Chapter 5 Collapse

# Chapter 5 — Collapse

I didn't sleep that night. How could I, after what had happened in the greenhouse? After what I'd said to him? The words had poured out of me like venom from a wound I hadn't realized was festering. But once spoken, they couldn't be taken back.

Dawn found me sitting on my windowsill, watching the campus come to life below. Students hurrying to early classes, maintenance workers emptying trash bins, the ordinary rhythm of university life continuing despite the storm raging inside me.

My phone buzzed with an email notification:

*Ms. Bennett,*

*Your presence is requested at the Student Conduct Office today at 2 PM regarding an ongoing investigation. Please confirm your attendance.*

*Regards,*

*Office of Student Affairs*

It was happening. The moment I'd been dreading since those blurry photos appeared on the forum. I replied with a simple "I'll be there," then tried to prepare myself for what was coming.

When I entered the main hall that morning, the usual buzz of conversation died. Eyes followed me as I made my way to my first class, whispers trailing in my wake like cigarette smoke. In Introduction to Philosophy, Professor Winters called on me twice—something he'd never done before—as if testing whether I deserved to be there.

During lunch break, I retreated to the library's fourth floor, where few students ventured. I found a quiet carrel between dusty stacks of medieval history texts and tried to eat my sandwich, though each bite tasted like sawdust.

"Hiding won't help, you know."

I looked up to find Lisa Chen standing there, arms crossed.

"I'm not hiding," I lied. "I'm studying."

"With no books open?" She sat down across from me uninvited. "The conduct board meeting has been moved up. They're already in session."

My heart sank. "How do you know?"

"My boyfriend texted me. They've been reviewing emails between you and Dr. Hale." She leaned forward. "And payments."

The envelope of cash. I'd never deposited it, but had he sent other transfers? Digital footprints I didn't know about?

"There's nothing to find," I said, with more confidence than I felt.

Lisa studied me for a long moment. "You know, I had him too. Last year."

"Who?"

"Dr. Hale." Her expression was unreadable. "For Advanced Ethical Theory. He's... intense, isn't he? The way he focuses on you when you're speaking, like you're the only person in the room."

A chill ran down my spine. "What are you saying?"

"Just that I understand the appeal." She stood up. "Good luck this afternoon. You're going to need it."

As she walked away, I couldn't shake the feeling that Lisa knew more than she was letting on. Had she also been one of his "special" students? One of his experiments?

At 1:45, I stood outside the Student Conduct Office, trying to steady my breathing. The hallway was deserted except for a middle-aged woman typing at a reception desk. She barely looked up when I entered.

"Callie Bennett? Take a seat. They'll call you when they're ready."

The waiting area had the sterile, impersonal feel of a doctor's office. Outdated magazines on coffee tables. Motivational posters about integrity and excellence. A clock that ticked too loudly.

At 2:10, the inner door opened. Dean Richards, a stern woman with silver-streaked hair pulled into a tight bun, gestured me inside.

"Ms. Bennett. Thank you for coming."

The room beyond was arranged like a courtroom in miniature. A panel of five people—three professors I didn't recognize, a student representative, and Dean Richards—sat behind a long table. A single chair faced them, exposed and vulnerable.

"Please state your name and student ID for the record," said one of the professors after I sat down.

I complied, my voice sounding small in the large room.

"Ms. Bennett, you're here as part of an investigation into potential violations of the university's code of conduct." Dean Richards adjusted her glasses. "Specifically, concerning your relationship with Dr. Quentin Hale."

"We've been reviewing evidence," continued another panelist, "including communications between you and Dr. Hale, financial records, and witness statements."

My mind raced. Witness statements? Who had been watching us?

"Before we proceed, I want to assure you that this panel's purpose is not punitive but investigative. We want to understand the nature of your interactions with Dr. Hale."

For the next hour, they questioned me relentlessly. Had Dr. Hale offered to improve my grades in exchange for companionship? Had he made inappropriate advances? Had money changed hands? Each question peeled back another layer of my privacy, exposed another facet of our complex relationship.

I tried to be honest without incriminating either of us. Yes, we'd had private tutoring sessions. No, there had been no explicit quid pro quo regarding grades. Yes, he had given me a book. No, I hadn't deposited any money from him.

"Ms. Bennett," said the student representative, speaking for the first time, "several witnesses have reported seeing you and Dr. Hale in... compromising situations. Including in the botanical garden greenhouse after hours. Do you deny these encounters?"

My face burned. "We met to discuss my academic progress."

"At midnight? In a locked facility?"

I had no good answer.

"We've also received this." Dean Richards slid a folder across the table. Inside was a printout of a bank transaction—$1,000 transferred from an account labeled "Q.H. Research Fund" to my student ID number with the memo line "Supplemental Instruction."

My blood ran cold. I'd never deposited his cash, never given him my account details. How had he done this?

"I didn't authorize this transfer," I said, my voice shaking.

"It was deposited directly to your student account three weeks ago," said one of the professors. "It appears to have been used to pay down your outstanding balance."

I remembered checking my account balance last month, finding it mysteriously lower than expected. I'd assumed the bursar's office had processed a payment from my student loan.

"Ms. Bennett, we're not here to judge you," Dean Richards said, her voice softening slightly. "We're concerned about a potential abuse of power. Dr. Hale holds authority over your academic future. Any relationship beyond the professional is inherently unbalanced."

"There is no relationship," I insisted, the lie bitter on my tongue.

The panel exchanged glances. They didn't believe me.

