Chapter 4: Extra Credit

Chapter 4: Extra Credit

Three years was a long time. Long enough for a high school romance to fade into a fond, sepia-toned memory. Nelson and I had drifted apart with the gentle inevitability of ships leaving a shared harbor for different oceans. There was no drama, no heartbreak. He went off to play college ball on a scholarship, a golden boy chasing a golden future. I, on the other hand, had thrown myself into the sterile, unforgiving world of pre-med. The breakup was amicable, a footnote in the story of my past.

But other ghosts were not so easily laid to rest. Michael’s message, that three-word summons from the void, had never been followed up. The silence that came after was more unnerving than the message itself, a constant, low-grade hum of anticipation beneath the surface of my new life. It left me in a state of suspended animation, forever waiting for the other shoe to drop. The memory of his lessons, however, had sunk deep into my bones, becoming a part of my DNA. He had taught me the language of unspoken desire, the subtle calculus of power. It was a language I had not needed to speak. Until now.

The crisis arrived in the form of an email with the subject line: Organic Chemistry Midterm Results. I opened it in the library, my breath catching in my throat. Forty-seven percent. The number stared back at me, a digital sneer. A C-minus in Organic Chemistry wasn't just a bad grade; it was a death sentence for a competitive medical school application. My meticulously planned future, the ambition that drove every waking moment, was balanced on a knife's edge.

Panic was a luxury I couldn't afford. Action was the only antidote. My target: Professor Alistair Davies.

Professor Davies was a campus legend, and not just for his notoriously difficult exams. He was in his late forties, with a mane of silver-streaked dark hair, a penchant for tweed jackets, and a charming, almost boyish smile that he deployed with strategic precision. He was the kind of professor students developed crushes on, mistaking his practiced charisma for genuine interest. I knew better. I had been tutored by an expert in the art of manipulative charm.

I found him during his office hours, his room on the fourth floor of the science building cluttered with molecular models and stacks of academic journals. He looked up as I entered, and that famous smile bloomed across his face.

"Miss Vance," he said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Come to contest a grade, I presume?"

"I was hoping to discuss it," I said, keeping my voice steady and professional. I sat in the chair opposite his desk, my posture perfect, my hands folded neatly in my lap. The good student. "I know my midterm performance was... subpar. I was hoping there might be an opportunity for extra credit. A research paper, perhaps? Anything to demonstrate my understanding of the material."

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. His eyes, a pale, washed-out blue, roamed over me, not with the intellectual assessment of a teacher, but with the leisurely appraisal of a connoisseur. It was a gaze I recognized. It stripped away the student and saw only the woman.

"A paper," he mused, tapping a finger against his lips. "An admirable suggestion. But a paper only demonstrates academic diligence. I'm more interested in... holistic dedication. A true passion for the subject."

The air in the small office shifted, growing thick with unspoken meaning. This was it. The pivot. My heart rate kicked up a notch, a familiar drumbeat of risk and anticipation.

"I am passionate about it, Professor," I said. "My entire future depends on this."

"Precisely," he said, his smile tightening at the corners. "The stakes are very high. And when the stakes are high, sometimes... conventional methods are insufficient." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, creating an illusion of conspiracy. "Some students, the truly ambitious ones, find more creative ways to show their commitment. Ways that go beyond the textbook."

The offer hung in the air between us, cloaked in just enough academic jargon to give him plausible deniability. Exploitation. Predatory. The words screamed in my mind, the appropriate, terrified response of any young woman in my position. But beneath the fear, something else stirred. A cold, clear-eyed calculation.

My mind flashed back to the confessional, to Michael's voice murmuring through the screen. God cannot forgive what the heart does not fully reveal. He hadn't wanted a simple recitation of sins; he had wanted a performance. He had wanted me to understand the transaction taking place—my vulnerability for his focused, obsessive attention. He had taught me that every interaction was a negotiation of power, and the person who understood the other's true desire held all the cards.

Professor Davies didn't desire my academic brilliance. He desired me. And I desired that A. The equation was brutally simple.

For a moment, I saw my life split into two paths. On one, I was the victim. I could stand up, righteously indignant, and walk out. I could report him, face the inevitable disbelief and victim-blaming, and almost certainly fail his class, derailing my dreams. On the other path... I wasn't a victim. I was a player.

I drew on the boldness Michael had forged in me. I let my posture soften, uncrossing my legs and leaning forward slightly, mirroring his conspiratorial pose. I let my gaze drop to his mouth for a fraction of a second before meeting his eyes again. It was a subtle, calculated shift, a signal that I understood the real language being spoken here.

"I see," I said, my voice dropping a half-octave, taking on a husky, confidential tone. "I suppose I'm a very creative student. And I'm certainly committed."

Surprise flickered in his pale eyes, quickly replaced by a predatory gleam. He had expected fear, hesitation, maybe tears. He hadn't expected a willing participant, let alone one who seemed to be taking control of the negotiation.

"Is that so?" he purred, the professor persona vanishing completely.

"My future as a doctor is the most important thing in the world to me," I said, my voice low and steady. I was no longer pleading. I was stating the terms of a contract. "I'm willing to do whatever it takes to protect it. I need an A in this class, Professor Davies." I let the silence hang for a moment. "What kind of... extra credit did you have in mind?"

The raw, undisguised hunger in his face was my answer. He had wanted to feel powerful, to hold my future in his hands. But by meeting his gaze, by naming my price and acknowledging the game, I had seized a different kind of power. This wasn't me surrendering to his desires. This was me leveraging his weakness to serve my ambition.

He scribbled his private cell number on a slip of paper and pushed it across the desk. "Let's discuss the syllabus... some evening this week. My treat."

I took the paper, my fingers closing around it. It felt like a key. "I'll be in touch," I said, standing up. I didn't scurry away. I walked out of his office with my head held high, the forty-seven percent on my midterm already feeling like a distant memory.

The hallway air felt cool on my flushed skin. There was no shame, no fear. There was only a cold, sharp, exhilarating thrill. It was the same dangerous electricity I'd felt with Michael, but with a profound difference. This time, I wasn't the one being seduced. I was the one using the seduction. I had stepped onto a new, morally ambiguous path, and discovered that the deadliest weapon in my arsenal wasn't my intellect, but my intimate understanding of the sins of men.