Isaaq's POV
School the next day was exactly as soul-sucking as I expected it to be. Mrs. Evelyn Pritchard—yes, that was her real last name, which sounded like a cursed British breakfast to be honest—was handing back our assignments from last week.
Yay. Grades.
I barely glanced at mine. School had always felt like a background noise in my life. I mean, I already had my future figured out. CEO life? Locked in. Thanks to a few... strategic connections from my aunt's colorful dating history with rich corporate fossils. Say what you want about her taste in crusty old men—her relationships (or whatever they were) finally came in handy for something other than gross dinner stories.
While everyone else was flipping through papers like they meant something, I slid out my phone under the desk and started texting Aiden. Yep, I got his number after the drive yesterday. Shame he had "business" to handle—whatever that meant—but I'd have loved to hang out at his place again. We still hadn't even scratched the surface of the what are we? conversation. Labels and all that deep relationship jazz.
I'd tried thinking of smooth ways to text him all night. Every version ended in cringe. So I just passed out instead. But now? Mid-lecture, with boredom hitting hard? The timing felt perfect.
Hey, I finally typed and hit send.
No response.
Cool, I love being ghosted by the man I'd risk it all for.
Then my screen lit up.
Aiden: Hey Almasi, in a meeting. Talk later.
Almasi?
Why was he always calling me by my last name? What happened to "Isaaq"? Or "babe"? Or "love of my life"? Hell, even "daddy" would've been better—wait, no. No, it wouldn't. That thought alone nearly made me choke on my own shame.
"I'm a helpless case," I muttered, face-planting into the desk.
The bell rang, dragging me out of my spiral. Everyone started packing up and flooding toward the hallway like it was a prison break. I grabbed my bag, ready to escape too, when—
"Mr. Almasi," Mrs. Evelyn's voice rang out, sharp as ever. "We need to talk."
God. No.
I turned around slowly. "Can it, like, wait? 'Cause I've got—"
"It's about your grades, Mr. Almasi. Have a seat."
Ugh. I groaned and dragged a chair from the front row, flopping into it like it physically pained me.
"You did rather poorly on the assignment I gave last week," she began, taking off her glasses and giving me that classic I'm disappointed in you but trying to act like I care look.
"Well, I did my best," I said with a shrug.
"Almasi," she interrupted, tone rising. "You need to change your attitude toward school or consider your chances of getting into college pure figments of fantasy."
I clenched my jaw. I wanted to roll my eyes so bad they'd fall out. But I stayed calm, fake polite.
"So, what do you want me to do? Take school seriously or whatever?"
"That would be a start."
"Fine. Okay. Whatever. Are we done?"
"I'm not the only one who's noticed this. A lot of teachers are complaining."
"Well, they can suck—"
"Language!"
"Sorry, ma'am."
She narrowed her eyes at me, then exhaled. "I'm recommending you get a tutor."
"No. Hell no."
"It's not up for debate."
"But you just said recommend—"
"Oh fucking hell! It's called being formal Almasi. Don't make me explain semantics, it's really just a load of bullshit."
"Sheesh, woman! Language!" I shot back at her, mock-offended.
Mrs. Evelyn sighed, clearly regretting every life choice that led her to this conversation. "Anyway, we've discussed the matter with your guardian—" she opened a file and flipped through it, "—Julie Almasi. She agreed to the tutoring."
"That bitch," I muttered under my breath.
"Language! You're lucky I'm not giving you detention."
I rolled my eyes so hard I almost blacked out.
"Your tutor is Angela Dickens," she continued. "One of our star students. Working with her should bring your grades up in no time."
"Don't I get a say in all this?"
"No," she said, stone cold. "Your sessions start tomorrow. That will be all."
I dragged my bag over my shoulder and mumbled as I walked out the door, "Someone kill me."
The second I stepped out of Mrs. Evelyn's class, I was already dialing Julie's number. Oh, she was getting it. How dare she just—the fuck—make decisions about my life without even breathing a word to me first? I wasn't some clueless toddler she could just boss around with her boozy brunch brain. I had rights. I deserved a heads-up. A warning. A sign from the gods. Something.
The line rang a couple of times, then she picked up.
"Yes, my delicate little flower," she cooed in that annoyingly sing-song voice, then let out a weird laugh that made my skin crawl.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Julie…"
A pause. "Are you drunk right now?"
"What? No, I'm not—" hiccup.
Oh for f—
"Dude. It's 11 a.m. How are you tipsy already?"
"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?" she slurred, like the word was trying to escape a funhouse mirror.
I stared at the wall like it owed me an explanation. "Did you, or did you not, get a call from school this morning about assigning me a tutor?"
There was a pause, then she laughed—like full-on snorted—and said, "Sorry, sorry! I was watching this terrible movie, the one where the girl marries her enemy's cousin's florist or something. You know, real love-triangle garbage. I had wine. And Beyoncé was playing. It was a vibe, okay?"
I nearly imploded. "Fucking hell. Sober the fuck up, woman."
I hung up before I could say something that'd make me feel bad later—probably.
Seriously, I was gonna tear down that bar one day and bury it with garlic and sage. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to put her in charge of someone's future?
And then the worst realization hit me. Was she also drunk, watching a trash romcom with lip gloss-stained wine glasses, and just nodded through the entire call with the school like "Yesss, give my boy a tutor. He needs a smart girl in his life."?
I could see it so clearly it hurt. Julie Almasi was a piece of work. Sometimes I truly wondered who was the child and who was the guardian in this sad sitcom of a household.
Just then, my phone buzzed.
Aiden: Come to Building C, Room 204. Door's open.
I stared at the message.
No emojis. No punctuation. Just vibes.
And like a brainless simp, I turned right around, skipped my next class, and headed for Room 204 without hesitation.
Aiden wanted me there?
Say less.