Adrian’s face burned with humiliation.
The last bit of restraint he had left finally snapped.
“Professor!”
He looked up, his expression turning cold.
“Please watch what you’re saying. I never touched her! I just wanted to talk to her during the break. You don’t know what happened, so how can you accuse me like that?”
Professor Thomas Caldwell narrowed his eyes.
He had taught at Westbridge University for decades and was highly respected in the humanities. He had spent his entire career studying classical art and was known for being kind and approachable.
But he was also fiercely protective of his students.
And he had never liked students who thought their family background or academic achievements gave them the right to look down on others.
Now, this young man had tried to pull one of his students away right in front of him, spoken to her in an aggressive tone, and, after being called out, was still acting as though he were the one who had been wronged.
Professor Caldwell’s expression hardened.
If Adrian had simply apologized and explained himself, the matter might have ended there.
But instead, he was standing in the middle of the classroom arguing with him.
That was another matter entirely.
“You don’t think I know what happened?”
Professor Caldwell gave a cold laugh.
“I saw you pressuring my student to leave the classroom with you. I saw you reaching for her after she told you she wanted to stay.”
His voice became firmer.
“You were being aggressive and disrespectful. That’s enough for me.”
He looked Adrian directly in the eye.
“Your name. Your department. And your academic advisor.”
He paused.
“This happened in my classroom, so I’m going to deal with it.”
By now, more students had gathered around them, and the whispers were getting louder.
Adrian felt as though he were standing in the middle of a crowd with everyone staring at him.
Every bit of his pride seemed to be on display.
He suddenly let out a short, humorless laugh.
Fine.
The old professor wanted his advisor?
Then let him call.
Adrian wanted to see who was actually going to do something to him.
He was one of the mathematics department’s top students. The faculty had high hopes for him. They expected him to win international competitions and produce meaningful research.
Did they really think the department would punish him over something this trivial?
If anything, his professors might end up comforting him and complaining about some stubborn old humanities professor who had overstepped his bounds.
“Fine.”
Adrian lifted his chin slightly.
His voice was cold.
“School of Mathematical Sciences. Third year. Adrian Cole. My academic advisor is Professor Daniel Foster. Go ahead and call him.”
He turned toward Elena.
“You’ll regret this.”
Then he turned and walked away.
Professor Caldwell watched him leave and snorted.
He turned to the graduate teaching assistant standing nearby.
“Did you get all that?”
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The teaching assistant looked slightly stunned.
“…Yes, Professor. I got it.”
Professor Caldwell then turned back to Elena, his expression softening.
“Don’t worry. You can go back to class. I’ll take care of this.”
Elena nodded gratefully.
She gave him a small bow before straightening.
“Professor, if you ever need me to demonstrate anything in class again, just let me know.”
Professor Caldwell immediately smiled.
“All right, all right. You young people have enough on your plates. The fact that you’re willing to help is more than enough.”
The rest of the class passed without further incident.
Instead of going straight back to her dorm, Elena headed to the dance department’s dedicated rehearsal building.
Relying on the original Elena’s memories, she swiped her card and entered an empty practice studio as though she had done it countless times before.
She changed into a fitted dance leotard and loosely tied her long hair into a bun.
Standing in front of the wall-length mirror, she took a deep breath.
Dance was not something the body could fake.
No matter how clearly she remembered the movements, that alone wasn’t enough.
Dance depended on muscle memory built through hundreds, even thousands, of hours of repetitive practice.
Elena walked over to the barre.
She didn’t rush into anything difficult.
Instead, she started with the basics—brushes, pliés, and other fundamental exercises—slowly waking up muscles that had grown accustomed to neglect.
As her body gradually loosened up, she left the barre and moved toward the center of the studio.
She began testing her range with high leg extensions, turns, and jumps that demanded considerable core control.
The practice room was almost completely silent.
The only sounds were her increasingly heavy breathing and the faint friction of her toes against the floor.
More than half an hour later, Elena finally stopped.
She bent forward slightly, resting both hands on her knees as she caught her breath.
