground shift beneath me. Her words were too knowing, too personal, as if she was tugging on a thread I had carefully tucked away.

❖

Days stretched into weeks, and Avery became more than just a voice in class. She became a presence. A storm cloud that hovered, sometimes light with playful drizzle, sometimes heavy with thunder I could feel in my chest.

She had a habit of lingering after lectures, pretending to ask about assignments but really spinning conversations into something else entirely.

“Professor Rose,” she once began, leaning against my desk while I stacked papers, “do you ever get bored?”

I didn’t look up. “Of what?”

“Of being perfect.”

That word—perfect—stabbed deeper than I cared to admit. “Perfection is an illusion, Miss Von Carter. I suggest you aim for consistency instead.”

She laughed, low and teasing. “Consistency is boring. Perfection is unreachable. Sounds to me like you picked the harder poison.”

I tightened the stack of papers, refusing to rise to her bait. But she had already won, because hours later, her words still echoed in my mind.

❖

When the TA applications opened, I reviewed them with my usual meticulousness. Avery’s name leapt out at me, bold and unashamed.

Because her scores were screaming that let me be your TA and trouble you more.

Part of me wanted to deny her on principle. She was disruptive, reckless, unpredictable. But another part—traitorous and curious—wondered what would happen if I allowed her closer.

I told myself it was purely practical. Avery had a sharp mind beneath her theatrics. She could handle the work if she cared enough to focus. That was the excuse I whispered to myself when I signed her name onto the list.

But the truth?
The truth was, I wanted to see how far she would go.

❖

Her first week as my TA was chaos cloaked in charm. She would stroll into my office carrying the stack of graded papers like she had conquered an empire.

“Don’t worry, Professor,” she’d say with mock solemnity, “no student’s feelings were harmed in the making of these grades.”

I’d raise an eyebrow. “I hope you graded with accuracy, not theatrics.”

Her grin would widen. “Accuracy and theatrics. Best of both worlds.”

I should have scolded her. I should have reminded her of boundaries. Instead, I found myself biting back smiles, hiding amusement behind the shield of professionalism.

She noticed. Of course she noticed. Avery Von Carter always noticed.

❖

But beneath the banter, something else stirred.

I began to see her differently in quiet moments. When she thought no one was watching, her bravado slipped. Her eyes carried weight, shadows I recognized too well. She laughed loudly, but sometimes, after the laughter, there was silence too sharp to ignore.

Once, late in the evening, she lingered in my office while I finished notes. She was staring out the window, watching the campus glow under streetlamps.

“Why are you still here?” I asked, not looking up.

She shrugged. “Why are you?”

“I have work.”

“Same.”

I almost laughed at the lie. Avery did not stay for work. She stayed because she didn’t want to leave. And for reasons I refused to name, I didn’t push her out.

❖

The confrontation—the storm we both pretended wasn’t building—came sooner than I expected.

It began with the assignment I gave her. I thought the challenge would discipline her, ground her wild streak. Instead, she turned it into a performance—three days of obsessive effort, a presentation that carried more passion than I anticipated.

When she dropped the finished work on my desk, I skimmed it, expecting mediocrity. But what I found was brilliance wrapped in drama, sharp insight hidden behind flamboyance.

I looked up, and she was standing there with that dangerous smirk.

“Well?” she asked.

I let the corner of my lips twitch—just slightly. “Not terrible.”

She chuckled. “Admit it, Professor. You’re impressed.”

I leaned back, folding my arms. “You have a long way to go, Avery. Don’t be so eager to crown yourself genius.”

Her eyes flashed at the sound of her first name leaving my lips. And mine faltered for a heartbeat.

That was the beginning of the unraveling.

❖

I should stop here, but I can’t. There’s too much—too many memories, too many moments where banter danced too close to confessions.

Because Avery Von Carter was no longer just a student.
She had become my storm.

❖

“Avery Von Carters!”

The words tore from my throat before I had time to think.

The scene before me was chaos. Students ringed around like hungry spectators at an arena. And there, at the center—Avery. My TA. My storm. She was pinning Rozer to the ground, fists flying, her hair wild, her breath ragged. For one terrifying moment, I did not see the infuriating, arrogant, stubbornly brilliant student who haunted my office hours. I saw a creature burning alive in rage, ready to destroy and be destroyed.

And my heart froze.

The name left my lips again, sharper. “Avery!”

She stopped. Her fists hovered, trembling in the air. She looked up at me.

For a breathless instant, our eyes locked—and I wished she would understand everything I could not say aloud: stop before this ruins you. Stop before I lose you.

But before the message could land, Dean Fletcher appeared from the other side of the crowd, his face thunderous, his voice cutting. “I don’t expect this behavior from you, Avery.”

I felt the weight of his judgment fall squarely on her, not on Rozer—never on Rozer.

And then she stood, throwing him aside as if he were poison. Her chest heaved, her hands slick with blood—his and hers.

“He hit me first!” she protested, her voice fierce, raw. She pointed at Rozer, who clutched his ribs with theatrical agony and spat venom in the form of laughter.

