In the end, I just typed back, "Just exploring. I'm fine."

I shut off my phone and, forcing down the lump in my throat, found a black trash bag. I began to stuff the ruined canvases, tubes of paint, and shredded clothes inside, one heartbreaking piece at a time.

As I cleaned, the tears I'd been holding back finally fell.

Night fell, cloaking the apartment in a deathly silence.

I huddled on the cold sofa, clutching a box cutter.

Then I heard it: metal scraping against the door, the sound of labored breathing from the other side. The doorknob rattled violently as someone worked on the broken lock.

The first class the next morning was "Sociology."

Exhausted, with deep shadows under my eyes, I entered the lecture hall. The chatter died instantly. All eyes turned to me, filled with a universal, palpable disgust.

"Ugh."

"Can't believe she still has the nerve to show her face."

"Heard she had a busy night. Wonder which old man paid the bills."

I stared straight ahead, walking toward my usual seat.

But I stopped short. The seat was drenched in a sticky, foul-smelling liquid. On the desk sat a filthy ashtray, "WHORE'S PERSONAL ASHTRAY" scrawled on it in permanent marker.

Troy lounged in the back row, chewing gum with his feet propped up.

"Like it, Ophelia? Your very own exclusive ashtray, courtesy of the class." He whistled. "A girl who sells her body only deserves to use trash, right? Need a lesson on how to fill it with your mouth?"

The room erupted in laughter.

I stalked over and swiped the ashtray off the desk, sending it crashing to the floor. Sticky cigarette butts and ash splattered, some of it landing on Troy's pristine, limited-edition sneakers.

"Oh, shit!" Troy shot to his feet, his pupils dilating in fury as he grabbed me by the collar.

A wave of pure, violent menace rolled off him, so intense my knees felt weak.

"What's all this commotion?" a sharp voice demanded from the doorway.

Professor Julian Croft strode in, a stack of textbooks tucked under his arm.

Tiffany immediately jumped up, pointing an accusing finger. "Professor Croft, Ophelia's gone crazy. She threw the ashtray, made a mess, and ruined Troy's expensive sneakers!"

Professor Croft's gaze flickered from the mess on the floor to me. He waved a handkerchief in front of his nose as if to ward off a bad smell.

He frowned, his voice dripping with condescension. "Ophelia, sociological theory suggests that individuals from lower socioeconomic backgrounds are prone to destructive impulses and a lack of self-control. But this is Blackwood, an institution for the elite. I suggest you reserve the savage behaviors you learned in the slums for your own time."

I stared at him, incredulous. "Professor Croft, they put the ashtray on my desk. They were bullying me."

"Quiet!" He slammed his textbooks onto the lectern. "How dare you talk back? Is this the sort of defiance your family taught you?"

He clicked open a PowerPoint, pointing to a slide titled "Class Stratification."

"Perfect timing. Today's lecture is on social parasitism. Ophelia, come up here. Stand by the lectern. Let everyone witness a textbook case of a social climber's failure, a living example of the dependency ingrained in your very nature."

And so, I stood by the lectern for the entire class.

Under the weight of hundreds of pairs of eyes, I listened as Professor Croft dissected my "inferior lower-class nature" for an hour and a half.

When the bell finally rang, I began to move stiffly toward the door.

Tiffany, holding a cup of hot coffee, made a deliberate show of walking past the lectern.

"Oops!" she cried with fake surprise as she pretended to trip, sending the entire cup of scalding coffee splashing down my calf.

The liquid seared my skin, soaking into my shoe. I gasped, the pain sharp and blinding.

"Sorry, didn't see you standing there," Tiffany said with a dismissive shrug. "But really, you shouldn't block the path. Anyone with common sense knows that."

I looked to Professor Croft, who was gathering his notes.

He pushed his glasses up his nose and said coldly, "So clumsy you can't even avoid a simple obstacle. Ophelia, your presence severely detracts from the elite atmosphere of this university. My office, after class. I must seriously reconsider your scholarship."

In his office, Professor Croft sat behind his desk, casually twirling a pen.

"Ophelia, I've received reports of your… extracurricular activities. Engaging in improper transactions, corrupting the moral fabric of this institution."

He threw a stack of photos onto the desk—pictures of me getting into my family's luxury cars.

"Professor Croft, those are rumors," I said, taking a steadying breath. "Those are my family members in the photos."

"Family?" He let out a contemptuous snort. "My records indicate you're here on a full scholarship. Are Bentleys and Rolls-Royces part of the financial aid package now? Ophelia, don't insult my intelligence."

He rose and rounded the desk, stopping right in front of me.

"The university has a zero-tolerance policy for this kind of scandal. Expulsion is a certainty. However…" His voice dropped to a whisper, his gaze crawling over me, so invasive I felt it like a physical touch.

"I've always been a patron of the arts. If you were willing to become my 'private assistant,' I might be persuaded to let this slide. Come to my apartment tonight. We can have a... deeper discussion about art."

"Professor Croft." I took a step back, my voice turning to ice. "If I recall, you embezzled three hundred thousand dollars in university funds last month. And you have a substantial gambling debt with a Gallo family rival at an underground casino on the West Side, don't you?"

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Professor Croft's face flushed a dark, angry red.

"You… what did you say? You filthy, low-class bitch!"

He raised a hand to strike me, but I tore the door open and bolted.

Behind me, his roar echoed down the hall, "Ophelia, you're finished! I'll make sure you can't survive anywhere in Chicago!"

I burst out of the building and, in my panic, ducked into a narrow alley—a dead end, blocked by a high brick wall.

Heavy footsteps pounded behind me.

Troy and his goons blocked the entrance, cutting off my escape. He held a pair of gleaming industrial shears.