THE RISE OF DAVID LANCASTER

Chapter 2: Professor Jenny

I walked into the lecture hall, heading straight for the farthest row. It was where I always sat—out of sight, out of mind. The perfect place to keep my head down and focus.

Dropping my bag onto the desk, I pulled out my battered notebook and the thick textbook I carried everywhere. The cover was creased, the pages dog-eared from months of use. I had barely slept, my body running on nothing but sheer willpower and caffeine, but I couldn’t afford to fall behind.

The lecturer hadn’t arrived yet, and the room buzzed with conversation, the voices of privileged students filling the space like an unbearable hum. Their designer clothes, their expensive perfumes, their casual arrogance—it was a world I didn’t belong to.

I tuned it all out and focused on my book.

Until a hand suddenly snatched it away.

I looked up, my jaw tightening.

Stella.

She stood before me, twirling my book between her fingers, a smirk playing on her perfectly glossed lips. “Hey there, ex-boyfriend.”

I exhaled slowly, keeping my expression unreadable. “Can I have my book back?”

She tilted her head as if considering it, then with an amused chuckle, dropped it onto the floor.

“Oops,” she said, feigning innocence. “Guess you’ll have to get it from there.”

I stared at her, my fists clenching beneath the desk. This was a game to her. A twisted little game.

I refused to play.

Without a word, I stood up and stepped toward my book. But just as I reached for it, a polished leather shoe came down hard, pinning it to the ground.

My fingers froze inches away.

A slow dread curled in my stomach as I lifted my gaze, trailing up the designer suit, past the self-satisfied smirk, until I met the cold, mocking eyes of Dylan Montgomery.

Son of one of the richest men in the country. Entitled. Cruel. Arrogant.

“Morning, Lancaster,” Dylan drawled, his voice oozing condescension.

I clenched my jaw. My exhaustion made it harder to hold back my irritation, but I had long since learned not to let people like him get under my skin.

Before I could respond, Stella giggled and stepped beside him. Then, right in front of me, she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him.

When she pulled away, she turned back to me with a smirk. “Meet my new boyfriend.”

I nodded once. Not a flicker of emotion on my face. “Good for you,” I said flatly.

My focus shifted back to my book, trapped under Dylan’s foot.

“Move,” I said, my voice controlled.

Dylan let out a low chuckle. “Or what?” he taunted.

I inhaled sharply through my nose. “Just get off my book.”

His smirk deepened. Behind him, his goons—three oversized idiots who followed him like shadows—were watching with amusement, waiting for the inevitable show.

I could feel the entire class watching. Some students had their phones out, already recording, eager to see the poor scholarship kid humiliated again.

I rubbed a hand over my face, exhaling. “I don’t have time for this. I don’t want any drama this morning.”

Dylan leaned in slightly. “But I do.”

And then, before I could react—he shoved me.

Hard.

I stumbled back a step, my fingers twitching at my sides. My patience was razor-thin, but I kept my temper in check.

Then I heard it.

The slow, deliberate sound of paper tearing.

I snapped my head back to Dylan just in time to see him crush my book beneath his foot, grinding it into the floor. Pages ripped, the spine cracking under the pressure.

A cold, sharp silence settled over the room.

Dylan smirked. “What now?”

I stared at the ruined book, my vision blurring at the edges.

I should walk away. I should.

But then—something inside me snapped.

Before I could think, before I could stop myself, my fist flew forward.

The impact was solid. Dylan’s head snapped to the side as he went crashing to the floor.

The entire room erupted into gasps.

I blinked. My own hand was still clenched, my knuckles stinging.

Shit.

I hadn’t meant to do that.

I took a step back, my heart hammering. “I—” I started, but I never got the chance to finish.

Because in the next second, Dylan’s goons lunged at me.

A fist slammed into my ribs. Another clipped my jaw. Pain exploded through my body. I staggered, barely able to block the blows as they came hard, fast, relentless.