“No, Dean, no Professor,” he whined. “She struck me. Because she’s a Von Carters, she thinks she can get away with it.”

The crowd murmured. Poison spread fast in groups like this. I could feel them shifting, doubting, already turning Avery into the villain.

My jaw tightened. I wanted to shout that he was lying. That I had seen his smirk, his taunts, his delight in provoking her. But before I could speak, Dean’s voice cut through:

“Violence has no place here.”

Then I saw it.

A slow, dark trickle down Avery’s neck.

Blood.

My stomach lurched. I stepped forward, but she touched the wound first, her fingers trembling as they came away red. I saw her swallow down dizziness, fighting to stay upright. That stubborn pride of hers—always refusing to bend, even when her body screamed otherwise.

And then Dean said it: “Ms. Rose, take Rozer and Avery to the nurse’s office.”

Rozer first. His name first.

I froze. Did he mean that order literally? Did he truly believe the victim here was him?

But protocol chained me. My reputation chained me. So I walked forward, my expression carefully neutral though my insides burned.

As I passed Avery, I forced out words I did not mean—words that nearly broke me even as I spoke them: “I didn’t expect this from you, Avery.”

Her eyes widened, a flicker of hurt so sharp it cut through my chest like glass.

And then—her whisper. Barely audible, but I heard it. “Ms. Rose…”

Before I could reach for her, her knees buckled.

She crumpled. The crowd gasped. My heart nearly leapt out of my chest. I rushed forward, but hands were already pulling at her, voices shouting—”She fainted!”

I snapped. “Move! Let her breathe!”

I dropped to her side. Her skin was pale, her lashes trembling, blood still matted at her hairline. My own hands shook as I steadied her head against my lap. I could feel dozens of eyes burning into me, whispering. And I hated it. Hated that even in her most vulnerable moment, the world saw scandal instead of suffering.

❖

The nurse’s office smelled of antiseptic, sharp and unforgiving. She lay on the bed, pale but alive. The bandage around her head was stark white against her dark hair. My chest ached as I watched her stir, her body restless even in unconsciousness—as though even in dreams she fought battles unseen.

When her lashes fluttered open, relief surged through me so violently I had to school my face back into calm. I couldn’t let her see. Couldn’t let anyone see.

“You gave us quite a scene today,” I said, my tone clipped, professional.

It was safer to be cold. Safer to be Professor Rose than Tiffany in that moment.

Her wince was subtle, but it stabbed me all the same. “I didn’t start it.”

God, the way her voice trembled with anger and hurt—I wanted to believe her instantly. I did believe her. But I couldn’t show it. Not when Dean Fletcher’s words still hung in the air, not when the entire school’s eyes were on us.

“That’s not what it looked like,” I replied, forcing the lie into my voice.

Her fury sparked. “Of course it didn’t. He made sure of that. He hit me first—you saw the blood, didn’t you? Or are you choosing not to?”

Her words pierced. Because yes—I had seen. I had seen everything. But what was I supposed to say? That I would take her side over the Dean’s, over protocol, over the whispers already tearing through the halls?

Instead, I hid behind the armor I wore so well. I talked of restraint. Of control. The things I myself had clung to for years to survive in this world.

But when she asked me, almost in a whisper—”Is that what you think too? That I’m just some spoiled Von Carters brat?”—my mask slipped.

“No,” I said, and it was the truest thing I had spoken all day.

But I didn’t say more. I couldn’t.

❖

The next morning, in the Dean’s office, I sat in silence as the power dynamics unfolded. The Von Carters entered the room and suddenly even Dean Fletcher shrank two sizes smaller.

I had faced senators and diplomats before in academic debates, but nothing compared to the sheer presence of her father. His words were daggers, his voice unyielding. And her mother—quiet but commanding, her gaze soft when it landed on Avery.

I wanted to tell them. I wanted to speak of the fire in their daughter, of how she had been provoked, how she had bled not just from fists but from injustice. But my role tethered me. Neutrality, composure, restraint.

When I finally spoke, my words were measured. “What I saw was both of them engaged. But… it was clear Rozer provoked it. Avery’s injury proves as much.”

Rozer spat back, but her father silenced him with a single word.

And then I watched, quietly, as her parents wrapped her in their authority and protection. Her father dealt in orders, in control. Her mother dealt in tenderness. And Avery—dear, reckless Avery—melted in her mother’s embrace, the armor falling from her for just a moment.

I looked away. It felt too intimate, too raw, too much for me to witness.

And then Dean Fletcher did the unthinkable. “Ms. Rose will oversee her online classes during her recovery.”

My head snapped toward him. “Dean—”

But he silenced me with a look.

And Avery—oh, Avery—smiled. Even through pain, even through bandages, even through the storm she had endured, she smiled at me.

It nearly unraveled me right there in that room.

Because in that smile I saw the truth I had been running from: she trusted me. Even when I had failed her, when I had said words meant to wound, when I had looked away instead of standing by her side—she still trusted me.

And it terrified me.

Because trust is fragile. And I already knew: if I let her too close, I would break it.