Page 3 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

I’m going to be his favorite student by the time the semester’s over.

Professor Hansen looks up from the lectern right as I slide into the room. His salt-and-pepper hair falls too far over his dark eyebrows and pale skin, but even though he looks disheveled, he’s all seriousness. His gaze holds no warmth, and he looks unimpressed from the instant his eyes land on me.

“Class begins promptly at nine a.m. If you arrive after that time, my door will be closed, and you will not be allowed toenter. Are we clear, Miss…” He looks down at a stapled stack of paper, likely searching for my name.

“Shae Rivers, sir,” I say, straightening my back as I stand at the doorway. “And it won’t happen again, Professor.” He doesn’t look at me the entire time I speak, and I’m unsure if I should move to a seat or wait for him to dismiss me or?—

“And you?” Professor Hansen says. “What’s your name?”

Determining I’m not the subject of his query, I look over my shoulder to see my helper right behind me.

“Sandoval,” he says, the bass of his voice echoing around the cavernous hall. “Storm Sandoval.”

Professor Hansen’s eyebrows shoot up, and I realize he can, in fact, portray another expression besides a scowl.

“StormSandoval. Any relation to Chuck Sandoval?”

Storm grins. “Yep, that’s my pops.”

Professor Hansen’s eyebrow flicks up before settling into a neutral position.

“I don’t have you on my roster for this class.” The professor takes off his wire-rimmed glasses and leans a hip against the lectern.

“Yeah,” Storm says with a shrug. “Just jumped in yesterday.”

He says this as if it were normal—as if the class had not been full fifteen minutes after registration opened last spring.

Looking back at him, I deduce why he’s able to pry his way into full classes. It’s clear he knows people.

Well, this’ll be fun.

Professor Hansen hums for a beat before sliding his pinched gaze in my direction, examining me.

“Sit. Let’s begin,” he commands.

I rush to the open seat at the front of the class, and I ignore Storm as he moves up a few steps to slide into a row near the top. This is an advanced course, a prerequisite for the graduate-levelprograms Asheford offers for its MBA, but it’s a surprisingly large class size.

About forty people fill the rows of tiered seats.

And not a brown face among them. Well, besides me and Storm Sandoval.

Shaking myself, I spin in my chair to focus on the digital whiteboard.

Professor Hansen stands at the lectern, tapping at the flat screen in front of him with the stylus to present to the class. In all caps, he writes:

ECONOMICS AND ETHICS

The professor underlines the phrase before looking up, his gaze sweeping over each student with a look that makes it clear he’s assessing us all.

“Economics is a field often viewed as numbers, statistics, and data points. But at its heart, it’s about people. And where there are people, there are ethics.”

He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in.

“Today, we’re going to start by discussing the intersection of economics and social responsibility. Some argue that pure market forces should dictate economic decisions, while others believe that government intervention is necessary to address social inequalities. What’s your opinion on public versus private on issues like clean water, housing, or healthcare access without intervention?”

Professor Hansen goes quiet, looking from student to student.

“Mr.Sandoval?” Professor Hansen acknowledges, and I stifle an eyeroll at the familiarity in his tone.

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