Page 143 of The Wrong Play

I wasn’t failing—at least, not at the moment. Sure, I had missed those classes in the beginning of the semester, but I was finally getting caught up. Or, I thought I was.

Something felt off.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to move, shutting my laptop and shoving it into my bag. It wasn’t like I had a choice. Ignoring it wouldn’t make it go away.

By the time I reached the Administration Office, my hands were ice cold, and my pulse was a drum in my ears.

I stepped inside, the scent of printer ink and too-strong coffee filling the space. The front desk attendant barely looked up before pointing to the office at the end of the hall.

“Dr. Morrison is expecting you,” she said.

I walked in on legs that didn’t feel like my own.

Dr. Morrison was already seated, her thin-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose as she sifted through a file. Her office was too neat, too sterile, the kind of space that gave bad news with a polite smile.

“Ms. St. James,” she greeted, gesturing toward the chair across from her desk. “Thank you for coming.”

I sat, gripping the armrests like they were my lifeline. “Is something wrong?”

She folded her hands over the file and sighed.

“There have been concerns raised about your academic performance this semester,” she said. “Particularly, your attendance early on.”

My stomach bottomed out.

“I know I missed a few classes at the start of the semester, but I’ve been keeping up?—”

Dr. Morrison lifted a perfectly manicured hand, silencing me. “Professor Westwood brought his concerns to our attention.”

Ice. Cold, unrelenting ice slid through my veins. I could barely hear her over the sound of blood roaring in my ears.

Callum.

He did this.

I forced myself to breathe, to school my face into something neutral, even as panic gripped me. “Concerns?” I asked, keeping my voice as steady as possible.

She sighed again, flipping open my file. “Professor Westwood informed us that you’ve been struggling in his class, and thatgiven your early semester absences, you’re at risk of falling behind.”

Every muscle in my body locked up.

Struggling? I wasn’t struggling in that class—at least not before Callum had taken it over.

But that wasn’t the point, was it?

The point was control.

The point was Callum making sure I couldn’t escape him.

I opened my mouth to protest, to explain that I was doing just fine, thatProfessor Westwoodwouldn’t know how I was doing because I’d literally had one class with him, but she was already continuing on, flipping a page in the file like my fate was a formality.

“We take our students’ academic success very seriously, Ms. St. James,” she said. “Which is why we’re implementing an academic intervention plan for you.”

My pulse thundered in my skull.

“What does that mean?” I asked, though I already knew.

Dr. Morrison adjusted her glasses. “It means we’ve arranged for Professor Westwood to tutor you privately, effective immediately.”

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