Chapter 11

Avery’s POV

The library clock ticked, a metronome measuring the silence in the vaulted room. Its hands inched forward, indifferent to the pulse of life outside.

I sat by the arched window, a leather-bound book—Keynesian Economics in the Modern Age—open before me, pages untouched. My eyes focused not on the theorems, but on the reflection in the polished glass.

The reflection was precise: a custom-tailored suit that cost more than most students’ annual tuition, dark hair styled with minimal effort, and a face that held the impassive mask of the heir. A name that echoed wealth, influence, and untouchable power across continents.

A name, I realized, that was not mine by soul, but by decree. I leaned back in the oak chair, fingers tracing the gilded edges of the book, thoughts wandering where they did when the silence gave me distance to breathe.

Avery Von Carter. Age twenty-four. A business heir in training.

A walking, breathing performance, crafted over two decades to be cold, perfect, and untouchable. That was who they saw. That was who I had to be.

Strong. Stoic. Unshakable. A figure sculpted not by talent, but by generations of wealth, dressed in an aura of power so intimidating that no one dared question what lay beneath the armor.

But beneath it… I was not sure who I was. The question was a constant thrumming in my subconscious.

They say our family is strong. They speak of our endurance, our pursuit of domination.

But I wondered—are we strong by money alone, by the security of our capital, or are we strong by heart? Does the bloodline carry courage, or merely cunning?

I pressed my lips together, a line of tension across my jaw, and looked away from the reflection. That question haunted me more than I would admit.

At the university, my presence carried gravity. Students whispered when I entered a room; the noise level dipped.

Professors measured their words when I raised a questioning brow. It was not respect—it was fear, tinted with envy.

They knew me not as Avery, a student with aspirations, but as the golden problem. And what was I known for? Money.

My parents’ money. The fast cars I did not choose, the tailored suits I did not sew, the exclusive events I did not care to attend but had to, for the sake of maintaining the family image.

That was my inheritance: a name, polished like a diamond, one I was tasked to carry without letting it slip into the dust of ordinariness. I lived their version of “life to the fullest.”

Not through parties or wild indulgences—those did not interest me; they were transparent. My version of showing off was quieter. Subtler.

A calculated gesture, a dismissive glance, an untouchable demeanor that screamed of better things. It was enough to remind everyone that we operated on a plane above the rest.

And yet… there was another side of me. One no one knew.

Not my classmates. Not my friends, Elize or Victoria. Not even my parents, who would view it as treason.

An orphanage. A quiet place tucked away in the forgotten streets, far from the glass towers and manicured lawns my family owned.

A place where money was not a weapon or a symbol of division. A place where children laughed without knowing who I was, where they tugged at my hands without caring about designer brands or offshore bank accounts.

I set it up myself, though no one knew. I hired a caretaker to manage the daily needs, to keep it running with discretion.

Every weekend, when the world thought I was out enjoying a luxury retreat or networking at a closed-door event, I went there. I sat with the children.

I heard their simple stories. I played their absurd, joyful games. I shared meals prepared without silver cutlery.

That was the only place where my soul found peace. The mask felt unnecessary.

If my parents ever found out? They would dismiss it in a second.

Call it “a wasteful, sentimental indulgence.” They believed compassion did not build empires; they believed it led to weakness and bankruptcy.

They were wrong. But I knew I would never convince them.

So the orphanage remained my secret, my hidden, precious truth. Sometimes, I wondered how long I could keep living these two separate, mutually exclusive lives.

The heir by day, the anonymous guardian of the unwanted by weekend. And just as I thought I found a balance, a storm—a composed storm—entered my life.

Ms. Rose. I do not know her ultimate problem, but she looks at me as though she can see straight through the polished armor I wear.

As though she despises not just who I pretend to be, but the very DNA of who she thinks I am. Her eyes—sharp, impossible to ignore, and devoid of fear—follow me in the classroom.

Every word she throws my way drips with disdain. It is as if she made it her mission to remind me that I am not, in fact, invincible, not untouchable.

At first, I tried to laugh it off. Professors either adored or feared our family name; none had dared to dislike me.

But Ms. Rose was different. She did not flinch under my gaze.

