Page 132 of The Wrong Play

Callum.

Standing at the front of the lecture hall like he belonged there. Like he hadn’t just stolen the air from my lungs.

The world around me tilted, my vision blurring at the edges. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t real.

But the room hadn’t changed. The lecture hall was still packed with students—laughing and murmuring, completely oblivious to the chaos ripping through me.

“Wait, who is that?” someone whispered from a few seats over.

“Why do we have a new professor halfway through the term?”

“Does anyone know anything about him?”

“Well, damn,” a girl behind me murmured. “If all historians looked like that, I might actually pay attention.”

A few quiet chuckles followed.

They didn’t know.

None of them had any idea.

They just saw a polished, well-dressed professor, standing with effortless confidence, sharp in his suit and refined in hisposture. They saw someone intelligent. Someone impressive. Someone who had stepped into this room like he owned it.

But me?

I saw a monster in a tailored suit.

Callum adjusted his cuffs, smoothed down his tie, exuding effortless confidence. His blue eyes swept over the room, casual, indifferent—until they landed on mine.

And he smiled.

A private little smirk.

Like a secret only we knew.

Like he hadn’t just destroyed me all over again.

I barely registered the students around me, I didn’t hear their murmurs or the scrape of chairs as people settled in. All I could hear was the blood roaring in my ears, the thunderous pound of my pulse. Every instinct in my body was screaming at me to get up and leave before he spoke another word. Before his voice wrapped around my throat like a noose.

But I couldn’t move.

I was paralyzed, locked in place as Callum took his time scanning the room. “Good afternoon, everyone. My name is Professor Callum Westwood,” he said, his voice settling over the lecture hall like dread incarnate. “I apologize for the sudden change in your syllabus, butIwill be filling in as your professor for the remainder of the semester. It is my hope that we’ll have an intellectually stimulating experience together.”

A few murmurs rippled through the students, but he continued, unbothered.

“I’m sure some of you have questions, but rather than waste time on introductions, let’s jump right in.”

Bile rose in my throat.

“History,” he began, his voice calm, deliberate, “is not simply a collection of dates and wars. It is a record of power—who seizes it, who wields it, and who is left in their wake.”

“You see,” he mused, locking eyes with me for just a fraction of a second before moving on. “Throughout history, there have been individuals who do not wait for permission to take what they desire. They do not waste time on trivial concerns like morality or rules set by those weaker than them.”

I curled my fingers into my palms, my nails biting into my skin.

“Consider Alexander the Great,” Callum continued, pacing in front of the room. “A man who carved an empire with hisbare hands. A man who didn’t stop because someone told him no. Who didn’t hesitate because an obstacle was in his way. He saw what he wanted. And he took it.”

A chill ran down my spine.

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