Standing on that stage. Being judged. Being rejected or worse, being won by some entitled asshole who thinks scholarship students are charity cases.
I think about texting my friends, but I don't really have friends. Not close ones. There's Ivy down the hall who I study with and good friend. Lennox from my morning shift at the café who's nice but busy with her own chaos. But no one I can call at 2:30 AM with this particular nightmare.
That's what happens when you work two jobs and study every free moment. No time for friendships that go beyond casual hellos.
I set my phone down and stare at the ceiling.
I could refuse. But refusing means risking my scholarship, going home, transferring to community college, watching my dreams of getting out, of building something better, disappear.
Or I could do it. Stand on the stage for one night. Smile for the cameras. Get through whatever date they arrange. Take the money and survive another month.
I've survived worse than one night of humiliation.
Thursday morning, I walk into the Victorian Literature seminar with my head high and my armor firmly in place.
The classroom is one of those old Thornhill spaces, dark wood paneling, high ceilings, narrow windows that make everything feel like you've stepped into a Gothic novel. Appropriate for the subject matter. I take my usual seat in the second row, close enough to show I'm engaged but not so close that I look desperate.
Students filter in, the usual crowd, mostly English majors and a few requirements-fulfilling business students who clearlydon't want to be here. I pull out my notebook and the absolutely destroyed copy ofJane EyreI've been rereading for this class.
"Nice book. Did you find it in a dumpster?"
I don't turn around. Don't have to.
"Did you come up with that one all by yourself, or did you have your daddy's PR team write it?" I bite back.
Sebastian slides into the seat directly behind me. Of course he does. The entire room is empty and he chooses to sit right there.
"Careful, Monroe. Your bitterness is showing."
"Careful, Thornhill. Your privilege is showing. Oh wait, that's all of you."
He laughs, low and infuriating. I feel it run down my spine like a warning.
Professor Hendrix enters, and I focus all my attention forward. The class begins. We're discussing Brontë's use of class dynamics inJane Eyre, which would be funny if it weren't so painfully ironic right now.
"Miss Monroe," Professor Hendrix says twenty minutes in. "Your thoughts on Jane's relationship with Rochester? The power imbalance?"
I sit up straighter. This is my element. "Jane maintains her agency despite the economic disparity. She refuses to be bought or kept. When she inherits money, she insists on equality before accepting him. Brontë's arguing that true partnership requires mutual respect, not transaction."
"Interesting." Professor Hendrix nods. "Mr. Thornhill? Your perspective?"
Behind me, Sebastian's voice is smooth as ever. "I'd argue Jane's agency is an illusion. She's economically dependent until the convenient inheritance. The power dynamic only shifts when she gains financial equality. Money is power, everything else is just romance novels lying to make us feel better."
Several students laugh. I feel my jaw clench.
"That's a cynical interpretation," I say without turning around.
"That's a realistic interpretation," he counters. "You can't have equality without equal footing. Jane needed money to have power. That's not romantic. That's economics."
"So love is just a transaction to you?"
"Isn't everything?"
I spin in my seat to glare at him. He's lounging in his chair, looking completely unbothered, a slight smirk on his stupidly perfect face.
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
His eyes flash with something, anger? Hurt? Before the smirk returns. "That's just reality, scholarship girl. Some of us live in the real world."
