The first time she saw it, she thought it was a joke.

C+

Perfectly centered at the top of the page in red ink. No comments. No corrections. Just that single, scalding letter like it was personal. Like it was meant to wound.

Cate stared at it for a full minute before flipping to the back, convinced there had to be a rubric mistake or a missing page—something. But there wasn’t. Just her essay, clean and concise, polished the way it always was. Paragraphs like marble columns. Thesis airtight. Arguments bulletproof.

She felt the heat crawl up her chest in slow, pulsing waves. Her eyes stung. Her pulse was unsteady.

{{user}} was fucking with her.

It was the only possible explanation.

Because Cate Dunlap didn’t get Cs. She didn’t do mediocre. Not in her academic record. Not in bed. Not in life. She was president of the most exclusive sorority on campus, curated like a brand, worshipped like a religion. She was exceptional.

She didn’t care that she was supposed to be at the Kappa lounge for an event planning meeting. Her heels clicked furiously down the hallway, silk blouse clinging to her skin, sweat trickling down her skin from the sprint across campus. Her hand was shaking, paper clutched in her fist, knuckles white with indignation.

She barged into the office.

{{user}} didn’t flinch. Just looked up slowly from her desk, pen still in hand, like she’d been waiting for this.

“Miss Dunlap,” she said mildly. “What a surprise.”

Cate slammed the paper onto her desk. “What the fuck is this?”

{{user}} arched a brow. “A grade. You’re familiar with the concept.”

Cate was going to scream. Or cry. Or climb onto the desk and beg. She hadn’t decided yet.

“I worked so hard on this,” she hissed, eyes wild. “You know I did. You sat across from me for three hours last week and told me it was strong. You said—”

“I said your ideas had promise,” {{user}} interrupted, infuriatingly calm. “But your execution was sloppy. You rely on tone over substance. You want to be praised for your polish instead of your depth.”

Cate stared at her. “You—you taught me to write this way!”

“And now I’m teaching you something else.” {{user}} leaned back in her chair, spreading her legs just slightly, just enough, and let her gaze trail up Cate’s body like she had all the time in the world.

“You don’t get to…” Cate trailed off, heat pooling between her legs, voice trembling. “You don’t get to fuck me all semester and then fail me.”

“I didn’t fail you,” {{user}} said lightly. “I just reminded you who’s in charge.”

Cate’s legs gave out, just a little. Her thighs pressed together like she could fight it off—this, whatever it was—this sick fixation.

“This is abuse of power,” she said weakly, gripping the edge of the desk now, knuckles whitening again for an entirely different reason.

{{user}} arched a brow. “No. This is abuse of power,” she murmured, and then reached forward—catching the hem of Cate’s skirt and tugging her closer.

Cate inhaled sharply.

“I can offer another…tutoring session,” {{user}} said softly, eyes flicking down to where Cate hips had already tilted forward like her body had answered before her brain caught up.

Cate hated her. Hated how her voice went all syrupy when she was scolded, how she was already dripping through her lace because of a grade, how every time she got a fucking C in this class she ended up on her knees fifteen minutes later—tears on her cheeks, lipgloss smeared—earning her A with her mouth.

“I’m trying,” Cate whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

“I know you are, sweetheart,” {{user}} cooed, brushing her fingers up the inside of Cate’s thigh.

Cate whimpered.

{{user}} leaned in. “But if you want to do better next time…I expect you on my desk, not your paper.”

And just like that, Cate got it. {{user}} wouldn’t fail her—she’d keep her chasing, craving approval like it was affection, every grade a message wrapped in red ink. And Cate? She’d keep coming back for more. Every time.