The lecture hall was already full when Calla Reyes slipped into the last row, clutching her laptop and a pen that didn't even work half the time. Her pulse was already unsteady. Monday, 8 A.M. Macroeconomics. The one class no one could afford to miss-and the one with the professor everyone feared.
Her friends had warned her. Reddit had forums dedicated to him. Rumors ranged from humiliating students to actually making one cry so hard she dropped out.
She barely got her laptop open before the door clicked shut.
Footsteps. Slow. Methodical. Crisp. And then-
"Phones off. Laptops ready. No latecomers next week."
The voice wasn't loud, but it cut straight through the room like piano wire. A few students scrambled to mute their devices. Calla sat straighter, staring at the projector.
He walked in like he owned the world-or at least this room. Tall. Black coat. Blacker stare.
Javier Alcantara.
Calla only dared a glance.
But then he looked directly at her.
A pause. A heartbeat too long. Like he recognized her. Like he already didn't like her.
And then-
"You. You in the back. Miss Reyes, is it?"
Her spine snapped upright. "Y-yes, sir."
"Define opportunity cost."
Calla blinked. "Um-uh..."
"That's not a definition." He took a step closer, arms crossed. "This is economics, Miss Reyes. Not literature. You don't get to 'um' your way through facts."
Muffled laughter.
Calla's cheeks burned. "It's the value of what you give up... when you make a choice."
He tilted his head. "And?"
She faltered.
He turned to the class. "Can someone who read the textbook give us the full definition?"
Three hands went up.
Calla stared down at her screen, heart pounding.
She didn't hear the rest. Only the occasional words: "rational choice theory," "scarcity," "decision-making."
After twenty minutes, she gave up pretending to take notes.
"Quiz," he said, halfway through the lecture. "Five questions. No notes. Now."
The sound of collective betrayal.
"Wait, are you serious?" someone whispered.
He was. Sheets were passed out. Calla's hand was trembling as she read Question 1: Explain marginal utility using a real-world example.
She stared at the blank line.
Thirty minutes later, he collected them.
No comments. No facial expressions. He simply walked back to his desk, stacked the papers, and clicked the projector off.
"Dismissed."
Calla sat frozen.
"Calla," her seatmate whispered, "are you okay?"
She forced a nod. "Fine."
Outside, she didn't speak. Just walked. Fast. Air was too sharp, her chest too tight.
She didn't cry.
Not until she got to the library bathroom stall and locked the door.
---
"Okay, I'm sorry, but he's hot."
Calla looked up from her untouched iced coffee. Brielle was leaning across the café table like she was describing a rockstar, not the man who verbally decapitated her.
"Hot?" Calla said flatly. "He targeted me in front of sixty people."
"Yeah, but did you see the coat?"
"Bri."
"I'm just saying. Devil wears Prada. Or probably Saint Laurent."
Sophie chimed in. "He's like-what's the word-academia sexy?"
"Is that a genre?"
"It is now."
Calla sighed, stirring her drink without sipping it. "He stared at me. Like I offended his ancestors."
Sophie raised a brow. "Did you?"
"I just sat there."
"You sure? Maybe you're his type."
"I'd rather be hit by a bus."
---
That night, the quiz results dropped in the portal.
Calla: 0/5.
Her heart sank.
---
Three days later, the elevator betrayed her.
She rushed into the apartment building, soaked from the rain, and hit the "close" button five times before the doors slid shut.
Then-just before they closed-a black-gloved hand slipped in.
Her stomach dropped.
Professor Javier Alcantara stepped inside.
Silence.
She inched away.
The mint scent of his aftershave was annoyingly sharp. His coat brushed her arm.
Ding. Third floor.
Neither of them moved.
"Fourth," he said curtly.
She almost jumped.
The elevator dinged again.
She stepped out first. He didn't look at her.
She turned the corner, heart sprinting, and whispered under her breath:
"I hate this man."
She didn't notice the faintest smirk he allowed after the doors closed again.
---
She unlocked her door, dripping water onto the floor, backpack sliding off her shoulder.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
He was too tall. Too sharp. Too precise.
Everything about him screamed danger without shouting.
Not loud. Not messy. But surgical. Calculated.
She toed off her shoes, dropped onto her bed, and muttered to the ceiling:
"He's not just mean. He's a scary creature in a cashmere coat."
To be continued...
YOU ARE READING
Sir (Lecture like a weapon)
Romance📘 Title: Sir Lecture like weapon. Cold. Control. Precise. He doesn't touch. He doesn't smile. He doesn't break rules. Until Calla Reyes walked into his classroom... and his control began to shatter. Calla Reyes is the quiet heiress no one sees comi...