She did not bend to my reputation. She simply hated me, without apology, with professionalism.

I was not prepared for that kind of focused antagonism. Still, I tell myself—it’s her problem, not mine.

I have enough on my plate. Finishing college, navigating petty professors, keeping up the family reputation.

And beyond that? My parents wait for me to step into their empire, to wear the cold, glittering crown they forged in steel and money.

That’s my life. That’s all of me.

But sometimes, when I’m alone in the quiet of the library, I wonder again. Who am I really?

The untouchable, ruthless heir? Or the woman who finds a desperate solace among orphans no one else cares about?

The massive door of the library opened, the sound breaking through my thoughts with a thud. Elize stepped in, her rebellious stride cutting through the quiet.

She spotted me, scanning the room, and walked over, dropping her leather bag on the table with a clatter. “There you are,” she said, brushing her blonde hair back from her face. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You disappeared after class.”

I gave her a weary smile. “Maybe I needed quiet time to appreciate the virtues of compound interest.”

She raised a skeptical brow, narrowing her eyes as she settled into the chair. “Quiet isn’t your brand, Avery. Not when you’re supposed to be the center of attention, commanding the universe. What’s the Von Carter heir doing hiding behind a book?”

I smirked, though the truth of her words made my chest tighten with guilt. “Maybe even the center of the universe needs a break from its own gravity.”

She tilted her head, studying my face with accuracy. “Something’s bothering you. Something more than a pop quiz. Spill. Did Father threaten to sell your private jet?”

I shook my head, forcing a dismissive tone. “Nothing worth mentioning. Just the usual.”

She did not believe me—I saw the disappointment of my evasion in her eyes. But she knew better than to push when the mask was in place.

She leaned back and stretched. “Fine. Just don’t let Ms. Rose get under your skin. She’s not worth the internal monologue, Ave. She’s just a frustrated academic with a penchant for severe suits.”

I froze, the name hitting me like a wave, before masking it with a shrug. “Who said she’s on my mind? I was thinking about the price of nickel futures.”

Elize smirked, a triumphant glimmer in her eye. “Oh, come on. Everyone sees it. The way she singles you out in class. The way you… react. It’s better than reality television, darling.”

“I don’t react,” I said, perhaps too quickly.

“Sure,” Elize said, her grin widening. “Keep telling yourself that when you’re arguing with her with your blood pressure at two hundred.”

I sighed, shaking my head, trying to brush the subject off. But deep inside, the storm churned, gathering force.

Ms. Rose. The orphanage. My parents’ sprawling, suffocating empire.

Three weights, pulling me in three incompatible directions. And me, sitting here, pretending to be untouchable when in reality, I was not sure how much longer I could carry it all without splintering.

The clock chimed the hour, a distant melody, and Elize, checking her watch, gathered her bag. “Duty calls. I’m meeting David for coffee. Try not to spontaneously combust with resentment before I get back.”

She left with a wave. I remained by the window, staring at my reflection.

The heir. The mask.

I whispered to myself, so quiet no one else in the hall could hear: “This is me. Avery Von Carter. Heir to the richest family. Known for my money, not my heart. Living a life that isn’t mine, and guarding a secret that no one will ever know.”

My reflection stared back, silent, unyielding, and alone.

❖

The morning sun spilled across the marble floors of the university halls, its brightness too harsh for the weight I carried in my chest. Normally, I would walk onto campus with swagger—the heir with her entourage, untouchable and untamed.

But today, every step dragged me closer to a dreaded appointment. The moment my eyes opened, the dread had sunk in, cold.

I could not shake it off. I replayed Ms. Rose’s unemotional words in my head:

“Tomorrow, you will have your results. Along with the announcement of the Teaching Assistant.”

My TA nightmare. Elize waited for me outside the class door, arms folded, her grin predatory. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Ave. One that specializes in financial projections.”

I ran a hand through my hair, the habit that gave away my anxiety. “It’s not a ghost. It’s worse. It’s the Ice Queen’s iron-fisted governance.”

“Oh please,” Elize teased, walking beside me as I pushed open the heavy oak door. “It’s just a test result. You’ll probably top it, and then…” She lowered her voice, “…you’ll be Ms. Rose’s shadow for the rest of the term, running her errands. Lucky you. Think of the networking.”

