Chapter 2 First Contact

• My first class with him was scheduled for Thursday morning. I remember dressing like I was trying not to be noticed, which, of course, only made me notice myself more. I chose a plain navy blouse, high collar, sleeves rolled exactly twice, and a skirt that fell past my knees. I didn’t wear makeup—I rarely did—but I brushed my hair until it looked deliberate.
• I got there early, hoping to be invisible.
• The classroom was colder than expected—high ceilings, no windows. The kind of space where sound echoed, where silence had corners. There was a large blackboard at the front and rows of narrow wooden desks, all facing inward, so we had to see each other. I hated that. I always preferred facing a wall.
• I sat in the far-left corner, close enough to be a good student, but far enough not to be called on. I took out a notebook even though laptops were allowed. Handwriting calmed me. It slowed down the panic.
• The other students arrived in clusters—some loud, some fidgety, all of them pretending not to scan the room for him.
• Then the door opened.
• He didn’t say anything. He just entered. Not late, not early. Like the world adjusted itself around his timing.
• He wore a dark gray suit, simple, but expensive in a way you’d only notice if you cared about tailoring. His shirt was black. No tie. His hair was darker than in the photo, though streaked at the temples. His jaw was sharp, mouth unsmiling. His eyes flicked briefly across the room, and then—God help me—they landed on me.
• Just for a second.
• But it was enough to root me to the chair.
• There was no nod. No acknowledgement. He simply looked, like assessing damage. Then turned away.
• “Good morning,” he said, softly. Too softly for someone that confident. “You are here for ‘Aesthetics and Power,’ are you not?”
• A few students laughed nervously. He didn’t.
• “I am Professor Voss. You may call me Professor. Or Sir, if you prefer.”
• Someone shifted in their seat behind me. I couldn’t breathe.
• “I will not lecture,” he continued. “I will not repeat what you can read. If you are here to collect easy thoughts and recycled opinions, leave now.”
• No one moved.
• “Good.”
• He set a small stack of books on the desk in front of him. No slides. No syllabus. Just worn paper and silence.
• “Our first reading is a novel. You will receive no context, no summary. Read it. Think. Then write.”
• He handed a copy to each of us—no cover, just a name and a quote scrawled across the first page. Mine read:
• Desire begins with denial. Everything else is obedience.
• I stared at it too long. The quote wasn’t credited. I wondered if he wrote it himself. I wondered who he meant it for.
• “Five hundred words,” he said. “Your reaction, not your analysis. Bring it next week.”
• He didn’t take attendance. He didn’t smile. He just dismissed us with a glance, like we were always meant to leave wanting more.
• As I gathered my things, my hands trembled. Not from fear. Not exactly. From something closer to... recognition.
• I felt seen. Not known—God, no—but noticed.
• I should’ve walked away. I should’ve told myself he was just another professor, just another man with too much intellect and not enough boundaries.
• But I didn’t.
• I went back to my room and opened the novel. The first paragraph was about a woman staring at a locked door she’d been told never to open. She wanted to know what was behind it. She knew the rules. She broke them anyway.
• I read the entire book in one sitting.
• And when I finished, I wrote a response I was too ashamed to keep:
• "I want to open every door I’ve been told to leave shut. I want to know what happens to the girl who disobeys."
• I didn’t turn that version in, of course. I wrote something more appropriate. Measured. Detached. I made sure to quote a philosopher, to cite my sources.
• But the first version stayed in my drawer. Hidden, like the hunger I was only beginning to understand.
• The next class came too quickly. He didn’t mention my paper, or anyone’s. He lectured less this time—he asked questions instead, waited too long for answers, made us squirm. When he finally responded, it was always precise. Final. Not cruel, but corrective.
• Like he was tuning us.
• When it was my turn to speak, I said something safe. He looked at me. Not unkindly. But like he could hear what I didn’t say.
• After class, I stayed behind. I told myself I was organizing my notes, but really I just wanted to watch him leave.
• He didn’t.
• Instead, he walked over and stood near the desk beside mine. Close, but not enough to call it a violation.
• “Miss Sinclair,” he said, almost absentmindedly. “You chose the wrong draft.”
• I froze.
• “I’m sorry?” I whispered.
• He didn’t smile. But his eyes flickered—something between approval and warning.
• “I read your first response. You printed it and threw it away in the philosophy office bin.”
• My chest went hollow. He had dug through the trash?
• “I—” My throat closed.
• “Don’t apologize,” he said. “That version was raw. Risked something.”
• He stepped back. “The version you submitted was obedient.”
• I didn’t move. Couldn’t.
• Then he turned, gathered his books, and left.
• I stood there long after the door clicked shut, my heart thudding against my ribs like it wanted out.
• I wasn’t sure what he wanted from me. Not yet.
• But I was already thinking about what I might give him.