Chapter 4 Love, Shame and Leverage

# Chapter 4 — Love, Shame and Leverage

Jada didn't come home all weekend. The apartment felt too quiet, too empty, leaving me alone with my thoughts and that damning photograph. I tried calling her twice, but each call went straight to voicemail.

By Monday morning, the scandal had evolved. Someone leaked that Dr. Hale was under formal investigation, and the ethics department had called an emergency meeting. I avoided the main quad, taking circuitous routes to my classes, but I couldn't escape the whispers that followed me.

"That's her—the one from Dr. Hale's class."

"I heard she's done this before with other professors."

"No wonder she can afford those shoes."

In my afternoon literature seminar, Professor Walsh called on me despite my hand not being raised.

"Ms. Bennett, your thoughts on the moral ambiguity in 'The Scarlet Letter'?"

The irony wasn't lost on me—or the class, judging by the snickers. I stumbled through an answer, my face burning.

After class, Lisa Chen caught up with me in the hallway.

"Don't let them get to you," she said, falling into step beside me. "They're just jealous they didn't think of it first."

"There's nothing to be jealous of," I insisted. "The rumors aren't true."

Lisa gave me a skeptical look. "Whatever you say. But just so you know, the ethics department isn't the only one investigating. Student conduct board is involved now."

My stomach dropped. "How do you know that?"

"My boyfriend's on the board. They're meeting tomorrow." She paused. "Look, I don't care what you did or didn't do with Dr. Hale. But if you did... just be careful what you tell them. Those boards aren't about justice—they're about protecting the university's reputation."

I nodded, grateful for the warning if not the implication.

When I finally returned to my apartment that evening, I found Jada packing a suitcase.

"You're moving out?" I asked, hovering in the doorway of her room.

She didn't look up. "Just for a while. Tyler's roommate is studying abroad this semester. He has the space."

"Jada, we need to talk about what's happening."

"Do we?" She finally met my gaze, her expression unreadable. "Because it seems like you've been keeping plenty of secrets."

I stepped into her room, closing the door behind me. "Did you send me that photograph? Are you J.L.?"

"What? No!" Her surprise seemed genuine. "What photograph?"

I retrieved it from my desk drawer and handed it to her. Jada studied it, her eyes widening.

"Jesus, Cal. This is... this looks bad."

"I know."

"Where did you get it?"

"Someone sent it to me. Signed J.L."

Jada shook her head. "Not me. But..." She hesitated. "There's something I need to tell you. I've been doing some digging. About Dr. Hale."

My defenses immediately rose. "Why?"

"Because you're my friend, and I was worried." She sat on her bed, patting the space beside her. "Did you know he taught at Princeton before coming here? Left suddenly in the middle of the semester two years ago."

I sat down cautiously. "So? Professors move around."

"They don't usually move from Ivy League to state schools without a reason." Jada pulled out her laptop. "I found this in their student newspaper archives."

The headline read: "Ethics Professor Departs Amid Controversy." The article was vague—something about "inappropriate academic relationships" and "mutual agreement to part ways."

"This doesn't prove anything," I said, but my voice lacked conviction.

"Cal, be honest with me. Is something going on between you two?"

I thought about our meetings, the money, the way he looked at me like he could see straight to my core. The newspaper clipping about my father.

"It's complicated," I finally admitted.

Jada sighed. "That's what people always say when they know something's wrong but don't want to admit it." She zipped her suitcase. "I'm here for you. But I can't watch you self-destruct."

After she left, the apartment felt even emptier than before. I tried to focus on my assignments, but my mind kept returning to Dr. Hale. To Quentin. I hadn't heard from him since our meeting in the stairwell, and his silence was deafening.

Just before midnight, my phone buzzed with a text from another unknown number:

*Campus botanical gardens. East greenhouse. 30 minutes.*

I knew I shouldn't go. Meeting him alone, at night, while under investigation—it was the definition of a bad idea. But I found myself pulling on a hoodie and slipping out into the darkness anyway.

The botanical gardens were technically closed, but the east gate's lock had been broken all semester. I slipped through, my phone's flashlight guiding me to the greenhouse. It was warm inside, humid, the air heavy with the scent of earth and growing things.

"I wasn't sure you'd come."

Quentin emerged from behind a large palm, dressed casually in jeans and a dark sweater—a far cry from his usual professional attire. He looked younger somehow, more vulnerable.

"I wasn't sure I would either," I admitted.

"Thank you for trusting me." He gestured to a stone bench. "Shall we?"

We sat, the moonlight filtering through the glass ceiling casting strange shadows across his face.

"The university has suspended me," he said without preamble. "Pending their investigation."