“Not lucky,” I snapped. I did not want the class overhearing my internal meltdown.

“You don’t get it, Elize. Her shadow is the last place I want to be. I’d rather be stuck in a cellar full of tax forms.”

Victoria, seated neatly near the middle row, looked up at us. She tilted her head, her voice smooth as silk, and infuriatingly logical. “Avery, if you really didn’t want to be her TA, then perhaps you should have done worse in the test. The solution was simple.”

“Thanks for that advice, Vic,” I muttered, sliding into the seat beside her with a defeated sigh.

Victoria’s lips curved into a smile—the kind that showed she found my predicament entertaining. “You can’t complain about the outcome when you’ve worked for it. You wanted to prove yourself to her, didn’t you? You didn’t throw the test like a brat.”

I did not answer. Because she was right.

Yesterday, I had poured myself into that test, driven by a determination to prove Ms. Rose wrong—to prove I was not a mediocrity hiding behind a trust fund. And now, the possibility of being rewarded for that effort felt like the cruelest of punishments.

The room buzzed with tension. Everyone whispered about the results; students bit their nails, others bounced their knees.

I leaned back, my stomach a knot of anxiety, praying: Not me. Please. Not me.

Anyone but me. And then—

Click. Click. Click.

The room fell silent. The sound of heels against tile was unmistakable. My heart muttered, then started to hammer against my ribs.

Ms. Rose entered. The same presence as always: tailored charcoal suit hugging her severe frame, dark hair pulled back, eyes sharp and unreadable.

Not a detail out of place. A monument to discipline.

She walked to the front, carrying a stack of papers. Her expression betrayed nothing—no triumph, no disappointment, no satisfaction.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice clipped, professional, and devoid of warmth.

The class murmured back, “Good morning, Ms. Rose.”

She placed the papers on the desk, straightened them with precision, and looked up. Her gaze swept the room, like a predator assessing territory before the hunt.

“As I told you yesterday,” she began, her tone a statement of fact, “the purpose of the test was not only to assess your knowledge but also to select one of you to work as my Teaching Assistant this term. I do not expect mediocrity. I do not expect excuses. I expect discipline, diligence, and the ability to deliver under pressure.”

Her words were knives, slicing through the silence. I shifted, my palms sweating.

Elize leaned closer, whispering, “Oh, this is going to be so much fun to watch.”

Ms. Rose continued, “I have graded your tests. The majority of you performed adequately. Some of you performed poorly, requiring review of the material. And one of you exceeded my expectations.”

The room held its breath. She picked up the papers and began calling out names, returning results.

Students shuffled forward, accepting their papers. Some looked relieved, others disappointed.

When my name came, her voice did not waver. “Avery Von Carter.”

My stomach flipped and twisted. I stood, every pair of eyes in the room burning into me as I walked to the front.

My heart pounded, an unwanted drumroll. She handed me my paper without a glance, her fingers brushing mine—cold, detached, impersonal.

I looked down. A perfect score. 100%.

My breath caught. For a split second, a fierce pride surged through me.

I had done it. I had achieved perfection.

Proof that I was not just some spoiled heir, proof that I could hold my own against the best, proof that the mind was as sharp as the tailored suits. But then reality came crashing back, cold and hard.

Perfect score. Which meant—

My throat dried. I walked back to my seat like a person walking to an execution, the paper feeling heavy, like a death warrant.

Elize glanced at my result and choked back laughter, slapping a hand over her mouth. “Oh, you are so screwed, Ave.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, slumping into my chair, my moment of pride obliterated by the irony of my fate.

Victoria leaned toward me, her voice soft, though her eyes gleamed with triumphant amusement. “Congratulations, Avery. You’ve just won the one thing you didn’t want. The very thing you fought against.”

Before I could respond, Ms. Rose spoke again, pulling the room’s attention back to her. “The results are clear. The highest scorer, by a significant margin, is Avery Von Carter.”

The air thickened. Every head snapped toward me.

Some whispered, some looked shocked, a few glared with envy and disbelief. My jaw clenched, a challenge in my posture.

