Against the Rules

Sloane POV

—

Sloane Mercer adjusted the strap of her leather satchel and drew in a deep breath, trying to steady herself against the swirl of nerves and excitement in her chest. Haleton University wasn’t just another college; it was a crucible of intellect and prestige, a place where the best students from across the country came to test themselves, and to prove they belonged. She had spent her entire summer buried in literary theory, parsing postmodernist essays and rehearsing arguments that she hoped to voice in seminars, but nothing could have prepared her for the sheer scale of the campus.

The quad teemed with students, clusters of polished boots and designer bags moving with practiced confidence. Sloane walked among them, boots clicking against the cobblestones, head high. She ignored the whispers and glances; she didn’t need their approval. Not yet.

Ahead, the lecture hall loomed, its arched doors and ivy-clad stone intimidating but thrilling. She slipped inside, scanning for a seat and immediately caught sight of him.

Dr. Dalton Avery.

He stood at the front of the room, dark hair falling just enough to shadow a brow, eyes sharp and calculating. His posture was impeccable, shoulders squared, every movement deliberate. Sloane felt a small spark of something, challenge, maybe fascination, ignite in her chest. She slid into a seat near the back, keeping her posture casual, pretending to take notes, though her gaze kept flicking to him.

“Everyone is to call me ‘Professor Dalton.’ Dr. Avery is my father.” He stated

There was something in the way he commanded attention without raising his voice, the subtle precision of his movements. And then he looked at her. Just for a second, but long enough to make her pulse quicken. He was assessing her, measuring her. Sloane smirked inwardly, feeling that familiar surge of thrill she got from a challenge.

This class was going to be different. She could feel it already.

As he moved into the lecture, Sloane tried to focus on the syllabus, but her mind kept wandering. She noted the crispness of his voice, the meticulous choice of words, the way he didn’t just teach, he asserted control. It was intimidating, but she didn’t intend to back down. Not from him, not from anyone.

She adjusted her notebook, pretending to jot something down, though she wasn’t. She could feel her pulse racing, not from fear, but anticipation. There was something about him that promised a battle of wits, and she was ready to fight.

Sloane felt his gaze linger a moment longer than necessary, sharp and deliberate. This class is going to be more than I bargained for… she thought, a thrill rising in her chest. Then, almost imperceptibly, she caught a faint smirk tug at his lips, as if he already knew the game that was about to begin.

Sloane shifted in her seat as Professor Dalton began the lecture, trying to focus on the syllabus. She had spent hours preparing for this seminar, memorizing theories and arguments, yet there was an edge to him that she hadn’t anticipated. He spoke with precision, every word chosen to assert authority, every example a demonstration of his intellect. Most students might have nodded politely, accepting his interpretation without question. Sloane, of course, was not most students.

Her hand shot up before he could finish a particularly sweeping claim about postmodern narrative. “Excuse me,” she said, voice steady. “I don’t think you can completely dismiss authorial intent in this example. Doesn’t the author’s background still shape the reader’s interpretation?”

The room went quiet, tension suddenly thick. Dalton’s dark eyes flicked toward her, and for a moment, he seemed amused, until she continued.

“Reducing the argument to purely reader perception ignores context. I mean, if we strip the author entirely, aren’t we risking—” She paused, realizing too late she was building her case in full view of the class.

“Miss Mercer,” Dalton interrupted, his voice sharp now, cutting through the murmurs of the room. “You are allowed to challenge ideas, but please… do not mistake stubbornness for insight.”

Sloane bristled. Stubbornness? She wasn’t stubborn, she was precise. And the faint annoyance in his tone only made her push harder.

“Respectfully,” she said, leaning forward slightly, “I think it’s a valid point. If we ignore context entirely, we risk misinterpreting the text. That seems… reductive, don’t you think?”

Dalton pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, measured exhale, his jaw tightening. “Miss Mercer,” he said, voice low and tense, “you may be intelligent, but confidence without restraint is dangerous. If you continue to interrupt or challenge without listening, I will have no choice but to mark your participation accordingly.”

Sloane’s pulse quickened, not from fear but frustration. She wasn’t trying to antagonize him; she just refused to sit quietly. And yet, something in the way he stood, taut with control, suggested she might have pushed a line he did not appreciate.

Still, she couldn’t help herself. “With all due respect, Dr. Avery, I’m not here to… tiptoe around ideas. I’m here to discuss them. That’s what seminars are for, isn’t it?”

Dalton’s expression darkened slightly. His hands clenched the edges of the podium. “Discussion, yes,” he said, voice low and controlled, “but there is a difference between discussion and deliberate defiance. Remember that. And I am to be called Professor Dalton.”

