"I'm sorry too," he says quietly. "I should have noticed someone taking pictures that day at the hotel."
Grace lets out a small laugh—tired, but sincere.
"Who would've thought a stalker would be lurking around in a hotel lobby? That's like something out of a bad crime drama."
He chuckles with her, and for a moment, the heaviness between them lifts.
Then her tone softens. "Are you okay?"
It's a simple question, but it touches something in him.
"Yeah, I'm fine," he replies lightly even though inside, he isn't.
Because her voice—that gentle concern, that sincerity—it reaches deeper than it should. It settles somewhere unguarded. This isn't just about safety or professional boundaries anymore. There's something else beginning to grow beneath the surface of their words. Something quiet and warm and undeniable.
He feels it now, with clarity.
This call, this concern—it's not just about a rumor or a photograph. It's something more. A connection. A flickering bond that neither of them is ready to name, but both are beginning to feel.
"Okay then," Grace says, her voice softer now. "Have a great day, Professor."
She's the first to end the call. He hears it in her tone—not a desire to disconnect, but a quiet defense. A line she draws to keep herself from saying too much.
Julian stares at the phone, holding it against his ear a moment longer after the line goes dead.
He wants to say something else. Anything. Just to keep her a little longer.
But the moment has passed.
He slowly lowers the phone, the screen still lit with her number. No name—just digits.
A quiet breath escapes him. He hesitates.
Then, with slow deliberation, he taps
He types
As the name appears in his contacts, something in his chest softens. He hadn't saved her number before. He told himself it was to maintain boundaries. Professionalism.
But now, he knows the truth. Saving her name feels like acknowledging his deep feelings.
And a small, genuine smile curves his lips.
Back home by 10 a.m., Grace closes the front door behind her and leans against it for a brief second. The silence of the house wraps around her like a long-awaited blanket. There's no hum of conversation, no stares, no whispers. Just the muted hush of her own space.
She exhales, slow and shaky.
Finally alone.
For the first time since the photo went viral on the school community board, she feels a sliver of relief. No eyes watching her every move. No hushed comments trailing behind her. No phones pretending not to film.
Or am I just being too self-conscious? The thought slips in, bitter and familiar.
She sighs and drops her bag by the door. Without bothering to change, she walks straight to the sofa and throws herself onto it, limbs sprawled out like she's just returned from war. Maybe, in a way, she has.
That's when her phone vibrates.
She doesn't move right away. Just lets it buzz across the coffee table like a lazy insect.
Finally, she reaches out and glances at the screen.
Harry. Her brows knit slightly. How is he calling me right now? Isn't he in class?
She presses answer and lifts the phone to her ear.
"Harry," she says, her voice quieter than usual.
"Grace," he says immediately, concerns coming through his voice. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." She sits up slowly. "How did you call me now? Isn't class in session?"
"Oh—Professor Candice just stepped out to grab something from the office, so it's break time," he says. There's a pause. Then, his voice lowers. "Wait… are you not coming because of that…?" The way his voice stumbles, she can tell how cautiously he's treading.
"Yeah. It's because of that. I'm not ready to face… people yet. What a coward I am, huh?"
"No, Grace. You're not," he says quickly, too earnestly. "It's totally understandable. Anyone would feel the same."
She's quiet for a second, comforted more than she expected to be.
Then he adds, hesitating, "But… who would even take that kind of photo? Do you think someone's like… following you?"
His voice is careful, as if he's scared of the answer.
Grace closes her eyes and swallows. Maybe it's time she stops carrying this weight alone. Harry's been her friend since the beginning of her time at the school—reliable, kind, and always somehow there when it mattered.
"Yeah," she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "You got it. I've been followed by a strange guy. It's been a while now."
A stunned silence follows. Then she hears him inhale sharply.
"Wait… Grace—are you serious? That's—are you okay? Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want to involve you. I didn't want to cause unnecessary pressure. And… it's never been anything dangerous. Just texts, sometimes photos. No direct confrontation."
But even as she says it, she knows how thin that reassurance is.
"That doesn't make it okay," Harry says firmly. "You shouldn't have to deal with this alone." There's a pause. Then, "What's your home address?"
Grace blinks.
"What?"
"I'm picking you up in the morning before school. From now on. Every day."
She lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head.
"Harry, no. You don't need to do that—really—"
"I'm serious. I'm not going to school unless you give me your address."
She stares at the ceiling with a half-smile.
"Okay, okay," she says, giving in with a reluctant smile. "I'll text you the address. But I still think you're being overly dramatic."
"You're worth the drama," he replies, completely serious.
And just like that, her heart tugs.
Before she can say anything else, he adds, "Oh, Professor Candice is back. I'll call you again after class, okay? Wait—where are you right now?"
"Home," she says with a chuckle. "Don't worry. And focus on the class. I'll be fine."
"Fine doesn't mean safe—" he begins, but she hangs up first, smiling softly.
Grace stares at the screen. The call has ended.
For a moment, she sits there, phone resting in her palm. Then she murmurs to herself, "He's a really good person."
That's when her phone vibrates again.
Grace barely glances at it. But as soon as she sees the words
Her heart doesn't beat—it drops.
Like it just fell through the floorboards of her chest.
She knows. She doesn't even need to wonder.
It's him.
She stares at the screen for a second longer than she should, thumb hovering. She could ignore it. Let it ring. Pretend it never came.
But something in her—rage, defiance, exhaustion, maybe all three—pushes her thumb forward.
She presses
At first, there's nothing.
Just silence.
Thick, eerie silence—like a dark room with no windows.
"…Hello," she says at last, voice quiet and flat.
Then, suddenly, it begins.
That laugh.
That hideous, sticky, mocking laugh—the kind that snakes under your skin and clings there.
It's not just a sound—it's a presence. A mask without a face.
She recoils and jerks the phone away from her ear. Her fingers fumble slightly as she hits the speaker button, putting distance between herself and the sound.
She won't let that voice crawl any closer.
"So how was it?" The voice drips with amusement. "Did you have some fun?"
Grace narrows her eyes. The sheer boldness of it—the fake playfulness masking something rotten—it's revolting. But in a twisted way, it's almost comical.
"It was quite a show," she replies coolly, eyes fixed ahead. "But it's being handled."
"You think it's being handled?" The voice shifts, bitter and scornful. "All over the internet, Julian's name is being dragged through mud. His career, his respect—your reputation. And you're fine with that?" A pause. Then a mocking chuckle. "Good to know. Because I really wouldn't want you to suffer. That's not the point."
His words are laced with false sympathy—like poisoned honey.
But she doesn't flinch. Not anymore.
Grace leans against the counter, arms crossed. Her voice is steady, sharper now.
"Listen carefully. You've already played your biggest card. The photos, the rumors—you threw it all out there. You think you're in control, but now… you've got nothing left. You burned your leverage."
Silence.
A longer one this time.
She can practically hear him calculating.
Then, with a new edge—lower, darker, colder voice comes. "You really think so… interesting. Because this isn't just about threats anymore, Grace. It's going to go further. Much further."
She smirks. Not out of amusement, but tired disdain. Her voice drops into something firm—final.
"All right. Good."
And without waiting for another word, she taps
The screen goes black.
And for a second, she just stands there—palms flat on the counter, head bowed.
She stares at the phone for another second, then gently places it down. Not throwing it. Not slamming it. Just laying it to rest.
He doesn't get her anger. Not today. Not anymore.
Her stomach rumbles, quiet but persistent. She looks up at the wall clock—nearly noon.