Sunlight streamed through the half-open blinds in Grace's bedroom. Her organized desk had textbooks that were stacked by size and color coded pens that were lined up with military precision. A planner laid open of pages crammed with deadlines.
Grace Monroe, at the age of 21, positioned herself by the door while she readjusted the strap of her black leather bag over her shoulder. She looked at the clock on the wall; it read 7:03 A.M. She was exactly on schedule. With that, she opened the door and stepped outside.
"Let's go," she murmured softly to herself.
As she descended the staircase, the sound of her heels resonated with a steady beat, and her body became tense all at once.
Her hand fled to her coat pocket but it was empty, then she exhaled sharply, "shit."
She pivoted smoothly on her heel as she climbed back upstairs with controlled urgency.
When she reached her bedroom, she strode to the bed and found her phone right where she left it, half burled under a neatly folded gray blanket and the screen lit.
A message notification glowed.
From: Derrick
"Thinking about next week...Next time, no rules. Just us."
Her fingers hovered over the screen for a bit with a blank expression. She didn't blush or flinch. She locked the phone with a cold swipe and tucked it into her coat, then she turned away.
Her father, Charles Monroe, was in his early 50s. He was dressed in a crisp suit and he had a hard expression that was defined with years of negotiation as he sipped his black coffee at the kitchen island. He was reviewing quarterly reports on his tablet.
Her mother, Katherine Monroe, who was polished in pearls and cream cashmere, was trimming dead leaves off an immaculate orchid on the windowsill, her scissors snipped with carefulness.
Grace stepped into the space like an intrusion as she adjusted her blazer. Then she cleared her throat, "I'm heading to campus."
No one responded as her father's thumb flicked across the tablet and her mother snipped another leaf.
After an excruciating pause, Charles spoke with a low voice, measured in the way of scalpel cuts, "Last semester. Your GPA slipped."
Grace knew that was a fact. His father's eyes rose to meet hers and they were cold and assessing.
"That is not acceptable," he continued as Grace stiffened her body.
"It was a point zero-two difference. I corrected it." Grace said with a defensive tone.
"You won't let it happen again. We've invested too much for mediocrity," her father warned.
Then her mother stepped in, softly but firmly, "Your father is right Grace. This isn't who we raised you to be."
Grace didn't blink. Her back straightened and then she gave them a single nod.
"See that it doesn't." Her father concluded.
She left there as she pondered on her parent's demands. Her hands lingered on the doorknob for a split second and then she was gone.
The Monroe estate gates glided open, soundlessly. A shiny black Mercedes-Benz S-Class gleamed like a mirror as it stood by the curb. The chauffeur, Edwin, in his mid-40s and dressed in uniform, silently opened the back passenger door.
Grace stepped out of the house without a wasted motion looking composed.
"Good morning, Miss Monroe," greeted Edwin the chauffeur.
"Morning Edwin," she replied as she slid into the back seat and the door closed with a quiet thud.
---
The car moved in silence. The leather seats were pristine with the faintest scent of expensive old money. Grace stared out the tinted window as Edwin pulled them smoothly into traffic.
For a moment, she let herself exhale but it was not a relief, more like the slow bleed of tension.
Her phone laid face down on her lap, she didn't pick it up, she didn't want to. The message from Derrick was still there behind her temple. It throbbed but she pushed it aside.
Her gaze slid up to her own reflection in the window. It was cool, calm and perfectly composed. A mask that she had worn for so long it felt permanent.
Her thumb idly traced the edge of her planner that peeked out of her bag, "How do you tell people like them...It's never enough? That you can't breathe when every second of your life belongs to their expectations?"
Then her jaws tightened.
"You don't. You work harder. You win." she concluded to herself.
Her father's words echoed in her mind, "We've invested too much for mediocrity."
As she swallowed those painful words, the knot in her throat tasted like iron.
---
The car finally came to a stop at the main entrance, at the drop off zone of her school, Strathmore University. A gothic building that was covered in ivy. The campus hummed with early morning activity.
Students crossed the grand courtyard in small clusters, clutching coffee cups, earbuds in, and books clutched to their chests.
A line of luxury cars, Bentleys, Audis, a matte-black Range Rover, crawled up to the curb as chauffeurs in tailored uniforms stepped out and opened doors.