“And therefore,” Ms. Rose said, her voice steady, unyielding, “Avery will be working as my Teaching Assistant for this term.”

The words struck like a final, devastating thunderbolt. Elize burst out laughing, unable to contain the joy of the absurdity.

“Oh, this is priceless! I need popcorn!” she whispered.

I wanted to sink into the ground, to disappear into the marble floor. My worst nightmare—conceived just two days ago—had unfolded in front of the entire class.

Ms. Rose, however, did not blink. She gathered her notes, unfazed by the eruption of whispers and stares.

“Now, class,” she began, picking up a piece of chalk and writing FDI – Foreign Direct Investment in bold, uncompromising letters across the blackboard, “when inflation rises, the cost of production also rises. This impacts investor confidence.”

The sound of chalk against board was like a blade being sharpened. Every stroke carried a weight, much like her words.

Ms. Rose continued, her tone shifting seamlessly into the academic. “Inflation discourages foreign investors because their returns depreciate in real terms. A country with unstable inflation rates will see volatile capital inflows—unreliable, unpredictable, and damaging in the long run.”

She turned, her eyes scanning the class, an innate challenge glimmering in them. For a fleeting moment, they rested directly on me, daring me to look away.

I met her gaze, raised an eyebrow, and offered a faint smirk, as if to say, Go on, impress me with the basics you know I already live. Her gaze lingered longer than necessary, a private exchange that spanned a second, before she snapped back to the lecture.

“For example,” she pressed, her voice gaining intensity, “if country A sees an inflation surge while country B maintains stability, investors will prefer to keep their capital in the country B market. Why? Because purchasing power is preserved there, while in country A, value erodes. Simple economics, yet devastating consequences.”

Pens scratched paper. Students nodded, taking notes.

But to me, it felt like she was not teaching the class—she was directing her entire intellectual arsenal at me, like arrows aimed to pierce through my assumed arrogance and indifference. And then, as the clock neared the end of the class, she set the chalk down, dusting her hands as though wiping away the lesson.

Her lips curved into the faintest smile, sharp as a blade, a smile of victory. Her eyes locked on me again, unwavering, absolute.

“Ms. Von Carter,” she announced, voice steady but cold, an iron command ringing through the room, “come to my office after this class. We have a lot to discuss about your Teaching Assistant duties.”

A nervous murmur rippled through the students. Some heads turned toward me, their faces a mixture of dread and morbid fascination.

She added, her tone laced with a chilling warning, “And I hope you are sincere with your responsibility. I do not tolerate negligence. My expectations are absolute, Ms. Carter.”

The audacity. The blatant, professional challenge to my character.

A scoff escaped me, quiet at first, a sound of contempt, but then I sat straighter, my voice rising with a controlled sharpness that silenced the room, overriding the buzz of her command.

“Don’t you know, Ms. Rose,” I said, each word dripping with venomous, unforgiving pride, “My family never disappoints? We are the essence of sincerity and ruthless efficiency.”

The room froze solid. Gasps echoed.

Elize, seated just behind me, muttered a low, horrified ‘Oh God, Ave…’ under her breath. I leaned forward, my glare piercing through the charged silence, throwing down the gauntlet.

“And I’ll make sure you never forget that. You will never find me lacking.”

The tension was palpable, a live wire stretched between us. Ms. Rose did not flinch.

Her eyes—those killing eyes—met mine with equal intensity, unfazed, cold, and dangerously steady. For a prolonged, silent moment, it felt like the whole class had vanished, and it was just the two of us, locked in a ferocious battle of wills.

Her lips curled into a smile, but it was the kind of smile that sent shivers—a smile of sheer, dark anticipation.

“We’ll see, Ms. Von Carter,” she replied, dangerously. “We’ll see how long that sincerity lasts under genuine pressure.”

The bell rang—a deafening, frantic noise that broke the spell.

No one moved. Everyone waited, eyes fixed on the scene to see if another spark would ignite a fire.

“Class dismissed,” she announced, her voice at a professional pitch. She picked up her bag, turned, and walked out.

Click. Click. Click.

Her heels echoed like the tolling of a bell. Each sound hammered the truth deeper into my core.

I was her TA.

