Marcus stood in front of Dr. Tisha Wells in her office, his stance loose but charged, his eyes gleaming with the untouchable confidence only a Steele could wear.
Tisha didn't budge. Her auburn hair caught the sunlight spilling through the blinds, her posture rigid, her voice sharp enough to slice through his arrogance.
"Marcus, this has to stop," she said. Her voice carried a low, controlled purr, but beneath it, steel. "Your temper, these fights... it's reckless. More than that, it's a liability. Are you really so eager to get yourself expelled?"
Her words didn't land the way she intended. He leaned forward, brash laughter spilling out like a dare. "Ms. Wells, I respect you, but I don't think you have what it takes to expel me. Nobody does. Not even the president." His smirk was practiced, perfected from years of knowing his father's shadow stretched further than any teacher's authority.
