Under Cold Eyes

Sierra’s Point of View

By morning, my stomach was a twisted knot of nerves and emptiness.

I hadn’t eaten. I hadn’t slept well. And I definitely wasn’t ready to face the man who seemed to enjoy the power of making others feel small.

I was by the shiny door that had "Professor Damon Cross" in smooth, cool letters, holding my bag strap tight. The time was 7:59 a.m. I thought coming early might make him less harsh.

Nope.

"Late," he said when I came in.

I was shocked. "But it’s not even—"

"You should have been here five minutes earlier.” He kept his eyes on his computer, typing fast. "Sit. Don’t fill my morning with reasons."

I sat, spine stiff and hands cold.

His office was minimal, clean, not a thing out of place. Dark wood desk, a single pen holder, leather chair that looked like it cost more than my dad’s car. No personal photos. No warmth. Just silence and scrutiny.

He finally looked up.

“I reviewed your application file this morning. It’s thin.”

I swallowed. “I transferred late, and my records were—”

He raised a hand to silence me. “I don’t care about your excuses, Miss Blake. I care about standards.”

His eyes were sharper than before, colder, like they were trained to dissect people. Not students—targets.

“This is Crestmont Business School. We don’t pamper the unprepared. We don’t tolerate laziness. And we do not allow students to sleep in libraries like strays.”

I clenched my fists under the table.

He didn’t stop.

"You left the orientation program. Skipped your first class. Didn't tell us you were gone. Then you slept in an off-limits spot." He sat back, his hands together.

"Is this how you plan to act here?"

I felt my face heat up, but I met his gaze. "I didn't mean to cause a problem. I was just real tired. I needed to rest a bit."

He stared back at me. "This place isn't for rest, Miss Blake. If you like kind words, talk to the art people."

His words hit harder than I expected. I didn't like that.

"I'm here to work," I said, keeping my voice calm.

His face shifted for a second—was he smiling? Upset? Hard to say. It passed fast.

"We'll see about that. You got Dorm C, top floor. Your roommate has already complained."

I blinked. “What? I hardly even—"

“She says you speak too loudly and asked her for food. I don’t care if it’s true. I care that I had to waste five minutes of my morning reading the email.”

I felt heat crawl up my neck. “I didn’t ask her for anything.”

“Then perhaps she just doesn’t like you,” he said simply. “It happens.”

He stood abruptly, walking over to the window, hands in his pockets, voice dropping to something lower and more dangerous.

“You come here late. You come here lying low. You want to coast through without drawing attention. But here’s the thing, Miss Blake…” He turned, eyes locking on mine like a hunter to prey.

“You already have.”

I couldn’t breathe.

He stepped closer, just enough that I felt the air around him shift. “This school doesn’t tolerate weakness. And I don’t waste my time on people who are too fragile to handle the fire. So either prove me wrong—” his voice dropped to a near whisper— “or go home before you burn.”

I stared at him, pulse pounding in my ears. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. But I refused to give him the satisfaction.

So I stood. “Anything else?”

His lips curved ever so slightly. Not a smile. A warning.

“Dismissed.”

I walked out on trembling legs, heart thundering in my chest.

Every student I passed seemed calm, untouched by the storm that had just ripped through me.

So that was Professor Cross.

No kindness. No patience. No mercy.

And now… he had his eye on me.

I didn’t know if that was the beginning of something dangerous.

Or the end before I even began.

****

I didn’t think it could get worse after that office meeting. I was wrong.

By the time I stepped into Professor Cross’s Strategic Leadership class that afternoon, my nerves were already fried.

I hadn’t even had lunch my appetite had gone missing right around the time he told me I was a waste of time.

The lecture hall was massive. Big glass from top to floor. Lines of seats made neat. Each student sat still with open books, bright screens.

I picked a chair in the beast of the lot, trying not to stand out. Next to me, a boy with an easy smile and eyes shiny like big jokes were all he knew.

"You seem like you've just come from a big fight," he said low, giving me a quick smile.

"A bit like that," I said back soft.

"I'm Theo," he reached his hand to me like we'd known each other a long time.

"Sierra."

"Nice name," he noted. "You're new here?"

I gave a nod, my eyes flicking to the front. Professor Cross hadn't shown yet.

Theo moved in close. "So, what's your tale? You look like you ran from a rich jail."

I gave a small, cold laugh. "That's kinda right."

Before he could keep talking, the room hushed. It felt colder suddenly as Professor Damon Cross walked in—exact, not a hair moved, his face still.

He put his papers down with no sound, and all sat up sharp.

"No phones," he started, his gaze still down, "No messing. If you're here to joke or chat, go."

I sat even straighter. Theo made a face like 'uh-oh'.

Cross started talking, moving slow front of the class, his words clear but cutting.

“Leadership is not charm,” he said. “It’s not popularity. It’s knowing when to strike. When to be silent. And when to cut a weakness out of your operation—before it spreads.”

He paused, turning to the class.

“Miss Blake,” he said.

I blinked. “Yes?”

“What did I just say?”

The room froze. Every head turned to me. My stomach dropped.

“Uh…” I scrambled. “That leadership isn’t about being liked. It’s about… knowing when to strike?”

His jaw tensed. “A guess. Not an answer.”

“I—” I stammered.

He stepped forward, voice rising ever so slightly. “You come late. You sleep through your first day.

And now you show up to my class to whisper sweet nothings to the boy beside you instead of paying attention?”

Laughter rippled across the room. My cheeks burned.

“That wasn’t—”

He cut me off. “Save it. You’ve already made one impression on this institution. Unfortunately, it’s the wrong one.”

I clenched my fists.

“You are not in this class to coast on your looks or charm your way through group projects. If that was your strategy, I suggest you drop out before the semester embarrasses you more than I will.”

It was all too quiet. My throat felt tight, and I bit my cheek to stop my tears. He turned away, as if I was gone.

Then, he spoke again.

"Detention. My office. Six p.m. on the dot." I looked at him hard.

"Why?" I said, trying to calm my rage. He ignored me.

"For wasting my time and yours." I pressed my teeth together. Theo leaned in and said,

"Wow. He really has it out for you."

"Yes," I muttered. "It goes both ways."