Well dressed students emerged in designer bags with immaculate hair and practiced indifference.
Edwin rounded the car and opened Grace's door and she stepped out as her black heels kissed the cobblestone with a purposeful rhythm.
Nearby, another student climbed out of a red Tesla as his father was still shouting instructions from the driver's seat.
Farther down, a girl in thrifted clothes locked up her battered bike and glanced toward the luxury cars with a mix of resentment and resignation.
Grace barely glanced at them as her eyes were only headed for the ivy covered archway ahead. This was now her domain. Heads turned when she passed and some looked at her with admiration as others envied her but no one was ignoring her.
One student said lowly to their friend, "That's Monroe. She aced Dr. Patel's ethics exam, no curve."
Then the the friend to the student replied, "I figured. Her dad probably bought the building."
Grace heard it, she always heard it and to her, the gossip always slid off like water on glass.
As she made her way through the courtyard, students made way for her and a few nodded but she never nodded back. At the edge of the quad, she paused. Then she stared up at the stone façade of the Humanities Building.
For a moment, she had a tired expression that was mixed with fear and rebellion but she decided to move on.
Afterwards, she pushed through the heavy doors into the marble hallway as her footsteps echoed. She was already planning her next move of the Class schedule, study sessions and the conversation she needed to have with Professor Callahan. The grades she couldn't let drop, the secrets she was keeping, and somewhere deep within her, there was the faintest pulse of something she didn't want to admit.
Desire.
---
The Ethics and Moral Philosophy class was already half-filled with students.
A soft exchange of dialogue filled the air, interrupted now and then by the sound of a chair moving or papers being adjusted.
At the front, Professor Callahan, in his mid-50s, organized his notes on the lectern.
Grace entered with her usual efficiency. She selected her seat in the front row, dead center. Her notebook and pen were already out before she sat with an impeccable posture..
A few rows back, there was a stir. A flash of movement.
Jax Reed, at 22 years old, settled into his regular spot at the rear of the classroom. His leather jacket draped casually over one shoulder, while he sported faded jeans and black boots that pointed ahead as if he belonged there.
His grin had a way of making others feel both cautious and intrigued, and the classmates took notice. They always noticed when Jax and Grace were in the same room. It felt like there was an electric charge already.
Professor Callahan cleared his throat, "Today, we will discuss the concept of moral absolutism versus moral relativism."
He barely finished the sentence when Jax raised his hand with an exaggerated laziness, "Is this where we pretend right and wrong are the same for everyone? Because that sounds like a fairy tale."
A few chuckles rippled through the room and Grace didn't even want turn to look at him as she chimed in, "Or maybe it's where we acknowledge that actions have objective consequences. That some things are universally wrong, whether you like it or not."
Jax leaned forward with his elbows on his desk as he watched her with amused eyes. His voice cut through the air casually but biting, "Tell that to history, Monroe. Pretty sure the winners always decided what was right."
"Convenient argument for someone who's used to losing," Grace fired at Jax.
The room erupted in murmurs and low laughter. Then someone whispered, "Here they go again."
Jax's grin widened with a slow, dangerous smirk. He rose from his seat with deliberate ease as he strolled toward the front, "You mean losing like...getting the highest score in Callahan's midterm? Oh wait. That was me."
Then followed a collective, "Ooooh."
The students were divided, some were clearly siding with Jax while others were leaning toward Grace.
Grace stood now, as she squared her shoulders looking unshaken, "Winning on a technicality because you found a loophole isn't the same as understanding the material. But I'm not surprised. You've always been good at cutting corners."
Jax stepped closer, invading her space just enough to make it noticeable. His voice was now lower, a private challenge for her ears, but loud enough for everyone else to hear, "Maybe. But you're the only one I'm interested in outsmarting."
The room hummed, the tension snapping like an over tightened wire. Even Professor Callahan didn't interrupt.
Grace held his gaze but she was unmoving and she didn't respond.
She turned back towards her seat, her head held high and she ignored him, ignoring the heat that was curling at the base of her neck.
Jax watched her sit down with an amused look.
Professor Callahan finally cleared his throat again, "Thank you, Mr Reed and Miss Monroe, for your passionate exchange. Shall we continue?"
As the lecture resumed, the whispers continued behind them. The crowd was always divided but one thing was clear, everyone lived for these moments and neither of them really lost.