The morning sun cast a warm glow over Auburn University's campus, illuminating its sprawling grounds where students hurried along pathways lined with blooming dogwoods and towering oaks. At the heart of the university stood the main administrative building—an imposing structure with a striking resemblance to the iconic British Parliament.
Yet, where the Parliament's historic Gothic spires and ornate detailing spoke of centuries past, Auburn's counterpart was a confident reimagination. Sleek glass panels reflected the sky alongside limestone pillars, and a gracefully curved façade blended traditional architectural lines with contemporary minimalism. Intricate arches framed the entrances, but above them, digital banners displayed the day's announcements in vibrant color, seamlessly merging past and present.
Clusters of students gathered around the wide plaza at the front, where interactive digital boards rose like modern sentinels. These high-resolution touchscreens displayed dynamic, 3D campus maps—guiding freshmen through the maze of lecture halls, libraries, cafes, and sports facilities. Students could zoom in, search by building name or department, and even check real-time room availability.
The sheer size of the campus, sprawling over several city blocks, made the digital maps an essential tool for newcomers and veterans alike. It was a living, breathing campus—a place where tradition and innovation walked hand in hand.
Auburn University was more than just an academic institution; it was a crucible where the brightest minds gathered and the sharpest talents were forged. Known as the home of scholars and students who were truly the cream of the crop, Auburn carried a reputation that preceded it far beyond its stately gates.
Every lecture hall, every seminar room echoed with the voices of driven individuals—ambitious undergraduates and accomplished graduate students alike—who pushed boundaries, challenged assumptions, and demanded excellence not only from their professors but from themselves. It was a place where intellectual rigor wasn't just encouraged; it was expected.
The university's faculty mirrored this standard of distinction. Professors were not only experts in their fields but trailblazers who contributed original research to the global conversation. They mentored students with unwavering dedication, fostering a community where curiosity thrived alongside discipline.
Walking through the campus, one could feel the electric energy of potential—the quiet hum of conversations about theories, the intense focus in the libraries, the vibrant debates spilling out of cafés. It was here that future leaders, innovators, and visionaries took shape, their aspirations as lofty as the towering spires of Auburn's iconic main building.
Across the bustling campus grounds, a ripple of soft laughter broke through the steady hum of movement. A cluster of female students huddled near the library steps exchanged hushed whispers and poorly concealed giggles, their eyes tracking a tall figure striding purposefully across the courtyard.
Ashton Thomas.
At thirty-five, the high school algebra professor was the kind of man people noticed even when he wasn't trying to be seen. Dressed sharply in a charcoal grey coat over a fitted shirt, slacks, and polished leather shoes, he exuded a quiet sophistication. His build—tall and athletic—only added to the magnetic pull he seemed to have on passersby.
"Ugh, he looks like he walked straight out of a movie," one of the students muttered under her breath.
"Totally. That jawline? The hair? He's like... a moody European model," another chimed in, biting her straw pensively.
His black, slightly wavy hair was perfectly gelled back, catching the light with just enough gleam. The angular structure of his face, the olive tone of his skin—a striking product of his British and Italian roots—only added to the allure. But it wasn't just his looks that turned heads.
It was the silence.
Ashton didn't indulge in casual campus banter. He didn't flirt. He didn't smile at the attention. When a few students offered timid waves or greetings as he passed, he acknowledged them with a simple nod—nothing more. No unnecessary words, no lingering glances. Just a quiet, firm presence that kept people both intrigued and at arm's length.
"He's so mysterious," one of the girls sighed. "I bet he writes poetry in Latin and listens to jazz in the dark."
"Or he's just emotionally unavailable," her friend quipped, but even she couldn't stop watching him disappear into the crowd.
Ashton made his way through the glass-paneled administrative wing of Auburn's east hall, his footsteps soft against the polished floors. He barely broke stride as he arrived at a wide oak door etched with brass letters: Dean Charlemagne Smith, Office of Academic Affairs.
He knocked once, firmly.
"Come in!"
The door swung open with a quiet creak, revealing an office bursting with warmth and clutter—books stacked in every corner, certificates framed on the walls, and a globe on a stand that had clearly been spun more for fun than reference. Behind a heavy desk piled with documents and two half-drunk cups of tea stood the dean himself.
Charlemagne Smith was a compact man in his mid-sixties, barely scraping five foot five, but what he lacked in height he made up for in sheer enthusiasm. Round-faced and plump, he wore his grey hair combed back with a stubborn streak of chestnut that refused to fade. His suit was always a little wrinkled, his tie always just slightly askew—but his eyes sparkled with a vitality that made him seem much younger than he was.
"Good morning, sir. You asked to see me?" Ashton greeted, his voice low and even, offering a polite nod as he entered.
Charlemagne beamed and sprang up from his old leather office chair with surprising energy for a man his age.
"Ashton, my boy!" he said, spreading his arms wide as if greeting a long-lost nephew. "Come in, come in! You're just the man I've been waiting for."
The dean circled the desk to clap Ashton on the shoulder—not hard, but with the sort of fatherly insistence that made it clear he liked the younger man immensely.
"I take it the morning students didn't mob you too badly?" Charlemagne asked, winking as he moved to the sideboard to pour himself another cup of tea. "Rumor has it the Lit girls are ready to form a fan club."
Ashton remained composed, adjusting the strap of his satchel across his chest. "They're... enthusiastic learners, sir."
"Sit, sit," Charlemagne gestured, settling himself back into his creaky office chair with a soft groan. Ashton took the seat across from him, long limbs folding with quiet precision, his posture straight-backed and composed.
