Dean Collins definitely does the AC thing on purpose.
I step through the doorway of his office, crossing my arms for warmth, glaring at the humming appliance above his head.
He doesn’t look up as I enter, just gestures to the same leather chair I sat in last time. It squeaks ominously as I lower myself into it.
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He closes the folder he was examining, then laces his fingers together and finally meets my gaze. “Miss Farrah. Thank you for coming in on short notice.”
I nod cautiously. “Of course.”
“I’ll get straight to it.” His tone is clipped, professional. “There have been some…concerns raised regarding the legitimacy of your re- engagement plan.”
I blink. “Why? I turned it in early. My advisor signed off. I already started tutoring. I’m toeing the line, doing everything I’m supposed to.”
“Yes, well,” he adjusts his glasses-“there are suspicions as to whether the plan you submitted was entirely your own work.”
My stomach twists. “I don’t understand. Are you saying I cheated? On a planning document?”
“I’m saying that this institution takes academic integrity very seriously.”
I stare at him, stunned. Is this seriously happening?
“I wrote it myself,” I say, slowly and clearly. “It was a simple plan. Not a thesis.”
Dean Collins tilts his head, the way a snake might before striking. “Be that as it may, a formal review has been requested. In the meantime, the committee has decided to suspend your scholarship.”
It’s like the floor drops out from under me.
“What?” I gasp. “You can’t just suspend it! There’s a process! There has to be a hearing or an investigation first, right?”
“Your enrollment remains active,” he says, like that should be a consolation prize. “But without the scholarship, you will be expected to pay the remaining balance on your tuition by the end of the month.”
I grip the arms of the leather chair tightly so I don’t fall into the gaping hole that is yawning wide underneath me.
My jaw tightens. “Who filed the complaint?”
His fingers press tightly together. “That’s…confidential.”
I scoff. “You’re not going to tell me who’s playing whack–a–mole with my academic future?”
“No one is-” He sighs. “Look, Miss Farrah. You were given a second chance after you disappeared and-”
“Yeah, because Nathan Ashford-”
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I lean back in the chair, suddenly very still.
“I don’t believe it,” I whisper.
Dean Collins frowns. “Believe what?”
A
I scoff incredulously, running a hand down my face. “It wasn’t Nathan this time, right?” I ask, shakily. “He’s not that petty and vindictive, he wouldn’t-”
Nathan isn’t petty and vindictive, but I know another Ashford who is.
“Miss Farrah, whatever you’re insinuating, I would caution you to tread carefully,” Dean Collins grits out.
I scoff. “How’d he do it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Have his father donate a new building? Equip a lab? Or was it just a wire transfer straight into your bank account?”
His nostrils flare. “Watch your tone.”
But I don’t. Not this time.
I fold my hands in my lap, mimicking his posture. “Tell me, Dean. Is this about me missing six weeks of class, about a re–engagement plan you know is authentic? Or is it about me daring to cross someone who could buy this school ten times over?”
His eyes narrow. “You’re spiraling into conspiracy. I’d advise you to take a step back and consider the optics of your behavior.”
Optics.
I almost laugh.
“You believe the world plays by the rules. That if you follow the law, tell the truth, shout loud enough, someone will listen. Someone will care,”
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, grounding myself, a little…confused about my feelings.
Because this should hurt. It should feel like the end of the world. But all I feel is…
Relief.
Because there’s nothing left tethering me to this place. Not the scholarship. Not the fear of disappointing the version of me who used to think that this school was her only way out.
Not the illusion that if I just worked hard enough, I could be something, I could break June and me out of poverty, and give us a remotely comfortable life.
“Let’s cut the bullshit, Dean Collins.”
His eyes flash. “Miss Farrah-
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“There isn’t going to be an investigation or a review. You’re going to drag things out for like a week or two and then tell me your hands are tied and whatnot.”
“Miss Farrah.”
“I’ll save you the trouble.” I lean forward. “I quit.”
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
I stand. “I. quit. I spent the last six weeks trapped in an Ashford charade. I refuse to be part of another one.”
Dean Collins glares up at me. “Miss Farrah, you can’t just quit your education.”
I give him a slow smile. “Give Lucas Ashford my love. Hope you at least got like a sports car out of it.”
His lips part ever so slightly, and his stunned gaze follows me out of the office.
As I step into the hallway, my chest feels oddly light, like I just set down a load I didn’t know I was carrying.
The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, and the wall is cool as I lean against it.
The empty hallway looks the same–but I’m not. I don’t belong here anymore. Maybe I never did.
My phone buzzes–a text from Lou.
June wants to know if we can have pizza for dinner tonight.
I smile as I text back: Of course. Tell her unlimited toppings.
Then I walk. Past the admin offices. Past the student union building. Past all the reminders of a life I tried so hard to hold together with bruised hands.
I call the financial office first, just to confirm.
Yes, my scholarship has been flagged. Yes, I have an outstanding balance. Yes, unless I pay, my courses will be dropped in ten business
days.
I hang up before they finish their carefully worded apologies.
I walk to the quad and stand in the center of it, looking around at all the students rushing to class, eyes down, earbuds in, world narrowed to their own bubbles of ambition and stress and urgency.
And I feel free.
I open my email and type with trembling fingers.
Subject: Program Withdrawal
Dear Student Support,
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Effective immediately, I am formally withdrawing from my program, B.s.c in Biomedical Science, in the Biological Sciences Division. Please process this request accordingly, and let me know what additional steps are required on my end.
Thank you for your assistance.
Best regards,
April L. Farrah
I hit send.
My phone pings within seconds. An automated response. My request has been received.
And just like that, I’m no longer a student.
At least, not at the University of Chicago.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