"Very well." Dean Richards gathered her papers. "The panel will continue its deliberations. In the meantime, you're to have no contact with Dr. Hale. Is that understood?"

I nodded, numb.

"You're dismissed."

I stumbled out of the office into the late afternoon sunlight, disoriented and raw. My phone buzzed in my pocket—a text from Jada:

*How did it go? I'm at the apartment if you need to talk.*

Instead of replying, I found myself walking toward the philosophy building, where I knew Dr. Hale's office was located. I needed answers. About the money. About Lisa Chen. About everything.

The department hallway was quiet, most faculty having left for the day. Dr. Hale's office door stood ajar, light spilling out. I hesitated, then pushed it open.

The office was in disarray—books piled haphazardly, desk drawers open, papers scattered. In the center of it all stood Quentin, placing items into a cardboard box.

He looked up, his expression shifting from surprise to something more complex when he saw me.

"Callie." My name was a sigh on his lips. "You shouldn't be here."

"They know," I said simply. "About the greenhouse. About the money."

He nodded, unsurprised. "I expected as much."

"Did you transfer money to my student account?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you wouldn't take the cash." He continued packing, not meeting my eyes. "And because I knew you were struggling to make your payments."

"So you just... decided for me? Without my consent?" Anger flared, hot and sudden. "That's exactly what I meant in the greenhouse. You're not helping me—you're controlling me."

Quentin finally stopped, turning to face me fully. "Is that really what you think? After everything?"

"I don't know what to think anymore! The panel showed me bank records, talked about witness statements. People have been watching us, Quentin. Taking pictures. And you knew—you knew and you still pursued this... whatever this is."

"I pursued you because I saw something in you worth pursuing." His voice was quiet but intense. "A mind that questions, that doesn't accept easy answers. A spirit strong enough to challenge me."

"Then why manipulate me? Why the mind games? The newspaper clipping about my father—"

"I made mistakes," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "I approached this like an academic exercise when it became... something more."

"What exactly did it become, Quentin? What am I to you?"

He moved closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "You're the first person in years who's made me feel something real. Something beyond the theoretical frameworks I hide behind."

Despite everything, my treacherous heart quickened at his words.

"The university has asked for my resignation," he continued. "Effective immediately."

The news shouldn't have shocked me, but it did. "Because of me?"

"Because of choices I made." He gestured to the half-packed office. "This isn't the first time I've crossed lines I shouldn't have crossed."

"Princeton," I said, remembering Jada's research.

He nodded. "A similar situation, though not identical. I was younger then, less careful. Less invested."

"And that makes it better? That I'm not your first ethics experiment gone wrong?"

Pain flashed across his face. "You were never an experiment, Callie. Never."

"Then what was I?"

"A wake-up call. A mirror showing me what I'd become." He reached for me, then seemed to think better of it, his hand falling back to his side. "You were right, in the greenhouse. About me trying to shape you, control you. It's what I do—what I've always done. Study people, understand their motivations, then use that knowledge to... direct them."

The admission hung between us, raw and honest in a way nothing between us had been before.

"I should hate you," I whispered.

"You probably should." A sad smile touched his lips. "But hate requires distance, and we've moved beyond that, haven't we?"

Before I could answer, footsteps sounded in the hallway. We both tensed.

"You need to go," Quentin said urgently. "If they find you here—"

"I know." I backed toward the door. "What will you do now?"

"Leave. Start over somewhere else. Write the book I've been avoiding." He handed me a small envelope. "This is for you. Don't open it now."

I took it, our fingers brushing. "Goodbye, Dr. Hale."

"Goodbye, Callie Bennett."

I slipped out of his office and hurried down the back stairwell, the envelope burning in my pocket. Outside, the campus was bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, students crossing the quad laughing and talking, oblivious to the collapse of my world.

In my apartment, I found Jada waiting with takeout and wine.

"You look like hell," she said by way of greeting. "That bad, huh?"

I nodded, dropping onto the couch beside her. "He's leaving. Resigning."

"Good." She poured wine into a mug—our version of sophistication. "He should. What he did was wrong, Cal."

"I know." And I did know, intellectually. But emotionally? That was a different story.

"You're better off without him," Jada continued, handing me the wine. "Focus on graduating. Moving forward."

I sipped the wine, letting its warmth spread through me. "Did you know about Lisa Chen? That she had history with him too?"

Jada frowned. "No. But I'm not surprised. Men like that have patterns."

We ate in companionable silence for a while, the familiar comfort of our friendship a balm to my raw nerves. Later, alone in my room, I finally opened Quentin's envelope.

Inside was an old lecture ticket, yellowed with age. On the back, in his precise handwriting:

*If you believe in love—real love, not the conditional, controlling version I offered—come find me when you're ready. When you've finished becoming who you're meant to be, not who I tried to make you.*

*Manhattan. Three years. If you still want answers then.*

I stared at the ticket through tears, then struck a match and held it to the corner. The paper caught quickly, flames consuming his words, his invitation, his promise. I watched until it was nothing but ash in my trash can, telling myself it was the right thing to do.

But as I lay in bed that night, watching the ceiling fan turn lazy circles above me, I couldn't ignore the truth: part of me had already decided to go. In three years, when I was stronger, when I'd finished my degree and found my own voice—I would find him.

Not because he'd conditioned me to. But because I needed to know if what existed between us could ever be real. If the connection I'd felt, despite everything, could be something more than a power game.

Three years. I could wait.