Find out what makes her tick

“Hey Caitlin” you call out to your sister who is standing nervously at the door, “you can head out now,” you instruct. “Looks like this is handled—her problem with you should be sorted.”

Caitlin’s eyes widen briefly, a flicker of relief crossing her face, before she nods and eagerly slips out, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft thud.

Now you are left alone with the professor, you pivot back, your gaze settling on her. The cluttered desk between you seems less imposing now, her posture softened from your earlier words.

“So, Dr. Hidalgo,” you begin, letting your tone dip with curiosity, “are you in a relationship?” Your eyes flicker to her left hand, resting idly on the book, noting the bare ring finger—no band, no tan line, just smooth skin catching the light.

Her lips curve into a wry smile, as she leans back in her chair, the creak of wood punctuating her words. “No, I’ve never found a man worthy of me. It takes someone special, you see.”

She adjusts her glasses, her hoop earrings swaying slightly, and her voice gains a dreamy edge. “He’d need to tower over everyone, at least six-foot-five, with a face carved by angels—sharp jaw, piercing eyes. Wealth, of course, a fortune to match his confidence, yet he’d kneel at my feet, eager to serve, submissive to my every whim.”

The Professors gestures grandly with her hands, tracing an imaginary figure in the air, her demands growing wilder with each breath—perhaps a private jet, a mansion in the hills, or a voice that could charm diplomats while bowing to her intellect.

Grand gestures sketch extravagant outlines in the air, demands escalating with every breath—perhaps a private jet, a mansion in the hills, or a voice that could charm diplomats while bowing to her intellect.

The tirade stretches, her expectations spiralling into absurdity, and you catch the glint of delusion in her eyes, the way her fingers clutch the air as if grasping for this phantom prince. She sighs, the sound heavy, and shifts gears, her tone turning bitter.

“Most men I’ve tried to date, though, they crumble. My success as a professor, my expertise in human psychology—they can’t handle it. They shrink, stammer, flee like scared rabbits.” Her lips purse, a scowl etching deeper lines into her forehead.

Your mind drifts, wondering if it’s less her achievements and more that sharp attitude she wields like a shield. In her past, you imagine, that tongue-lashing, snobbish, arrogant, nasty attitude might have driven potential boyfriends away—less her academic and professional accomplishments, more the way she wields it.

The thought lingers, but her next words jolt you. “Even now, it’s the same,” she admits, her voice dropping, a hint of vulnerability seeping through. “Men still shy away.”

Surprise flickers through you, eyebrows lifting as you take in her weathered face, the grey threading her dark hair.

Yes she’s smart looking and good looking for her age, but she’s well over the hill.

What’s a woman who looks this old doing on dates?

The question buzzes in your head, unvoiced but loud. She catches your expression, a faint chuckle escaping her.

“Older women enjoy such things too, you know,” Professor Hidalgo. “We seek companionship, though success comes less often—time and expectations weigh heavier.”

A soft creak ripples through the room as you shift your weight uncomfortably, the worn carpet swallowing the sound beneath your sneakers.

Time to change the subject or get back on track.

“Why so biased and harsh with your grading?” tumbles from your lips, curiosity masking the subtle hum thrumming in your chest.

The question lingers, heavy in the air, until Emilia rises, her blazer settling smoothly over her shoulders with a gentle tug. Adjusting her glasses, she softens, warmth seeping into those dark eyes.

“Not just me,” she murmurs kindly, voice gentle as a summer zephyr. A gesture toward the window follows, where sunlight pirouettes across the campus lawn, her hoop earrings glinting like captured stars. “

Many professors, the universities too—they’ve always danced this way. Back in my student days, it held true; before that, stretching into the past’s faded echoes.”

Her smile slips away, replaced by a cynical edge slicing through her tone. Leaning forward, elbows sink into the desk’s cluttered chaos. “Education? More a stage for conformity than a forge for learning, I’m afraid.”

A bitter laugh rasps out, jagged as broken glass, her finger tapping the wood with a rhythmic thud. “That’s my ladder to this chair—not solely my own grit. The dean, the board, they mirrored my values, my perspectives; that’s the true key.” Her lips twist into a scowl, deepening the grooves around her mouth, the ideological roots of her rise souring the air.

This causes your eyes to widen, surprise washes over you as her confession settles—her bitterness over the politics of her ascent wasn’t on your radar. Tilting your head, you probe, “If that stings, why mirror it with your students?” The question bursts forth, raw and unpolished, your thoughts scrambling to stitch this new thread into her story.

Steady as a lighthouse, her gaze locks with yours, though her frame stays relaxed under your influence. “The job itself? No quarrel there,” she asserts, voice firm yet warm, that accent rolling like a gentle tide. “I’m the best—perfect for this, the best fit for it.” Hands flare wide, presenting herself as proof, heels clicking softly as she adjusts her stance.

Heaviness cloaks the room, revelations piling like storm clouds you hadn’t foreseen. Leaning against the doorframe, its cool wood bites into your spine, sparking a thought—perhaps college isn’t your road.

Trade school flickers in your mind, its hands-on promise a stark contrast to this academic tangle.

Beyond the window, campus life hums, nudging a wild idea—should you chase the dean or chancellor, or whatever title crowns this place’s head? The terms feel plucked from a guess, uncertain, yet tempting.

Doubt gnaws, though—would your power sway them, tethered as it is to height and well sex? Emilia’s heels catch your eye, boosting her well above your 5.3 feet, though barefoot, she barely edges you out. Luck, it seems, smiled today.