The dean took a slow sip of his tea before setting it down, eyeing Ashton thoughtfully over the rim of his glasses.
"I wanted to speak with you about a recent development. I've finally found a strong candidate for Samantha Prescott's position."
The room seemed to exhale all at once, and then fall completely still.
Ashton didn't move.
His gaze remained steady on the dean, but something shifted behind his eyes—just a flicker, but enough. His jaw tightened a degree, his fingers lightly curled over the armrest of his chair. The name hit the air like a quiet wind knocking over an old picture frame: soft, but irrevocable.
Charlemagne caught it immediately. For all his chaotic energy and distracted professor-like behavior, the man had decades of reading students and staff like well-worn books. And Ashton, though brilliant, was no exception.
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to something gentler. "I know that name still carries weight. But it's been what... two years? Maybe a little more?"
Ashton exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze briefly lowering to the edge of the desk before lifting again. "Two years and four months," he said, not bitterly—just matter-of-fact.
Charlemagne nodded, hands clasped loosely on the desk.
"She left a gap, no question. Her courses have been passed around the department like a hot kettle. But this new candidate—she's the real deal. Impressive background. Oxford-trained. Published. Bit of a star in her field."
Ashton raised an eyebrow, just slightly. "From the U.K.?"
"Yes," Charlemagne replied. "London, originally. Had a stint in California until... well, academia politics got the better of her."
He didn't elaborate, but Ashton caught the subtle implication. His expression didn't change, but something about his silence felt heavier now.
Charlemagne studied him for a moment longer before adding, "You don't have to like her, Ashton. But I think you'll respect her."
Ashton leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. "What's her name?"
The dean smiled, fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk before answering.
"Alexis Wood."
Charlemagne reached into the file stack beside him, pulling out a crisp manila folder with a red tab labeled WOOD, ALEXIS. He opened it with the kind of reverence usually reserved for rare manuscripts, then spun it around and slid it across the desk toward Ashton.
"Go on," the dean said, a glint of pride already dancing in his eyes. "Tell me she doesn't intrigue you."
Ashton opened the folder, his eyes first falling on the attached headshot.
A striking woman stared back at him—long, red hair that fell past her shoulders with natural waves, a poised yet unguarded expression, cheekbones cut like sculpture. She had the modelesque figure of someone confident in her skin but not vain about it. Something about the set of her jaw, the slight arch of her brow, suggested she'd been through more than a few fires and hadn't let them consume her.
Ashton blinked once, then lowered his gaze to the contents beneath.
M.A. in Literary Studies – University of Oxford.
Former lecturer at University of California, San Francisco.
Published in multiple literary journals, including The Atlantic Review and Modern Thought Quarterly.
Spoken at international academic conferences in Berlin, Toronto, and Kyoto.
Fluent in three languages.
He skimmed the rest—awards, fellowships, a note of commendation from a U.K. ministry official. A quick upward twitch of one brow was the only sign of what he thought.
"Well then," he said, closing the folder but keeping a finger on it. "Bit impressive."
Charlemagne let out a triumphant laugh. "Bit impressive? Ashton, if she were a stock, I'd put my retirement fund on her."
Ashton smirked faintly, though his tone remained neutral. "Why's she leaving California?"
The sparkle in the dean's eyes dimmed a little, replaced by something more careful. "That... is a story for her to tell. All I'll say is: sometimes brilliant people get burned by small minds."
Ashton didn't press. He leaned back, folding his arms. His expression unreadable, but his interest piqued. Not because of the resume. Not because of the looks. But because of the way her story already sounded like something unfinished.
"...Why are you telling me this? I have no say on who you hire," Ashton said coolly, crossing his arms across his chest like armor.
Charlemagne didn't flinch. He knew Ashton well enough not to take the sharp edge of his tone personally.
"Out of respect," the dean said simply. "And because I know how affected you were by Sam's resignation."
Ashton's jaw twitched—just slightly—but enough to betray the tension he was trying to bury. That name again. How many times was the dean going to say it, as if it were just another footnote in a faculty memo?
He shifted in his seat, looking away for a moment, eyes narrowing toward the window.
"I've moved on," he muttered, though it sounded more like a warning than reassurance.
Charlemagne didn't press—at least not directly. He leaned back and folded his hands across his stomach, watching Ashton with an expression that mixed compassion with persistence.
"I'm not trying to stir anything up. But you know how these halls work. People talk. Memories linger. Ghosts hang around when you least want them to."
Ashton looked back at him, one brow arched, dry and unimpressed. "Is this a conversation about Alexis Wood or an unsolicited therapy session?"
Charlemagne chuckled. "Bit of both, perhaps."
A long beat passed between them.
Ashton stood, straightening his sleeves. "Just... don't expect me to babysit a newcomer."
Charlemagne smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it. But I do expect you to be professional. Maybe even kind."
Without waiting for a dismissal, Ashton gave a curt nod and turned on his heel. But just before he reached the door, Charlemagne's voice followed him—quieter this time, almost reflective.
"She's not like Samantha, Ashton. That's the point."
Ashton froze mid-step. The air in the room thickened with unspoken history. Slowly, he turned his head, only halfway—just enough for Charlemagne to see the tension in his jaw, the storm gathering in his dark eyes.
"How would you know?" Ashton asked, voice low and tightly coiled.
Charlemagne regarded him for a moment, his usual cheer dimmed. "I don't. Not fully. But I know what I see in her file, and I know the tone of a woman who's been through something she didn't deserve."
Ashton's fingers curled into a loose fist by his side. His eyes lingered on the door, as if weighing whether to walk out or stay and confront what still lingered in his chest.
Instead, he simply said, "Then let's hope she's not."