I have no clue why Dr. Vaughn wants to see me.

I’ve never taken a class with her. Hell, I’ve never even had a real conversation with the woman beyond polite hallway pleasantries. The most interaction we’ve had was her nodding when I held a door open for her last month.

Yet here I am, trailing behind her down the English department hallway like a lamb being led to slaughter, my stomach churning with anxiety.

“Dr. Vaughn?” I venture as we walk. “Can I ask what this is about?”

She doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t slow down. Just keeps walking with that precise, measured pace that makes me feel like I’m in trouble for something I can’t even identify.

“We’ll discuss it in my office,” she says, her voice carrying that particular academic authority that brooks no argument.

My fingers tighten around my bag strap. The silence stretches between us, thick and intentional, like she’s letting my unease marinate before whatever comes next.

How does she even know my full name? I’m not in any of her classes. I’ve never submitted work to any journals she might review. The more I think about it, the more wrong this feels.

Her office door bears a nameplate in elegant script: “Dr. Lisette Vaughn, Professor of Feminist Literature.” She pushes it open and steps aside, gesturing for me to enter first.

“After you, Miss Hale.” The formality sends a chill down my spine.

I step inside and immediately understand why Dr. Vaughn has a reputation for being intimidating. Her office doesn’t look like the typical professorial disaster zone of stacked papers and coffee-stained furniture. This is a power space.

Deep burgundy walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A mahogany desk that probably costs more than my tuition.

Two velvet armchairs that look like they belong in a Victorian mansion. Fresh white peonies in a crystal vase. The whole room smells like bergamot and expensive perfume with undertones of leather and old books.

It’s the office of someone who doesn’t just teach literature—she embodies it.

“Please, sit.” She gestures to one of the velvet chairs.

I perch on the edge, my back straight, every nerve ending on high alert. Dr. Vaughn settles behind her desk with the fluid grace of someone who’s never questioned her place in any room she enters.

Her red hair is pulled back in a perfect chignon, not a strand out of place. Her pale gray eyes, magnified slightly by thin-rimmed glasses, study me with surgical precision.

She folds her hands on the desk and leans forward slightly.

“So, Sophie Hale,” she begins, my name rolling off her tongue like she’s been practicing it. “Tell me about your plans after graduation.”

I blink, thrown off balance by the seemingly innocent question. “I… I’m sorry?”

“Your future. Your career aspirations. What drives you academically?”

“I…” I clear my throat, trying to find solid ground. “I still have over a year to figure that out. But I’m leaning toward something in literature. Maybe editing, or publishing. Possibly teaching eventually.”

“Teaching.” She nods slowly, like she’s filing that information away. “Following in the footsteps of your mentors?”

There’s something in her tone—a subtle sharpness that makes my stomach clench.

“I just think I’d be good at it,” I say carefully.

“I’m sure you would. You strike me as someone who learns quickly. Someone who… adapts to different teaching styles.”

Her pause is deliberate. Loaded. “Tell me, what do you think makes an effective teacher?”

My palms are sweating. “Someone who challenges their students. Who pushes them to think beyond their comfort zones.”

“And boundaries, Miss Hale? How important are those in the educational process?”

The question hits like a slap. My cheeks flush hot.

“Very important,” I manage.

“Are they?” She tilts her head, studying me like I’m a particularly interesting specimen. “Because in my experience, the most transformative learning happens when boundaries are… tested. When students discover parts of themselves they didn’t know existed.”

My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure she can hear it.

“Dr. Vaughn, I’m not sure I understand what we’re discussing.”

She smiles—a slow, knowing curve of her lips that doesn’t reach her eyes.

The words hit me like ice water. She knows. I don’t know how, I don’t know what she’s seen or heard, but she fucking knows.

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