Fine beads of sweat slid down her fair forehead and along her slender neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her leotard and catching the light along her collarbones.
She slowly straightened and looked at the flushed, slightly breathless girl in the mirror.
The body itself was perfectly capable.
No wonder the original Elena had been good enough to get into a top university.
Her flexibility was excellent, and her turnout and natural range of motion were both impressive.
It was just a shame…
Elena frowned slightly and reached down to massage her mildly aching calf and ankle.
There was an old saying among dancers: Miss one day of practice, and you notice it. Miss three days, and everyone else notices.
During the combinations of turns and jumps she had just attempted, she could clearly feel that her breathing had become uneven.
Some of her landings were also softer than they should have been, lacking the clean precision she was used to.
The original Elena probably hadn’t been putting much effort into her training lately.
Her basic conditioning had been neglected, and her stamina had dropped.
But Elena couldn’t help feeling a little troubled.
If she wanted to continue with some of her plans, she might have to invest a considerable amount of time into dance as well.
“I’ll just have to find time to put in some extra practice…”
Elena stared at her reflection and murmured softly.
She had chosen this path simply to survive.
But when it came to staying alive, the more cards she had up her sleeve, the better.
That afternoon, in one of the large lecture rooms in the School of Mathematical Sciences, Adrian sat near the front.
A trace of gloom still lingered between his brows.
But now that he was back in familiar territory, he had regained that sense of control and superiority.
At the front of the room, an elderly professor with graying hair was working through a complicated problem in functional analysis.
His solution was intricate yet elegant, drawing the students deeper into the problem with every step.
Adrian glanced slightly to the side.
Victoria Sterling was sitting a short distance behind him.
She was a finance student, but she had an exceptionally strong mathematical background and often attended advanced mathematics lectures as a guest.
At the moment, she was completely focused on the lecture.
The professor reached the final stage of his proof and turned to face the class.
“The key step here is proving that this mapping is continuous under the weak topology. Does anyone have any ideas?”
The room fell silent for a moment.
Some students frowned as they thought through the problem. Others lowered their heads and flipped through their notes.
Adrian raised his hand.
“Yes?”
The professor nodded toward him, a look of expectation in his eyes.
Adrian stood and walked to the blackboard.
He picked up a piece of chalk.
He pushed the unpleasant events of the morning out of his mind and focused entirely on the mathematical problem in front of him.
After adding a simple diagram beside the existing proof, Adrian began writing.
His reasoning was clear, his logic precise.
He used an operator-semigroup approach that had not been covered in class, cleverly bypassing the original difficulty and leading the proof toward a shorter and more elegant solution.
Line after line of mathematical notation appeared smoothly across the board.
The classroom was completely silent.
Every student watched his work.
Victoria leaned forward slightly, admiration visible in her eyes.
Finally, Adrian finished the proof.
He turned around and gently placed the chalk back in its tray.
“Excellent!”
The professor was the first to applaud, his admiration completely undisguised.
“Adrian’s solution is extremely clever. He stepped outside the usual framework and found a much cleaner approach. Everyone should learn from this—the ability to use different mathematical tools flexibly is just as important as knowing the theory itself.”
Applause filled the room, mixed with quiet murmurs of admiration.
“No wonder they call him the math genius. That was insane.”
“How did I not think of that approach?”
“No wonder the Sterling heiress keeps coming to his classes…”
“Maybe she just wants to attend the lectures.”
“This class meets several times a week. How come she always seems to be here when Adrian is?”
Adrian returned to his seat, basking in the admiring looks from every direction.
The humiliation he had suffered from Professor Caldwell that morning seemed to fade.
Yes.
This was his world.
This was his field.
His success came from genuine talent and intelligence.
That old professor could never understand it.
And neither could someone as shallow and money-hungry as Elena.
Just then, there was a soft knock at the rear door of the lecture hall.
Adrian looked up.
A man in his forties—the mathematics department’s academic advisor, Daniel Foster—peeked inside.
He nodded politely toward the professor at the front before scanning the room.
His eyes stopped on Adrian.
Daniel raised a hand and gestured for him to come over.
His expression was noticeably serious.