Enough | ✔️

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◈ѕlaтer нarтley◈

Every other man in the room wears a blank canvas for a face, stoically adjusting the cuffs of their smart blazers or pushing their angular glasses further up their pointed noses.

Every other man but one, that is.

Charles Lincoln stares unblinkingly at me, lips pursed and hands locked together in front of him. The huge distance between us caused by a long rectangular table does little to ease my discomfort. I pretend not to notice. Is this unusual or does he normally stare with the intention to kill? I despise him. I know I should not judge him based off his son's actions, but you know what they say - like father like son.

My plan is to get through this meeting as naturally as possible, and then talk to him at the end. Hopefully he has not heard about anything from his vile son yet, but judging by the expression on his face, it seems dreadfully unlikely.

I fist my hands together in my lap, channelling my anxiety away from my expression.

The silence stretches out three seconds longer before he clears his throat, attracting the attention of all the professors in the room.

Then, with impeccable enunciation and an agonisingly chelonian speed, he speaks.

"Team, this meeting was initially arranged for me to get an idea of where we all are in the academic year. After all, the wellbeing of students here is incredibly important to me, and I should be able to trust that they are in good hands."

His eyes sweep across the room, analysing every one of us and, if I'm not hallucinating, staying particularly long on me.

"However, recent events have been brought to my attention, and I feel the obligation to discuss them. Immediately. Firstly, I'd like to draw your eyes to the following document."

Charles slides a hefty booklet of papers out from a drawer of his desk and sets it down on the table. One simply has to question the need for hardcopies in a world of constantly developing technology.

"Are you all aware of what this is?" he questions rhetorically.

I try to remain composed, but with each passing second, I feel my face pale by a few shades. I shouldn't have come here at all.

"This is the university's law. Upon applying for your positions, you all read and signed this: yes? Feel free to correct me at any point if and when you see fit," he continues, flipping through the thick pages of the booklet with great care, as if it is the Bible.

Silence reigns on in the rest of the room, other professors sending each other confused glances. What is this about? I see one of them mouth.

I wish I didn't know, I want to mouth back.

"Clause 12 - No individual in a professional or superior position will form romantic or sexual relationships with any individual in an inferior position. Any professor caught doing so will have their position at Harrow University immediately terminated," Charles reads, each word more venomous than the last as his gaze zeroes in on me.

I try and fail the remain blank-faced.

"Professor Hartley," he addresses as I clench my fists at my father's title, "Is there anything you would like to say or admit to before I continue?"

Nails cutting crescents into my palm, I hold his gaze and feign indifference, "No, Mr Lincoln."

He smiles unkindly, as if that was the response he wanted. The other adults in the room furrow their eyebrows at our interaction.