The university corridors were unusually quiet for a Thursday afternoon. The usual hum of idle chatter and the occasional slam of lockers were absent, swallowed by an uneasy silence that settled like fog over the building. All she could hear now was the rhythmic, crisp clack of her leather heels echoing off the polished linoleum. Each step she took sounded louder than the last, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Alexis Wood adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag, the weight of it grounding her as much as the thoughts whirling in her mind. Life had changed so rapidly.
Just two years ago, she had been in London—lecturing in old brick buildings, surrounded by drizzle, familiarity, and quiet sophistication. Now she found herself halfway across the world, navigating American academia, where smiles were broader, greetings louder, and ambition ever so hungry. The cultural shift had been seismic. But she had adapted. She always did.
Her published research had turned heads, her name had slipped into circles she once only admired from afar. Invitations to conferences, collaborations, and now a secure post at one of California's most reputable universities. She should have felt triumphant. Accomplished.
Instead, there was a persistent knot at the base of her spine. A whispering sense that something had gone off-kilter.
She stopped outside the lecture hall—room 2.14, Modern European Literature. The frosted glass in the door's top panel revealed vague silhouettes, the occasional flicker of a phone screen. Her grip on the doorknob tightened as she exhaled, slow and deliberate. No different than any other lecture.
Or so she told herself.
She opened the door.
"Good afternoon, class," she greeted, her voice poised, warm with just the right touch of authority.
Silence.
Dozens of eyes flicked upward. The rustle of shifting limbs. A few students sat upright quickly, but none offered a response. No returned greeting, no rustle of opening notebooks. Instead, the harsh blue glow of smartphones reflected off their faces like cold moonlight, some held low in laps, others bold and brazen on their desks.
The energy in the room was wrong. Not the sleepy apathy she was used to battling in late-afternoon lectures. This was heavier. Unspoken. Tense.
She stepped forward, long strands of red hair cascading down her back in gentle waves, catching the glint of the fluorescent lights. It reached the middle of her back, vibrant and striking—unmistakably hers. Alexis was tall, standing at five feet seven, with a poised elegance in her gait. Years of self-discipline and a quiet love for morning runs gave her a modelesque figure—long legs, slim waist, confident shoulders. She wore her usual style today: a tailored pencil skirt and a crisp, ivory blouse that complimented her figure without inviting the wrong kind of attention.
Not that it helped much.
Ever since she began teaching here, she had gathered her share of admirers among the student body. Some tried to mask it with polite curiosity. Others less so—lingering glances, the occasional awkward compliment after class, or strategically choosing seats at the front just to be near her. She pretended not to notice most days. She had become an expert at ignoring what didn't serve her.
"Please keep your phones in your bags and put them on silent," she said, her tone cutting slightly sharper now.
No one moved. But a few exchanged glances. A whisper of smirks curved the corners of mouths. She walked steadily to the front, setting her lecture notes and file folders on the desk with more composure than she felt.
Then came the voice. Casual. Cutting.
"Miss Wood... we didn't know you were dating Coach Adams."
She froze.
Just for a second—but it was enough. A flicker in her step, a sharp intake of breath. Enough for them to know they'd hit a nerve.
The words slithered across the room like smoke. Her spine stiffened as the back of her neck prickled, the weight of thirty curious, entertained gazes anchoring her in place.
"That's... private information," she said calmly, turning toward them, eyes scanning for the speaker. "You shouldn't be concerning yourselves with your professors' personal lives."
A few students stifled chuckles. One boy in the back bit his knuckle to keep from laughing. Her jaw clenched imperceptibly.
"Maybe," a female student said airily, twirling her pen. "But everyone knows Coach Adams is married. With a kid. Someone posted pictures of the two of you on the university forum last night. Didn't you see them?"
The girl held up her phone for everyone to see.
Alexis didn't need to look. She already knew.
Still, as if compelled, her hand moved to the inside pocket of her blazer. She pulled out her phone, her thumb hesitating for a breathless moment before unlocking the screen.
Ten photos.
Different days. Different locations. All unmistakable.
A hand held too long. A kiss exchanged outside a faculty building. A laugh shared in the hallway that had looked private in the moment—but clearly, it hadn't been.
The photos weren't grainy. They were clear. Precise. Deliberate.
Her throat tightened as she scrolled through them. Her fingers trembled slightly, not from guilt, but from the shock of exposure. Someone had been watching. Following.
Judging.
The phone screen blurred momentarily, but she blinked quickly. Composed herself. She was still at the front of the classroom. She still had a lecture to deliver.
But something had shifted irreversibly.
The whisper of scandal had found her—and now, it had a voice.