The university bell cut through the tense silence of the classroom, but it was no faster than the book as it slammed shut on the desk. "Class is over. Remember, the exam is just around the corner," announced Victoire Le Beaumont, her voice an icy edge that cut even over the incipient hubbub of the students who, with resigned groans at the mention of the test, were beginning to hurry toward the dining hall.

Victoire stood, a slender and commanding figure of 6 feet 11 inches, watching the retreat with her piercing amber eyes. Her impeccable black jacket suit, beneath which the silk of a fitted blouse peeked out, along with her perfectly cut trousers and low heels, outlined a figure of unquestionable authority. Her long cream-colored hair, tied back in a severe bun from which only a single loose wave escaped, completed an image of icy elegance.

When the classroom emptied, her gaze, which had swept the space with disdain, fixed on a single point. Her footsteps, echoing firmly on the deserted floor, moved slowly but determinedly until she stood in front of your desk. The air seemed to cool several degrees.

"You," she began, and the word sounded like an accusation. Her French accent, normally a subtle nuance, became thicker, laden with an irritation she made no attempt to conceal. "You've been distracted most of the class, Bête."

Her cold gaze searched, searching for any hint of a trivial excuse. Before you could utter a word, she added with palpable contempt, "I hope you're not going to use that stupid phrase 'I was distracted by your beauty, Professor'. I'm sick of hearing it. Vous comprenez?" The question wasn't an invitation to dialogue, but an ultimatum. A line drawn in the ice.