Sloane sat back, feeling a flash of irritation. Deliberate defiance? I’m just arguing my point. She could sense the tension in the room, in the slight tightness of his posture, in the faintly sharp tone he now used when addressing her. She didn’t back down. Instead, she scribbled notes furiously, trying to contain her impatience.

When the lecture ended, she grabbed her bag, the weight of unspoken conflict hanging between them. Some of her classmates avoided eye contact; others whispered quietly, clearly enjoying the spectacle of their duel. Sloane’s own pulse thrummed in her chest, half frustration, half anticipation.

Dalton’s gaze landed on her as she moved to leave. “Miss Mercer,” he said, his tone cool but firm, carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of warning, “be in my office tomorrow afternoon. We need to… discuss your approach.”

Sloane froze for a heartbeat. Discussion? She had no doubt it would be confrontational, maybe even uncomfortable. And yet, a stubborn part of her refused to shrink back. Fine, she thought. I’ll show him exactly why I’m not just another student.

—

Sloane stormed down the crowded hallway, weaving between clusters of chattering students, but she didn’t slow her pace. Her satchel felt heavier than usual, though she had only brought the bare minimum, just enough notebooks and pens to survive the first seminar. Her mind, however, felt overloaded.

She clenched her jaw, replaying the lecture in her head. Dalton had been infuriating. Every time she thought she had made her point clearly, he had cut her off, not with reason, but with thinly veiled admonishment, a reminder of the hierarchy in the room. Hierarchy? she thought bitterly. I wasn’t trying to undermine him; I was trying to think critically.

Her irritation boiled further as she remembered the last words he had spoken before dismissing the class: “Be in my office tomorrow afternoon. We need to discuss your approach.” The calm, measured tone only made her blood pressure spike. Discuss my approach? If by approach he meant my audacity to not sit silently while he mansplains, then yes, let’s discuss.

By the time she reached the dorms, she was practically muttering under her breath. Her roommate, Lila, a cheerful junior who always managed to look impossibly put together, was sitting cross-legged on her bed, flipping through a stack of papers. She glanced up as Sloane slammed the door, eyebrows raised.

“Whoa. Sounds like someone had a rough first day,” Lila said, eyebrow quirked.

Sloane tossed her bag onto her bed, pacing. “Rough? Lila, he’s infuriating. Every time I open my mouth, he shuts me down. Not like a polite disagreement, like really shuts me down, like I’m a… a misbehaving child.”

Lila laughed softly, but Sloane caught the undertone of amusement that felt just a little too knowing. “Sounds like you made quite an impression,” Lila teased.

Sloane whirled toward her, eyes blazing. “Impression? Maybe. But it wasn’t a good one. He’s smug, condescending, and, oh, I don’t even know! He looks at me like I’m supposed to shrink in my seat. Like I’m some kind of… test he’s going to pass or fail!”

Lila smirked, holding up her hands. “Okay, okay, calm down. But admit it, there’s something about him, right?”

Sloane groaned, running a hand through her hair. “I don’t know, Lila. I’m not saying anything like that.” She felt heat rise in her cheeks at the thought, more frustration than anything else. “All I know is… I hate feeling like I can’t get a word in. And he’s going to make me go to office hours tomorrow. Can you believe that?”

Lila tilted her head. “Well, maybe he’s trying to teach you something… like how to survive seminars with impossible professors.”

Sloane snorted. “Survive? More like… I don’t know. Test my patience to the point where I either scream at him or storm out.” She flopped onto her bed, glaring at the ceiling. The thought of sitting in his office, alone with him, made her stomach tighten, not with excitement, but with annoyance and challenge. She hated being told what to do, and she hated feeling small in someone else’s presence.

The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. She replayed the conversation again: her points, his interruptions, his tight jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes whenever she argued. The man clearly did not expect to be challenged, and yet here she was, more than willing to do exactly that.

Her mind wandered, imagining how the office hours confrontation might go. She imagined herself leaning forward, pointing out inconsistencies, defending her arguments, refusing to cower. And then, half in irritation, half in spite, she imagined him growing frustrated, maybe even pissed off. The thought made a small part of her smirk despite herself.

Sloane took a deep breath and muttered to no one in particular, “Fine. Office hours. Let’s see who really wins this… or at least who loses less.”

She sat back, letting the room spin a little with frustration and anticipation. Her phone buzzed on the desk, an email notification from Haleton’s office hours system, confirming her appointment with Professor Dalton. Her fingers hovered over the screen, tension coiling in her stomach. Tomorrow, she thought grimly, this is going to be a war.