Elize made a low, hysterical sound. “Avery Von Carter, Ms. Rose’s right-hand. I never thought I’d live to see the day. You’ve just signed up for seven levels of hell.”

“Laugh while you can,” I snapped. My voice lacked its usual venom.

I was shaken, preoccupied. Victoria leaned back in her seat, studying me with an unnerving calmness. “You wanted to prove her wrong. Now you’ll have your chance. Not as her student. But as her assistant. Consider it fate, Avery. A brilliant, unavoidable test.”

“Fate?” I echoed. “More like a curse disguised as an honor.”

No matter how much I tried to fight it, the truth remained. I would step into Ms. Rose’s professional world—not as just another student, but as her hand-picked TA.

I had no idea if I was walking into an opportunity to dismantle her notions of me… or straight into a prepared fire.

“Are you going?” Elize’s voice cut through my thoughts.

She fell into step beside me as I left the hall, her notebook clutched against her chest. Her blonde hair shimmered, but her eyes—mischievous as always—were fixed on me, waiting for the answer.

“Going where?” I asked, my voice flat, not looking at her. My focus was on the destination: Ms. Rose’s office.

“To Ms. Rose. TA duties,” she teased, drawing out the words with pleasure. “Don’t tell me you’re going to run errands for her? Avery Von Carter, the heir of the empire, reduced to photocopying papers and fetching coffee? The fall from grace is glorious!”

I shot her a lethal glare. “Watch it, Elize.”

She grinned. “Relax. I’m just saying… I’ve never seen anyone talk back to her like that. Half the class thought you would be expelled on the spot. Your father would have had a heart attack.”

“They thought wrong.” I maintained my pace, my strides long, driven by a need to get this confrontation over with.

“And what about her? She didn’t look shaken at all, Ave. You saw her eyes.”

Elize’s tone softened, a hint of worry creeping in. “She’s not like the others. You can’t scare her with money or a name. That was the point she made today, wasn’t it?”

I did not answer. I did not want to admit she was right.

I did not want to admit that the woman’s lack of reaction had been more rattling than any display of fury. When I reached Ms. Rose’s office—a discreet space at the end of a corridor—the door was open.

Papers were spread across her desk, a ceramic coffee mug steaming beside her laptop. She looked up as I entered, not surprised, not even acknowledging the effort it took for me to show up on time.

“You’re late, Ms. Carter,” she said, her tone flat, devoid of emotion.

I checked my complex wristwatch. “By forty-five seconds.”

Her lips curved into an unsettling smile, one that was not kindness. “By any seconds, it’s late.”

I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to challenge her tyranny. “What’s the task? Let’s not waste the next forty-five seconds.”

“You’ll be assisting with the research compilation for the FDI seminar next week,” she said, ignoring my barb, sliding a stack of heavy academic journals toward me. “Summaries, data tables, cross-referencing, and references. Accuracy matters, Ms. Carter. More than speed.”

I raised a skeptical brow, allowing a hint of disdain to color my voice. “You want me to play assistant and librarian? Surely your PhD program covered this work.”

Her gaze sharpened, cold as ice, pinning me in place. “I want you to be a Teaching Assistant. If you find the work beneath you, you are welcome to leave. But remember—”

She leaned forward, her eyes locking with mine, “—leaving would prove exactly what I said to the class about your sincerity towards your responsibility, or rather, your lack thereof. It would confirm the family arrogance is as superficial as I suspect.”

The challenge burned between us like a physical fire. I could not back down.

I pulled the chair back with a sharp scrape and sat, snatching the top journal from the stack. If she wanted to see what I could do, I would show her a level of focused effort she had not anticipated.

Hours passed. The library clock’s tick was replaced by the whir of the clock on her office wall.

I worked through stacks of data, case studies, and foreign investment reports. My pen scribbled notes; my laptop hummed with open spreadsheets and cross-referenced data.

It was not glamorous work. It was not even difficult in terms of intellectual complexity.

But it was tedious, repetitive, and designed to test patience and submission. She knew it.

Every so often, I felt her eyes on me, watching, gauging, like a predator studying prey, waiting for the first sign of fatigue or frustration. When I looked up, she was either writing in her own notebook or sipping her coffee, pretending not to notice me, composed.

