Jasper Jean Mariano (Jay's POV)
Silence stretched longer than comfort allowed.
Good.
I let it sit—long enough for unease to settle in, long enough for the room to realize I wasn't going to rush to fill it.
Then I spoke.
"Before we go any further," I said calmly, "we need to establish something."
A few students finally looked up properly. Not glances. Attention.
"I'm not here to impress you. I'm not here to be liked. And I'm certainly not here to ask for your approval."
A chair shifted. Someone scoffed quietly.
I continued anyway.
"You've spent three years being told what excellence looks like in theory. You've memorized frameworks, aced exams, quoted case studies written by people who've never had to live with the consequences of their decisions."
I paused.
"That ends here."
A hand shot up from the middle row.
"Yes?" I acknowledged.
"With all due respect," a boy said, leaning back in his chair, arrogance worn like a badge, "you're a first-year. We're final-year students. I don't see how this is supposed to work."
Murmurs followed.
I met his gaze—not hard, not angry. Just steady.
"You're right," I said. "It doesn't work—if you think seniority equals competence."
A few sharp inhales.
"You want respect because of time spent," I went on. "I measure it by outcomes."
The boy opened his mouth again.
I raised a finger—not rudely, just enough.
"Before you speak again," I said, "tell me—how many independent ventures have you scaled past their first fiscal year?"
Silence.
I tilted my head slightly. "Thought so."
Laughter broke out. Not kind. Not cruel either. Nervous.
Another voice called from the side, louder. "So what, we just take orders from you now?"
I turned slowly toward the sound.
"No," I replied. "You'll take responsibility."
That shut him up.
I walked toward the board, picked up a marker, and wrote two words in clean strokes.
RISK
ACCOUNTABILITY
"You've been taught to optimize," I said, facing them again. "Today, I'll teach you to survive your own decisions."
I could feel it now—the stare.
Not from the class.
From the back.
It wasn't invasive. It wasn't dismissive.
It was… intent.
I didn't look.
"You'll be working in groups of five," I said. "Each group will be assigned a real company scenario—no hypotheticals. These are live-market problems."
A girl near the front frowned. "When is this due?"
I smiled faintly.
"Tomorrow."
The reaction was immediate.
"You're joking."
"That's impossible."
"Overnight?"
I waited for the noise to burn itself out.
Then—
"If you think one night is impossible," I said evenly, "you're not ready for the real world. Crises don't give you deadlines you like."
A boy muttered, "This is insane."
I looked directly at him for the first time.
"No," I said. "This is accurate."
The room went still.
"You'll present your decisions," I finished. "Not your research. Not your excuses. Your decisions—and you will defend them."
I capped the marker.
"You may hate this month," I added. "Most of you will."
I glanced once, finally, toward the back row.
The presence was still there. Unmoved. Watching.
"But by the end of it," I said quietly, "you'll know whether you're fit to lead—or just good at pretending."
I closed my folder.
"That's all. You're dismissed."
Chairs scraped back violently. Voices erupted. Frustration. Excitement. Shock.
I gathered my things slowly, unaffected.
As I walked past the back row, I felt it again—that pressure. Not threatening.
Challenging.
I didn't turn.
Whatever that was—
It wasn't fear.
And it wasn't mine to name yet.
Liam Carter (Liam's POV):
When she said her name, my brain refused to cooperate.
"Jasper Jean Mariano."
For a second, it didn't land.
Just a name. Calm voice. Clean delivery.
Then it did.
And the room tilted.
Not because of Mariano.
Because of Jasper.
Because of professor JAY!
Because Lily's voice echoed in my head—casual, fond, unguarded.
Jay's busy today.
Jay hates crowded places.
Jay's scary when people underestimate her.
I'd never seen her.
Not once.
Lily talked about her like you talk about weather—constant, familiar, unquestioned. A presence so normal you don't think to ask what it looks like.
And now—
She was standing at the front of my lecture hall.
Teaching.
I stared before I could stop myself.
