Hazel crossed one leg over the other, tapping her manicured nail against the armrest of the chair as she studied the Dean's office.
It was immaculate, as always—dark shelves lined with law books, a single framed diploma polished so perfectly the glass glinted even in the muted light. Everything screamed order, control. But to Hazel, it felt suffocating.
"I don't understand," she said finally, her voice laced with frustration, though she kept it measured enough to sound polite. "Why drag me into this if I can't do what I'm best at?"
Dean Reed, perched stiffly behind his desk, adjusted his tie as though buying himself time. "Hazel," he began, his tone calm but heavy, "you were asked to watch her, not to harm her. You will not—under any circumstance—lay a finger on Harper. Is that clear?"
