The lecture hall reeked of desperation. Not in the literal sense, but in the way hundreds of young adults hunched over their desks with caffeine breath and stress-slick brows, desperately clinging to some fantasy that this degree would save them. Among them, sat **Ananya Rhea**. Back row. Left corner. Hoodie half-zipped, dark brown eyes bored out of their mind.
She didn't belong here. Not really. Not mentally. Not emotionally. She was the girl who topped every exam, aced every paper, and yet, hated it all. She didn't study because she loved learning. She studied because she hated losing.
Born to a poor family that clung too tightly to culture and control, Ananya was used to fighting for space. Her father believed in discipline over affection, and her mother in silence over rebellion. The only way to escape was through success — and so she became a straight-A weapon. But inside? She was anything but obedient.
She didn't believe in fairy tales. Or love. Or the idea that someone would ever pick her for who she was beneath the GPA.
People saw her as the perfect student: oval face, thick brows, perfect lips with a tiny mole resting just above the left corner. Her skin glowed without makeup, her dark hair cascaded down like ink, and she had a second, less noticeable mole on the left side of her chin — a detail only the truly obsessed ever noticed. At 5'5, she was neither short nor tall, neither curvy nor thin — rectangular in build, but made stunning by presence alone. Her breasts filled out her fitted tees in a way that attracted attention, but her expression kept most of it at a distance.
Today she was especially bored. Another lecture. Another professor with a God complex.
Until the door opened.
And he walked in.
**Dr. Rael Valtor**.
Rumors had whispered through the university halls for weeks. A guest lecturer in forensic psychology. A man who was more shadow than scholar. Ten years older than her. A past that smelled of secrets. Sharp suits. Sharper tongue. And eyes like a moonless night.
Ananya didn't flinch when he entered. She didn't adjust her hoodie. Didn't pretend to be interested. But when he stepped to the podium and let his gaze sweep across the room — and then land on her — something in her pulse betrayed her apathy.
He looked at her too long.
A full beat. Maybe two.
Then he blinked and began.
"Psychology isn't about kindness," he said. "It's about knowing how to break someone without touching them."
Charming.
His voice was sandpaper over silk — rough in places, soft in others. Every student in the room leaned in, except Ananya. She stayed slouched, picking invisible lint off her jeans.
But inside?
She was tuned in like a violin string.
Rael Valtor didn't teach. He provoked. He posed moral dilemmas, dissected minds like a surgeon. He was ruthless with wrong answers. Cold with praise. He didn't care if you agreed with him — only that you understood why you were wrong.
Fifteen minutes in, he asked a question about empathy and criminal intent.
A girl in the front answered, trying too hard to impress.
Rael gave her a cold, "No," and turned his gaze back to the crowd.
Then his eyes returned to Ananya.
"You," he said. "The one in the grey hoodie, back row. What's your take?"
The room twisted toward her. She didn't move for a second. Then slowly sat up straighter, pushing her hair behind her ear.
"Empathy doesn't prevent cruelty," she said. "It just makes you feel guilty after."
Silence.
Rael tilted his head. "And guilt changes nothing?"
"No," she replied. "But it makes the monster easier to romanticize."
He smiled. Not kindly. But like she'd just drawn blood.
"What's your name?"
"Ananya."
"Of course it is."
He moved on. But that was the moment.
Everyone else in the room disappeared.
For the next hour, his lecture was electric. But it was a background score to the quiet war unfolding in glances. His eyes kept drifting back to her. Not in lust. Not in intimidation. In curiosity. Deep, intellectual hunger.
And she gave it back. Unflinching. Unimpressed. Curious in her own dangerous way.
When the lecture ended, students surrounded him like bees around honey. Girls with bright eyes, boys with awkward confidence. He answered them all with mechanical grace. But Ananya didn't move. She watched. Waited. Until the room began to clear.
He looked up.
Saw her still sitting.
Raised a brow.
She stood. Moved toward him slowly. Deliberate. Her shoes made no sound, but her presence screamed.
She stopped three feet away.
"Did you like what you saw?" she asked, tone casual.
"I saw something," he replied. "Still deciding what."
"Do you always watch your students like prey?"
"Only the ones who bite."
She smiled. "You talk like a man who thinks he's in control."
"Aren't I?"
"Not with me."
Another silence. Tense. Hot.
He stepped closer. "You don't believe in love."
"No."
"But obsession?"
"That's more honest."
He studied her face like a poem scribbled in the margins of something holy.
"You're dangerous."
"You make that sound like a compliment."
"Because it is."
Their eyes stayed locked.
And then she turned, just like that. No goodbye.
But as she reached the door, she paused.
Without looking back, she said:
"Next time you want to study me, ask first."
Then she was gone.
And Rael Valtor, for the first time in years, found himself smiling.
Because she wasn't just brilliant. Or beautiful. Or bored.
She was chaos.
And he wanted to burn in it.
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