She didn't look like how my mind had filled in the blanks. No arrogance. No theatrics. Just… composure. The kind that didn't ask permission to exist.
Unreal.
My chest tightened in a way I didn't like.
That's Lily's Jay.
The girl who helped her through nights I never asked about.
The one she trusted without hesitation.
The name that came up whenever Lily smiled without trying.
I swallowed.
This wasn't supposed to be how I met her.
She spoke again—clear, precise—and the class reacted like seniors always did when their authority was threatened. Pushback. Scoffs. Someone muttering under their breath.
I felt irritation spike—sharp and instinctive.
When a guy questioned her right to be there, I almost laughed. Not because it was funny.
Because he had no idea.
She shut him down without raising her voice. Didn't humiliate him. Didn't need to. Just exposed the gap between confidence and competence.
That was so… her.
I didn't even know her—and somehow I did.
I leaned back in my seat slowly, eyes never leaving her.
Lily had said once, half-joking, Jay doesn't lose control. She removes variables.
Watching her now, I understood.
This wasn't some prodigy stunt.
This was restraint.
And then it hit me—harder than anything else.
Lily had said she'd meet Jay after class.
Which meant—
I was sitting here, watching my sister's person command a room full of final-year egos… and she had no idea I existed.
The thought unsettled me more than it should have.
I glanced sideways at Keifer.
He was watching too. Not staring. Measuring.
Great.
That was the last thing I wanted.
When Jay dismissed the class, the room exploded into noise. Complaints. Excitement. Panic.
She stayed calm. Packed up. Walked past us without a glance.
Didn't see me.
Didn't know me.
And somehow that felt wrong.
Because Lily trusted her.
And now—
So did I.
Whether she liked it or not.
Mark Keifer Watson (Keifer's POV)
She didn't rush.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Most people, when faced with a room full of seniors who didn't want them there, tried to fill the silence. Apologize for it. Soften it.
She did neither.
She let the quiet stretch until it became uncomfortable—and then claimed it.
Interesting.
I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed, watching without any particular investment. I'd seen arrogance dressed up as confidence before. It usually cracked fast.
This didn't.
When she spoke, the room shifted—not because she raised her voice, but because she didn't need to. Every word landed exactly where it was meant to.
Unbothered.
A guy challenged her. Predictable. The kind of bravado that confused volume for authority.
I almost smiled.
She didn't shut him down theatrically. No humiliation. No ego. Just a question—clean and precise—that exposed the gap between what he thought he knew and what he'd actually done.
The laughter that followed wasn't cruel.
It was nervous.
That was new.
I felt a flicker of amusement then. Genuine. Brief.
She's good.
When someone else tried again—louder this time—I expected friction.
Instead, she redirected it.
Responsibility.
I repeated the word in my head, watching how it landed. Watching how the room recalibrated around it.
When she wrote on the board—RISK. ACCOUNTABILITY.—I sat up slightly without realizing it.
Those weren't academic words.
Those were operational.
Her assignment hit like a slap.
Overnight.
No safety nets.
No excuses.
I heard the protests but tuned them out. I wasn't looking at the class anymore.
I was looking at her.
At the way she didn't flinch when they pushed back. At how she waited for the noise to die instead of fighting it. At how she spoke about pressure like it was an old acquaintance.
Amusement gave way to something else.
Not irritation.
Not interest.
Recognition.
When she finally glanced toward the back row, it wasn't searching. It wasn't challenging.
It was… acknowledgment.
Like she'd been aware of me the entire time.
That was unexpected.
The class ended in chaos. Chairs scraped. Voices rose. People panicked about deadlines they didn't like.
She didn't react.
She gathered her things calmly and walked past us—close enough that I caught the faintest trace of something clean, neutral. No attempt to make an impression.
I didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't look back.
But for the first time in a long while, something unsettled slipped past my control—not enough to show, not enough to name.
Just enough to register.
She hadn't tried to dominate the room.
She'd earned it.
And somehow—
That bothered me more than it should have....