Phei had walked in expecting a lecture on decorum, legacy responsibility, the sanctity of teenage hormones.
Instead: awkward silence.
The VP—an old-aged man who'd once suspended Phei for "insolence" when he was pressed by two Main Legacies—simply stared. Took in the unfairly handsome face, the calm unique eyes, the quiet confidence of a boy now bedding two untouchable princesses while rumors swirled that his step-cousin Delilah was Next in Line.
After a solid minute of existential buffering, the VP muttered, "You can go."
That was it.
The female teachers were worse.
They'd invent excuses—"Phei, could you stay after class? I have… concerns about your essay"—then sit him down and just… look. Minutes of silent appraisal. Drinking in his features like they were grading a particularly fine wine.
Eventually they'd snap out of it, mutter something incoherent, and wave him away.