"I heard. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was inevitable, given the photographs." He studied me. "Have you been called in yet?"

I shook my head. "But Lisa Chen says the student conduct board is meeting tomorrow."

"Lisa Chen." He frowned. "Be careful around her. She's not what she seems."

"What do you mean?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "Not important right now. What's important is that we get our stories straight."

"Our stories?" I echoed. "Or the truth?"

A smile flickered across his face. "Ah, Callie. Always pushing. That's what I admire about you." He leaned closer. "The truth is subjective. You know that from my class."

"Not all truth."

"No? Let me ask you something. Why did you keep coming to our private sessions?"

The question caught me off guard. "Because... I needed to pass your class."

"Is that the only reason?" His eyes held mine. "Be honest, Callie. With yourself, if not with me."

Heat crept up my neck. "I was curious. About you. About why you were interested in me."

"And now? Are you still curious?"

"Yes," I whispered.

Quentin's hand found mine in the darkness. "I've been watching you since your first day in my class. The way you think, the questions you ask when you forget to be afraid—you're different. Special."

"Is that why you failed me? Three times?"

He didn't flinch at the accusation. "Yes."

"Why?"

"I needed to see if you would fight for what you wanted or simply accept what was handed to you." His thumb traced circles on my palm. "Most students just drop the class after the first failure. You kept coming back."

"I need the credit to graduate."

"Is that the only reason?" He echoed my earlier words with a knowing smile.

I couldn't lie—not to him, not here in the moonlight. "No."

"I failed you because I was waiting for you to stop regurgitating textbooks and start thinking for yourself. To grow into the person I knew you could be."

His admission should have angered me. Instead, I felt a strange sense of validation.

"And the money? The newspaper clipping about my father?"

Quentin's expression grew serious. "The money was a test. To see if you could be bought. The newspaper..." He hesitated. "That was to show you that I understood your motivations. Your father's death left you financially vulnerable. It shaped your choices."

"How did you even find that?"

"I make it my business to know my students. Especially the exceptional ones." He released my hand, reaching into his pocket. "There's something you should know. Something I should have told you sooner."

He pulled out a small leather-bound journal. "Before I came to this university, I worked as a consultant for several sugar dating platforms. I studied the psychology of power dynamics, attraction, economic exchange. My research was... controversial."

"You were studying girls like me," I said flatly. "We were your lab rats."

"No." His voice was firm. "I was studying the men. The ones who use their wealth as leverage. The ones who mistake economic power for moral superiority."

He handed me the journal. Inside were notes, observations, psychological profiles of wealthy men who used these platforms.

"I wanted to understand the ethics of commodified relationships. When money changes hands, does it automatically corrupt the connection? Or can there be authentic feeling, authentic choice, even within such frameworks?"

I closed the journal. "And what did you conclude?"

"That it depends entirely on the intentions of both parties. On honesty. On recognizing the power dynamic without being controlled by it."

"Is that what you've been doing with me? Some kind of experiment?"

Quentin moved closer, his knee touching mine. "No, Callie. What I've been doing with you is far more dangerous." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "I've been falling for you. Against my better judgment. Against every ethical principle I teach."

The confession hung between us, heavy and real. I should have been repulsed. I should have walked away. Instead, I found myself leaning toward him.

"This is wrong," I whispered, even as my body betrayed me.

"By whose standards?" His hand cupped my cheek. "Society's? The university's? Or yours?"

Tears welled in my eyes. "I don't know anymore. You've confused everything."

"That's the first step to real understanding." His thumb brushed away a tear. "Confusion before clarity."

"I'm not one of your experiments," I said, my voice breaking. "I'm not a case study in your journal."

"No," he agreed softly. "You're the variable I never accounted for. The one who changed the researcher instead of the other way around."

When he kissed me, it felt inevitable—like the conclusion to a theorem we'd been proving together for months. His lips were gentle but insistent, his hand tangling in my hair as he pulled me closer.

For one perfect moment, I forgot about the investigation, the photographs, the scandal. I forgot about everything except the feeling of his mouth on mine and the dizzying sense that I was finally, truly seen.

When we broke apart, I whispered the truth that had been building inside me:

"You're not in love with me, Quentin. You're in love with controlling me. With shaping me."

His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—recognition, perhaps. Or respect.

"Is that what you think?" he asked quietly.

"Yes. You don't want me—you want to drive me. To see how far I'll go, how much I'll change to please you." The words tumbled out, painful but necessary. "You're not teaching me ethics. You're teaching me obedience."

I stood, backing away from him. "You're not in love with me. You're driving me like I'm some experiment. You're not loving me...you're just conditioning me."

For the first time since I'd known him, Dr. Quentin Hale looked genuinely shaken.