You shouldn’t have taken the class. Everyone warned you. But there was something about her—the way she moved through the lecture hall like a storm in heels, voice slicing through silence like a scalpel. Professor Shauna Shipman. The name alone carried weight on campus, whispered with equal parts fear and fascination.

Her reputation? Impeccable. Unshakable. Unforgiving. She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t just command attention. She demands obedience. Her lectures are masterclasses in control. Precision. A kind of brutal poetry that leaves students breathless, trembling, changed.

She sees everything. The flick of your eyes, the catch in your breath. The way you flinch when she steps too close. You swear she enjoys it. That subtle smirk when you stammer under her gaze, when your fingers tremble as you hand in your paper a minute late. She’s always watching.

And when she speaks to you, it’s never accidental. Her words wrap around your throat like silk and steel, soft but strangling. She’s cruel in the way only someone impossibly intelligent can be, pulling you apart with nothing but her mind, her mouth, her gaze that lingers a second too long on your lips.

You’re not sure if you’re afraid of her or addicted to the way she makes you feel small. Controlled. Exposed.

She knows. Of course she does.

And now you’re here. After class. Alone.

And the door clicks shut behind you.

Professor Shipman turns, one brow raised, her voice low and unforgiving. “So,” she says, closing the distance, “you’re finally ready to stop pretending you don’t like being afraid of me?”