I heard laughter. Cheering.

The punches kept coming. My body felt like it was being ripped apart, blow after blow landing on my ribs, my face, my stomach. My head spun, the world tilting, but the laughter and cheering of the students around me stayed sharp—like knives digging into my ears.

I tried to lift my arms to defend myself, but my body was giving out. The taste of blood coated my tongue.

And then, a voice.

Feminine. Sharp. Commanding.

"Enough! Stop it!"

The blows ceased. A hush swept through the lecture hall. My body, now slumped on the cold floor, felt strangely light as the pain pulsed through me in waves. I forced my swollen eyes open, my vision blurred and hazy.

That was when I saw her.

She stood in front of me, facing Dylan and his lackeys with a fierce intensity. Her long, wavy chestnut-brown hair cascaded down her back, catching the light like strands of silk. Even through the haze of pain, I noticed the way she carried herself—with effortless grace and authority.

“Dylan,” she said, her voice like velvet but edged with steel. “Go to your seat. Now.”

Dylan smirked, wiping the corner of his lip as if he hadn’t just been knocked to the floor minutes ago. “Relax, sweetheart. We were just teaching the charity case his place.”

Her sharp eyes narrowed. “I won’t repeat myself.”

For a moment, Dylan held her gaze, his ego unwilling to back down. But then, with a low chuckle, he turned and walked away, his boys following behind him like obedient dogs.

The murmurs in the room continued, but I barely registered them. All I could see was her.

And then, suddenly, she was in front of me.

“Can you stand?” she asked, her voice softer now.

I tried. My limbs felt like lead, but before I could even attempt to lift myself, her hands slipped under my arms, pulling me up with surprising strength.

My breath caught as her fingers wrapped around mine, warm and firm.

The world blurred again—not from the pain, but because all I could focus on was her.

She led me out of the lecture hall, her grip unwavering. I could barely process where we were going. The only thing I noticed was the way her hair swayed with every step, the soft scent of something floral lingering in the air around her.

Her figure was flawless. Every curve, every movement—elegant, confident, effortless.

Even with my swollen eyes and aching body, the pain felt distant.

I didn’t know where she was taking me. I didn’t care.

When we finally stopped, I blinked through my bruised vision, glancing up at a door.

Professor Jenny Sullivan.

The name was engraved in gold on a polished plaque.

I frowned slightly. A professor?

Before I could dwell on it, she pulled out a key card and swiped it across the panel. The door clicked open. She led me inside, closing the door gently behind us.

“Sit,” she said, her voice firm but kind.

I obeyed, lowering myself onto the chair, my body screaming in protest.

She walked over to a cabinet, her movements fluid, deliberate. I watched her.

Everything about her was mesmerizing.

She was young. Too young to be a professor, surely. Her skin was flawless, smooth like porcelain. Her full lips—a perfect shade of rose—were pressed together in focus as she pulled out a first aid box.

And her eyes—deep, rich brown—held an intensity I couldn’t look away from.

She turned back to me and took a seat beside me, opening the first aid kit.

Up close, she was even more beautiful. The soft glow of the office lights kissed her skin, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheekbones, the gentle slope of her nose. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine, not in a university office tending to a beat-up scholarship student.

I nearly gasped.

She was too perfect.

Too unreal.

And she had just saved me.

I winced as she dabbed at the cut on my cheek with a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic. The sting burned deep, but I clenched my jaw, refusing to let it show.

“You should know better than to get into fights, David,” she suddenly said.

My head snapped up. She knew my name?

I stared at her, confused. No one here ever bothered to acknowledge my existence, let alone remember my name. I was just the poor bastard on a scholarship, the guy everyone whispered about but never spoke to directly.

Seeing the look on my face, she chuckled softly. “You must be surprised that I know your name.”

I blinked, still at a loss for words.

