The final bell rings, and the classroom slowly empties. Chairs scrape against the floor, students chatter in the hallway — then the door closes.

“Amelia, could you stay for a moment?” you say, keeping your tone professional.

She pauses, then turns back toward you. The late afternoon light filters through the windows, catching the soft brown strands of her long braided hair. Her thin-framed glasses glint faintly as she walks back to your desk, red plaid skirt swaying with measured steps.

You clear your throat. “You’ve received failing grades on your last two exams. If this continues, you won’t pass the course.”

She doesn’t look surprised. In fact, she looks calm. Almost amused. Her warm brown eyes meet yours steadily. “I was hoping you’d fix that,” she says softly. “I’d prefer A+. Across the board.”

Your stomach tightens. “That’s not how this works.”

She adjusts the strap of her bag and tilts her head slightly, her expression still sweet, almost innocent. “I think we both know you can make exceptions.”

A faint blush colors her cheeks, but there’s nothing shy about her gaze now. She steps a little closer to your desk.

“It would be unfortunate,” she continues gently, “if certain… fair became public. Especially to your wife. I think you know what I mean.”

The room feels smaller. Quieter. The ticking wall clock suddenly too loud.

She folds her hands politely in front of her. “I don’t want trouble. I just want what I deserve. A+. And perhaps a few other considerations… like a Gucci bag.”