Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 184

Sophie’s POV

I'd never been so terrified in my life.

Standing in the hallway outside the presentation room, clutching my note cards with sweaty hands, I seriously considered just leaving.

"You've got this," Bellamy said quietly, standing beside me. "Remember what we talked about. You know this material better than anyone in that room."

"What if they ask something I can't answer?"

"Then you say you'd need to research that further. Admitting the limits of your current study is intellectual honesty." He squeezed my shoulder briefly. "Now go in there and show them what Dr. Sophie Hale is capable of."

The room was packed—maybe fifty people, a mix of graduate students and professors, all there to hear panels on nineteenth-century literature.

I was the second presenter in my session. I had to sit through the first one while my heart tried to hammer its way out of my chest.

When my turn came, I walked to the front on legs that felt like water. Set up my laptop. Looked out at the sea of faces.

Some were neutral, attentive. Others looked skeptical. And a handful were whispering to each other, and I knew they were talking about me: the scandal girl, the one who slept with her professor.

I saw Dr. Wu in the third row, giving me an encouraging nod.

And I saw Bellamy, standing at the very back of the room, completely out of place in his professional security stance but watching me with absolute confidence written on his face.

I took a breath... And started talking.

The first few sentences were shaky, but then something clicked. I remembered why I loved this work, why I'd spent months analyzing Braddon's novels, why this argument mattered.

I let the research speak for itself.

I walked them through my thesis—how Lady Audley's "madness" in Lady Audley's Secret was actually a form of resistance against patriarchal medical discourse, how Braddon subverted contemporary views of female insanity to create a character who weaponized societal expectations.

I showed them the textual evidence, the historical context, the way this connected to broader patterns in sensation fiction.

And somewhere in the middle of my presentation, I forgot to be scared. I was just a scholar, sharing work I believed in, engaging with ideas that mattered.

When I finished and opened the floor for questions, several hands went up immediately.

A graduate student asked about my methodology—I explained my approach to close reading combined with historical analysis. A younger professor wanted to know how my argument applied to other Braddon novels—I gave examples from Aurora Floyd and The Doctor's Wife.

Then an older man in the front row, Professor Edmund Hartley, according to his name tag, from Columbia, raised his hand.

"Your reading is interesting," he said, his tone suggesting he didn't actually find it interesting at all, "but don't you think you're imposing modern feminist frameworks onto a Victorian text? Aren't you reading resistance where Braddon may have simply been writing melodrama?"

The room went quiet. This was the challenge I'd been dreading—the senior scholar questioning my entire theoretical foundation.

But instead of crumbling, I felt something sharp and clear settle in my chest.

"With respect, Professor Hartley, I disagree. Braddon was writing during a period of intense debate about women's legal and social status. The Married Women's Property Acts, the emergence of the New Woman, conversations about female education—these weren't abstract concepts to her."

I’ve been saying firmly.

"They were her lived reality. And when she creates a character like Lady Audley who explicitly manipulates medical and legal systems meant to control women, I think dismissing that as 'just melodrama' actually does a disservice to Braddon's sophistication as a writer."

A few people in the audience shifted forward in their seats. Dr. Wu was beaming.

Professor Hartley looked surprised that I'd pushed back. "But you're still projecting contemporary concerns."

"Am I?” I met his gaze steadily. “Or am I recognizing that women in the 1860s had agency and awareness of their oppression, even if they expressed it differently than we would today?"

A smattering of applause broke out. Professor Hartley sat back, not won over but at least silenced.

The rest of Q&A went smoothly. When the moderator thanked me and moved to the next presenter, I gathered my materials with hands that were shaking again—but this time from adrenaline rather than fear.

I did it. I actually did it.

Afterward, people approached me. Not everyone, but enough that I felt overwhelmed by the attention.

Dr. Wu hugged me, whispering that she was proud. A professor from Brown asked about my graduate school timeline, said she'd be happy to write a recommendation. Someone from Penn mentioned a PhD program with full funding that I should consider applying to.

I felt like I was flying. Like I'd reclaimed something I thought the scandal had taken from me permanently—my identity as a scholar, someone whose ideas mattered independent of who she'd slept with or what headlines had said about her.

Bellamy waited until the crowd cleared before approaching. "You were brilliant," he said simply. "Absolutely brilliant."

"I pushed back against a Columbia professor," I said, still slightly in shock. "I actually argued with him in front of everyone."

"And you were right to. Your argument was solid. He was being dismissive." Bellamy smiled. "You destroyed him with your brilliance, just like I said you would."

We celebrated with dinner at a restaurant Bellamy found—nothing fancy, just good food and atmosphere that felt warm rather than pretentious.

I ordered wine, actually allowed to enjoy it without worrying about breastfeeding, and the freedom felt almost decadent.

I talked excitedly about everything and Bellamy listened with genuine interest, asked thoughtful questions, encouraged every dream I voiced. The conversation flowed naturally, easily, like we'd been doing this for years.

At some point, he said something that made me laugh and I was reaching across the table to swat his arm playfully when my phone rang.

Adrian's name flashed on the screen.

The bubble burst. Reality came crashing back.

I answered, trying to keep the joy in my voice. "Hey, I was just about to call you. It went so well, Adrian. I got great feedback, and several professors want to write recommendations, and…"

"That's wonderful," Adrian said, but his voice sounded off. Distant. "I'm really proud of you."

"Are you okay? You sound strange."

"I'm fine, just tired. Long day." A pause. "I miss you. When are you coming home?"

"Tomorrow morning, like we planned. Bellamy and I are leaving right after breakfast."

Another pause, this one heavier. "Right. Well, I'm glad it went well. Get some rest. Love you."

"Love you too."

When I hung up, the magic of the evening had dimmed. Bellamy was already signaling for the check, the easy warmth between us shifting back toward careful professionalism.

We walked back to the hotel in near silence. At the elevator, we rode up without speaking. When we reached the hallway where our rooms were, just four doors apart, we stopped.

"Thank you," I said, not ready for the night to end. "For everything. For believing in me when I didn't believe in myself. For being here. For…" I didn't know how to finish.

"It was my pleasure," Bellamy said softly. "Watching you up there today, seeing you own that room—that was an honor, Sophie."

We stood too close. The hallway was empty, quiet, just the two of us and too many unsaid things hanging in the air between us.

My hand reached out without conscious thought, touched his arm. "Bellamy…"

He caught my hand gently but firmly, stopping me. "Don't. Not here, not now. You know where this leads."

"Do I?" My voice came out as barely a whisper.

"Yes." His eyes held mine. "And tomorrow you go home to Adrian. To your life, your daughter, your wedding. Don't do something tonight that you'll regret in the morning."

My hand dropped. He was right. Of course he was right.

"Goodnight, Sophie," he said quietly.

"Goodnight."

I unlocked my door, stepped inside, closed it behind me. Leaned against it with my eyes closed, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hallway.

I'd had the most triumphant day of my academic life. I should have been celebrating, calling my father, texting Cleo, riding this high.

Instead, I stood alone in a hotel room, crying for reasons I didn't want to examine too closely.