My heart slams against my ribs as I stand outside Dr. Valeria Kane’s office at 9:47 p.m. The hallway is empty. The whole building feels dead except for the faint glow under her door. I clutch the strap of my bag tighter, telling myself this is just extra tutoring. That’s what her email said: Come alone. We’ll discuss your failing grade… and how you can fix it.
I cheated on the midterm. Everyone does it, but she caught me. Red-handed. The evidence is probably already on her screen.
I knock once. Her voice slides through the wood like velvet over steel.
“Come in, Ava.”
I push the door open. Dr. Kane sits behind her heavy oak desk, legs crossed, black heels dangling. She’s in her late thirties, sharp cheekbones, dark hair pinned up with a few loose strands that make her look both elegant
