She types in the school's community website, her heart pounding louder than the quiet hum of the loading screen. As the homepage loads, her eyes immediately fall on the headlines in the "Recent Posts" section.
A deep, guttural sigh escapes her lips.
"Okay…" she mutters under her breath, steeling herself as she clicks on the top post.
The page opens. She scrolls.
And there it is.
A photo—grainy but unmistakable. Her, wrapped only in a hotel towel, head turned slightly, body angled toward the door. Julian stands beside her, holding the door open like some polished gentleman, caught mid-motion as she steps inside.
Grace's breath catches in her throat.
She scrolls further down, into the comment section.
More and more comments pile beneath those, forming a steady stream of shock, speculation, and opinionated justifications. Some say it's scandalous. Others insist it's harmless. A few even sound amused, as if this is entertainment. But not a single person—not one—questions whether the photo might be misleading.
No one's saying it could be a misunderstanding.
No one's giving her the benefit of the doubt.
Her heart thuds, heavy and loud.
She reaches for her phone, lying cold and silent on the desk. Her fingers tremble as she unlocks it, navigating quickly to the course website. She taps into the contact page for the class and there it is—Professor Julian—his name sitting still, untouched by the storm outside.
She taps.
His phone number appears.
She stares.
So many thoughts race through her head she can't hold onto a single one. Her thumb hovers over the call button, frozen.
"Does he even know what happened right now?" She whispers the question to herself, as if the silence might answer.
But there's nothing. Just the hum of the laptop, the soft buzz of the screen.
She has no idea if Julian's seen the posts or if someone's already sent him a message. But one thing she does know—he has more to lose than she does. He's the professor. The adult in the power position. In a case like this, even a whisper could be enough to ruin him.
And this isn't a whisper.
It's a shout echoing across campus.
Late at night, Julian sleeps in his small studio apartment, the room quiet except for the low hum of the city outside. Only a single wall lamp casts a dim glow, its soft light stretching into the shadows.
His phone vibrates once on the nightstand.
He ignores it.
Then again.
And again.
And again.
He groans softly, squinting his eyes open. The room is a blur of darkness and light until the glow of his phone screen stabs through it. He grabs the phone, annoyed, shielding his eyes from the brightness.
Notifications flood the screen. Messages. Mentions. Missed calls. The vibrations don't stop.
"Why are people texting me so much…" he mutters, groping around the pillow for his glasses. His fingers finally close around the frame. He slides them on, blinking hard.
Just as he's about to tap into the pile of unread messages, the screen changes—Incoming Call: Lena.
Lena? He stares at the name, confused. Why is she calling me at this hour?
A flicker of unease flashes through his chest.
He swipes to accept.
"Hello?" he answers, voice hoarse with sleep.
"Julian!" comes Lena's voice, high-pitched and frantic. "What is that picture?!"
Julian slowly pushes himself up, resting on one elbow.
"What picture are you talking about?"
"The one of you and your student!" she cries. "At the hotel! She's wrapped in just a towel, and you're holding the door open for her! It's a fake picture, right? It has to be photoshopped?"
There's panic in her voice—rapid, disbelieving. "I know it's not real, Julian. There's no way. Someone must've faked that. They need to be caught and punished immediately."
Julian closes his eyes. A long, heavy breath escapes him.
Now he understands.
Someone must've taken the photo that night at the hotel—when Grace had been locked out of her room. And now it's online, spreading like wildfire.
The whole situation crystallizes before him.
"That picture…" he begins, voice low, "it's not what you think it is."
He doesn't know what else to say.
There's a pause.
"Right?" Lena replies, her tone suddenly lighter, almost cheerful. "So it's fake, obviously! Some desperate attempt to smear you! You're too respected in your field—of course someone would be jealous. It's probably an attack on your reputation. What a joke," she adds with a short, bitter laugh.
Her relief is palpable. She wants it to be fake.
But it's not.
"Well…" Julian pauses, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. Exhaustion weighs heavy on his body. "That picture—it's not exactly photoshopped. It's real."
Silence.
A solid five seconds of it.
Then—
"Wait, so that picture is real? You were actually at the hotel with that girl?" Lena's voice spikes, shrill and sharp, no longer just panicked—now accusatory.
Julian exhales slowly, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. His head throbs—not just from being woken up, but from the overwhelming realization that everything is spiraling faster than he can control.
Why am I even explaining this to Lena? he thinks, irritation beginning to scratch at his composure. She's not the person I need to be talking to right now.
He needs to call the school. He needs to contact the community website admin. He needs to do something.
Still, he forces his voice to stay level, calm. "Lena, I did run into her at the hotel, but it's not what it looks like in that photo. We didn't do anything together. It was just a coincidence. There was an incident, and… that's all."
"What incident?" she fires back, her tone dripping with suspicion now.
This isn't the time for this.
He glances at the glowing screen, at the storm of notifications still pouring in.
I have to deal with this now… not explain it to someone who won't even believe me.
"I'll explain later," he says firmly. "Right now, I've got to call the school faculty. Or the website admin. Thanks for letting me know, Lena."
Before she can say another word, he ends the call.
Julian quickly opens his contacts, scrolling to find the school faculty number. But as he's about to dial, his eyes drift to the top of the screen.
12:02 AM.
He groans softly.
"Right… it's midnight. No way they'll answer the phone now."
He sets the phone down on the nightstand and leans back into his pillow, the dim lamp still casting soft gold across the walls. There's a heavy silence in the room now, broken only by the occasional buzz of another notification.
There's nothing more he can do—for now.
He closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again.
How about Grace? Does she know what's going on right now?
The thought settles in his chest, uncomfortable and heavy. He exhales, deeply this time, staring up at the ceiling.
Julian opens the course portal and navigates to the student directory. He types in: Grace Silver.
Her profile loads. Her phone number. Her email address. Both right there on the screen, glowing softly in the dim light of his room.
He stares at the number for a long moment, thumb hovering above the screen.
He wants to call her. Just to hear her voice. Just to ask if she's okay. To tell her not to worry—that he will take care of this, even though, deep down, he's not sure how. Not really. This entire situation is already slipping out of his grasp, and it's only been a matter of hours.
But it's past midnight. She's probably asleep. Or worse—she's seen it all and can't sleep at all.
He lowers the phone, sighing deeply. Then again. And again. The kind of sigh that comes from the pit of his chest.
"Who took that picture…" he murmurs, running a hand through his hair.
This—this—was never part of the life he imagined when he started his career as a professor. A scandal? With a student? And not just any scandal—a photo of the two of them entering a hotel room together?
It's the kind of thing that ruins people. The kind of thing that stains reputations, spreads like wildfire, and never quite gets erased.
And yet, it isn't his own career that weighs on him the most right now.
It's Grace.
He opens the school community website, and his stomach tightens. The homepage is flooded—flooded—with posts, each title more provocative than the last.
He doesn't want to click. He really doesn't. But his eyes betray him, and his fingers follow.
One click.
Then another.
And another.
Every post is the same: the photo plastered front and center, the snapshot of him holding the hotel door open while Grace walks in, wrapped in nothing but a white towel. Her profile is there. Her name. Her birthday. Her major.
His own name, too—Professor Julian—emblazoned in bold as if it's a headline in a scandal magazine.
"More than a hundred comments already…" he mutters.
He clicks.