At one point, unable to bear the silence and her observation, I broke the quiet. “Do you enjoy this, Ms. Rose?”

She looked up, her expression unchanging. “Enjoy what, Ms. Carter?”

“Watching me waste my time with… tables and citations. Watching me play the part of the obedient, dutiful student.”

Her lips curved, the barest hint of amusement. “I enjoy watching arrogance unravel, Avery. It’s an interesting sociological study.”

I chuckled, low and dark, shaking my head. “Careful, Ms. Rose. Arrogance is another word for confidence, and our family is known for ours. It’s the engine of our success.”

Her eyes did not waver, holding my gaze. “Confidence is earned through proven merit. Arrogance is borrowed from your family name. I’m waiting to see which one you possess under pressure.”

The words cut, sharper than I wanted to admit, hitting the nerve of my deepest insecurity. By evening, when the last journal was summarized, I pushed the files toward her with force.

“Done. Your FDI research is compiled.”

She picked up the stack, flipping through them, her face a blank canvas. The silence dragged, heavy, as she scanned, page after page, until she set them down, leaning back in her chair.

“Accurate,” she said, the single word a grudging admission.

I smirked, pushing my chair back, a sense of vindication in my chest. “Of course it is. I am a Von Carter.”

“But rushed,” she countered, her voice cutting through my pride.

My smirk faltered. “What?”

“You summarized, yes. You transcribed the data perfectly. But you didn’t analyze. You didn’t ask why the numbers trended that way, or why the reference was chosen. You didn’t think beyond the surface level of the assignment. Anyone with a basic degree could have done this—provided they had the time. It is a display of speed and diligence, Ms. Carter, but it is not excellence.”

My pride flared, a sudden, blinding heat. “I’m not anyone! I’m the best you’ve got!”

“Then prove it,” she shot back, her voice composed, yet her words were devastating knives. “Because right now, Ms. Carter, you are hiding behind speed and shortcuts. That’s not brilliance. That’s laziness masquerading as efficiency.”

I stood, the chair scraping against the floor, my hands braced on the desk, leaning into her space. “You’re wrong. I gave you exactly what you asked for.”

“Am I?” she asked, still seated, composed. “Or are you simply too used to people clapping for you no matter what you hand them, because they are intimidated by your name?”

The anger inside me burned, but beneath it, something colder, quieter, dangerous began to stir—a realization that she was attacking my character. I leaned further across her desk, my voice dropping, steady, laced with a promise.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Ms. Rose. You think you can break me? You think you can strip away my name and the power it represents?”

Her gaze was unwavering, meeting my intensity with an equal force. “Not strip it away, Avery. Test it. If it’s as strong as you claim, if your character is steel, it will survive. If it’s merely expensive veneer, it will shatter. I require the best, and I will accept nothing less.”

The silence between us was electric, charged, a perfect, agonizing tension. Finally, I straightened, my lips curling into a smirk that did not reach my eyes.

It was a promise, a threat, and a declaration of war. “Then get ready, Professor. Because I’ll pass your little tests, and all your future ones. And when I do, you’ll regret doubting my capability.”

For the first time, she smiled—not mocking, not cruel, but something else. A smile of recognition, maybe even satisfaction, as if I had finally said the correct lines in her impossible play.

“Good,” she said, leaning back. “That’s the Avery Von Carter I want to see. Now go. I will see you tomorrow.”

I stared at her, confused by the shift in her tone, confused by the satisfaction in her eyes, but I did not let the confusion show. Without another word, I grabbed my bag and walked out, the click of my own expensive shoes echoing as I left.

Outside, the evening air hit me like a cold wave. Students crossed the campus lawn, laughter spilling around me, but I walked through it like a ghost, my mind replaying every word, every look, every slight.

Something about her… unsettled me to my core. She was not afraid. She was not impressed. She was not bending like everyone else. She was demanding more than I thought I was capable of.

For the first time in a long time, I was not sure if I hated her for it—or if, in some cold, lonely corner of my heart, I had begun to respect her. But one thing was certain: this war between us was only beginning. Now, as her Teaching Assistant, I was voluntarily stepping onto the battlefield.