The orientation dragged on longer than Elizabeth expected, full of headmasters with dry voices, rules that sounded more like threats, and overly enthusiastic student leaders talking about "tradition" and "academic excellence."
She tuned most of it out but then came the class assignments.
Amara nudged her hard. "C'mon. Let's get your schedule before these vultures beat you to it."
They slipped out of the auditorium ahead of the crowd, Amara expertly weaving through the chaos until they stopped at a long counter stacked with folders. A tired-looking admin glanced up.
"Name?"
"Elizabeth Whitmore," she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
The woman flipped through a box, found the folder, and handed it over without a word.
Amara snatched it before Elizabeth could open it. "Let's see what they've got you taking…" Her eyes scanned the list. "Advanced Lit, Contemporary Politics, Statistics, World History…" She paused. Then let out a low whistle. "Oooh. Honors Ethics. Professor Stone's class."
Elizabeth furrowed her brow. "What?"
Amara grinned like she'd just hit the gossip jackpot. "You just got the hottest and most terrifying professor in this entire school."
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "That's a thing?"
"Oh, babe. It's the thing. He's like, all brooding intensity and tragic backstory, rumor has it, he used to work in criminal law or something, but he doesn't talk about it. Cold as ice, sharp as hell"
Elizabeth rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress the small jolt of curiosity that sparked in her chest. She took the file from Amara and looked down at the list again.
Even his name sounded like trouble.
The next morning, Elizabeth woke to an empty room.
Amara was gone, her side of the room already made up.
"Great," she muttered, throwing the covers off and stumbling toward the closet. Her first day, and she was already behind.
She moved quickly, showered, dressed in the stiff Bridgerton Academy uniform (pleated skirt, navy blazer, tie too tight), and swiped on a bit of eyeliner. By the time she grabbed her bag and bolted out the door, she was two minutes late.
The halls were quieter than expected, the morning sun filtering in through tall windows that made the place feel more cathedral than school. Her boots clicked sharply as she walked, half-speeding through corridors until she reached the last room on the left: Room 3C – Honors Ethics.
She paused just outside the door, took a breath, and pushed it open.
The room was silent.
Thirty heads turned toward her as she stepped inside. All seated. All on time. Of course.
And at the front of the room, leaning one hand casually against the edge of the desk, was the man whose name had haunted the inside of her class schedule.
Professor Aiden Stone.
He was tall, dressed in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing veins and muscles that had no business belonging to a teacher. His dark hair was tousled like he hadn't bothered to tame it, and his jawline could probably cut glass. But it was his eyes that caught her, pale, cold, and piercing.
"You're late," he said simply, his voice deep and low like gravel smoothed by whiskey.
Elizabeth blinked, squared her shoulders. "Won't happen again."
"I should hope not," he said, stepping away from the desk. "Take a seat, Miss…?"
"Whitmore," she answered, eyes locked with his. "Elizabeth Whitmore."
He studied her for a beat too long. And just when the tension started to coil a little too tight, he turned away.
"Whitmore. Take a seat."
She did in the middle row, far enough back to keep her distance but close enough to see the fine lines at the corners of his mouth when he frowned.
She pulled out her notebook and tried to focus on the lecture.
But then he started talking, about morality, consequences, the weight of choice, and she was caught in his voice, the way his words cut clean through the room.
Elizabeth shifted in her seat, tugging at the collar of her uniform shirt. What the hell was wrong with her? This wasn't like her. She'd flirted, crushed, even fallen, but not like this.
She took out her phone and tried texting Brittany
Elizabeth
Tall. Broody. Sharp jaw. Sharp tongue. And the way he talks… I might be in trouble.
Brittany
Trouble how? 😏 what's going on Liz? I need details ASAP!
She was about to type back when..
"Miss Whitmore," Professor Stone said.
Shit! Her head snapped up. Busted.
"Since you're so engaged," he said coolly, "perhaps you can answer the next question."
He turned to the board, chalk in hand.
"New girls barely been here a day and is getting into profs bad books. Wouldn't expect less from brits" a blonde haired girl said making the rest of the class laugh.
Elizabeth's jaw tensed as laughter rippled through the room. She didn't even bother looking at the blonde girl, she already knew the type. Daddy's money, head of the cheer squad, mean just for the hell of it. The kind of girl who hated new competition.
Professor Stone's chalk stopped mid-sentence on the board. Silence fell like a dropped pin.
Then he turned around.
"I don't recall asking for commentary from the sidelines," he said, calm but razor-edged. "Miss Van Doren, if your focus is on classroom politics rather than course material, I'd be happy to assign you supplemental reading."
The blonde's smirk dropped. She slouched back in her seat, cheeks pink with embarrassment.
Elizabeth allowed herself a faint smirk.
Professor Stone's attention returned to her, unreadable. "Miss Whitmore?"
Right. The question.
Her gaze flicked to the board, then back to him. "You asked if morality is absolute or situational," she said evenly. "I think it depends who's writing the rules."
Something shifted in his eyes, barely noticeable, but there then the bell rang, slicing through the tension.
"Dismissed," he said.
She was halfway to the door when..
"Miss Whitmore. A moment, please."
She turned slowly, schooling her face into something calm, unaffected.
"Yes, Professor?"
Aiden Stone was standing behind his desk, one hand resting on the open textbook, the other casually in his pocket. He didn't motion for her to sit. He didn't smile.
"I don't tolerate distractions in my classroom," he said. "Or divided attention."
She blinked, then gave a short, sarcastic laugh. "Right. Because God forbid a girl sends a text in the middle of a lecture."
"I don't care who you think you are," he said, stepping out from behind his desk, slow and deliberate. "I care that you think you're above the rules just because your last name comes with a reputation."
She straightened her spine. "I didn't ask to be here."
"No," he said, stopping in front of her. "But you are. And since you are, you'll treat this school, and this classroom, with the respect it's due. Did I make myself clear?"
Their eyes locked, and for a long, breathless second, neither of them spoke.
He was too close.
Not close enough.
"I'll try not to ruin your sacred learning space," she muttered and left the classroom.