She smiled, setting the cotton ball aside. “Pardon me for not introducing myself earlier.” She reached for a fresh strip of gauze, her fingers moving with practiced precision. “I’m Jenny. I’m the new professor, and I’ll be taking over your course from today.”

I froze.

Professor?

I repeated her words slowly, trying to process them. “You’re… a professor?”

She nodded, that beautiful smile still playing on her lips. “A lot of people find it amusing. I know I look young, but I graduated early with excellent grades. And, well… my father made a few calls here and there, so here I am.”

I studied her carefully. It was strange. I’d never met someone like her before—young, brilliant, effortlessly confident, yet still… kind.

“That’s impressive,” I found myself saying, genuinely intrigued.

Her smile widened. “Thank you, David.”

She continued tending to my wounds, her touch gentle, precise. The way she moved—graceful, deliberate—was mesmerizing.

“As far as I’ve heard,” she said, dipping the cotton ball into the antiseptic again, “no one has ever stood up to Dylan before. His father’s wealth makes him untouchable, and everyone just lets him do as he pleases.”

I smirked slightly despite the pain. “Guess I missed that memo.”

Jenny let out a soft laugh. “I liked the way you fought back.”

I blinked. Of all the things I expected to hear from a professor, that wasn’t one of them.

Before I could respond, she tilted her head, her expression turning serious. “But that doesn’t mean you should make a habit of getting into trouble.”

Chapter Two: Secrets and Questions

I stared at her, my swollen eye barely staying open.

She knew my name.

That shouldn't have been surprising—professors had access to student records, after all. But the way she said it, with that quiet confidence, sent something uneasy crawling down my spine.

No one here ever acknowledged me. No one cared to. I was just the scholarship kid, the outsider struggling to keep up in a world that didn’t want me. Yet, she had spoken my name like she had known me for years.

Jenny—Professor Jenny—didn’t look up as she worked, her hands steady as she dabbed antiseptic onto a cotton ball. The sterile scent filled the air, burning my nose even before she touched my skin.

“This might sting,” she murmured.

She pressed the cotton ball against the cut on my cheek. I inhaled sharply, the sting sharp and immediate, but I didn’t flinch.

Her eyes flickered up to mine, studying me with something unreadable. Curiosity? Amusement? Pity? I couldn’t tell.

“You’re used to this,” she said matter-of-factly. Not a question. A statement.

I clenched my jaw. “I don’t make a habit of getting my ass kicked, if that’s what you’re implying.”

A small smirk played at the corner of her lips. “No, but you don’t flinch. You don’t complain. You don’t react the way most people would.”

I looked away, my fingers tightening into fists.

Reactions were a luxury. I had learned that a long time ago.

“Dylan and his lackeys will get away with this, you know,” I muttered, shifting my gaze back to her. “No one touches them. Not unless they want their future ruined.”

Jenny dabbed at the corner of my lip, her expression unreadable. “And yet, you still punched him.”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“Clearly.” Her lips twitched.

I studied her. The way she carried herself, the ease in her movements—it didn’t match the usual professors here. There was no stiffness, no cold professionalism. She was different.

Too young. Too self-assured. Too familiar.

Who the hell was she?

“You don’t belong here,” I found myself saying.

Her hand paused for a fraction of a second before she continued wrapping the bandage around my wrist. “Neither do you.”

I frowned, but before I could respond, she finished tending to my wounds and leaned back, inspecting her work.

“There,” she said, her voice softer now. “Not bad.”

I flexed my fingers, feeling the pull of the bandages. “Thanks.”

She stood, moving to put the first aid kit away. I watched her, trying to piece together the puzzle that was Jenny Sullivan.

Too young. Too sharp. Too—

“Meet me after the lecture,” she said suddenly, turning to face me.

I raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

She smirked. “You’ll find out. But for now, let's get back to the lecture hall.”

I nodded, and just like that, we walked out of the office. As we headed back to the lecture hall, my mind was racing with questions.

Who the hell was Professor Jenny Sullivan?

And more importantly—why did she care about me?