Hazel's blood went cold. Her heart pounded violently against her ribcage, making it hard to breathe. For a terrifying second, she thought she had been hallucinating the sudden brightness—but no. The figure standing in the doorway was all too real.
The Dean.
Her throat tightened, words tangling before they could form. The folder was already back in the drawer—thank God—but her hand still lingered on the polished desk, trembling slightly. She jerked it away as if burned.
"What," Alvin Reed's voice was low, measured, almost too calm, "are you doing here, Miss Hazel?"
Hazel froze, tongue glued to the roof of her mouth. Every instinct screamed at her to make something up—an excuse, a lie, anything—but her brain had gone blank. She just stood there, transfixed, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights.
The Dean didn't move. His sharp eyes flicked to the desk, to the slightly misaligned folder, then back to her. Hazel swallowed hard, pulse hammering in her ears.
