Chapter 4: Heartstrings, High Stakes, and the Final Twist

I clung to the edge of the desk—desperate:

“Dr. Sinclair, what do I need to change?”

I was ready to promise anything. Rewrite, restate, recite the Constitution—whatever it took.

He jabbed his finger at his name on my thesis:

"Change your advisor to Professor Howard. This time, I want him to be the one with the bad press."

He really...

went for the jugular.

I felt the weight of the academic universe collapse on my head.

Howard was notorious for making students cry.

“For my brother’s sake...”

At the mention of my brother, he gave me a death glare:

“Back then your brother said he was sending a mascot to liven up the lab.”

He glared at me so hard, I almost burst into flames.

“You’re great—you turned it into a blood pressure crisis.”

He tossed the thesis back at me:

“Take your academic trash away. Tell Tyler to turn garbage into gold for you.”

“My suggestion: delay graduation.”

I just sat there, stunned.

My world crashed.

I stared at the ceiling, wondering if I could just evaporate. My future flashed before my eyes: living in my parents’ basement... telling people I was ‘between degrees.’

The two things I regret most in life: one, checking the ‘accept alternate offer’ box on my college application; two, listening to Tyler’s nonsense... and applying to Dr. Sinclair’s grad program.

If I could go back, I’d tell past me to run.

But hindsight is 20/20... and I’m still here, stuck in the slow lane.

I had blissfully imagined latching onto a big name and coasting through.

I thought I’d be the Hermione to his Dumbledore. Turns out, I was more like the Weasley twin who blew up the lab.

Who would’ve thought, the jerk cut all ties!

He didn’t even soften the blow. Just handed me my walking papers—and told me to figure it out.

Every meeting, as "certain students" or "a select few individuals"—or worse—I got roasted alive.

He never used my name, but everyone knew. The other students gave me sympathetic looks. Some started taking notes on what not to do.

The whole department praised Dr. Sinclair’s fairness.

Yeah, right.

He practically used me as a sacrificial lamb.

If there was a way to use me as a cautionary tale in a TED Talk...

he would’ve done it.

Back home.

Tyler was sprawled on the couch, watching football.

Empty pizza box on the coffee table, socks on the floor, and ESPN blaring. Classic Tyler.

I stormed in front of him:

“Bro, help me fix my thesis.”

He looked up, horrified:

“I don’t deserve this. Why me?”

He held up the remote like a shield. I glared at him, ready to start round two.

I exploded, grabbing a throw pillow to smack him:

“Dr. Sinclair actually wants me to delay graduation!”

“What kind of fake brotherhood is this?”

I whacked him again for good measure.

He just groaned.

He barely looked up, waving me off:

“Delay graduation? That’s another year of my money. No more allowance, don’t bug me!”

He was already calculating how much I’d cost him in extra tuition and snacks.

“Tyler, you jerk! Are you even my brother? You’re just going to watch me flunk out?”

I threatened to change the Netflix password.

He paled a little.

Fuming, I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV.

He whined, “Hey!” but I ignored him.

This was war.

“Another year at school is fine—the lunch lady always saves you extra chicken. Who doesn’t call you ‘Snack Queen’?”

This guy!

He thought he was so funny.

I glared, plotting revenge.

I had no choice but to beg, hugging his leg:

“Bro, please, help me! Delaying graduation is so embarrassing...”

I went full puppy-dog eyes, refusing to let go. He tried to shake me off, but I clung harder.

“If you don’t help, I’ll bug you every day, call you at midnight, steal your food, cut off your hot water while you shower...”

He was so annoyed,

“Fine, I’ll give you a plan.”

He sat up, suddenly looking way too pleased with himself.

“Just take down Dr. Sinclair.”

I blinked:

“How am I supposed to do that?”

He smirked, looking especially evil:

"He does academia; you go after him—boom, you’re doing academia too."

Me: “How does that make any sense?!”

Dr. Sinclair is such an untouchable academic—students and professors who worship him could fill a football stadium.

He’s got a cult following.

There’s even a meme page dedicated to his most savage burns.

There are even rumors he’s not straight, and someone once started gossip that his secret lover was my brother.

They called them ‘the dynamic duo of Maple Heights U’!

The group chat had a field day with that one.

Tyler still brings it up every Thanksgiving.

Plus, he hates academic dishonesty more than anything, and when he talks to students, regardless of gender, he always leaves the door open.

He’s the poster child for professional boundaries.

I once saw him hold a meeting in the hallway just to avoid any hint of impropriety.

He stands for academic purity, zero ambiguity.

He probably sleeps with a copy of the university’s code of conduct under his pillow.

Me, take him down?

No way. That’s like asking a raccoon to outsmart a fox.

If there was a Vegas line on this...

I’d be the underdog by a mile.

No matter how I looked at it, it just wouldn’t work, so I went to my best friend.

She was thrilled:

“This move is risky, but the payoff is huge!”

She whipped out her phone, ready to take notes. I regretted saying anything.

She analyzed:

“Let’s say, just hypothetically, you confess to Dr. Sinclair.”

“One, if it works—you become the advisor’s wife: publications, paycheck, graduation, and job, all yours.”

“Two, if it fails—he won’t want to see you anymore, so you get a fast-track to graduation.”

“Either way, it’s a win-win!”

She got more and more hyped:

“From now on, he scolds you in the office by day, you roast him in bed at night!”

She wiggled her eyebrows. I choked on my coffee.

“With such a top-tier childhood friend professor, have you never been tempted?”

Tempted?

My feelings for Dr. Sinclair are complicated.

When I was little, I wanted him to be my dad.

He’d fix my scraped knees and sneak me extra dessert when Grandma wasn’t looking.

A bit older, I wanted him to be my real brother.

He’d help me with homework and threaten to beat up anyone who made me cry.

When I grew up, I hoped he’d be my husband.

I’d imagine us at backyard barbecues, him grilling burgers while I snuck chips off the plate.

Until he became my advisor.

Then it was all business, all the time. The fantasy died a quick, painful death.

No more wild thoughts.

Every day, I just wanted to poison his coffee, but not get caught.

I’d Google “how to disappear after embarrassing yourself in front of your advisor” at least once a week.

But after my friend’s analysis, the plan actually seemed doable.

She made it sound so simple.

If I go for it, I win; if I don’t, I still win—there’s no way to lose!

I stayed up all night writing a ten-thousand-word confession and hit send.

No turning back now.

Academic Dad: [Ahhhh]

Desperate Slacker: [Hey, my thesis is so bad because I see you every day and can’t focus (crying cat meme)]

[I’ve liked you for a long time. Every day I see your face, my little heart goes boom boom.]

[I want to keep you in my heart, think of you over and over every day.]

The chat box showed ‘Dr. Sinclair is typing...’ for a whole minute.

Longest minute of my life.

He sent a Facebook Messenger message:

[You little menace! Are you trying to turn me into a meme and get me canceled?]

I chickened out instantly: [Hey, these are my true feelings...]

I tried to play it cool, but my hands were shaking.

He immediately sent a string of 60-second voice messages.

When I played them, I heard his cold, slightly exasperated laugh:

[True feelings? With this snowstorm, my heart’s about to give out.]

[Your top priority now is to uninstall Wattpad!]

[If you put the energy you use writing love letters into your thesis, you’d have a Science paper by now. Why not switch to being a romance novelist!]

[Given your creativity, tomorrow’s group meeting, submit a ‘Psychological Reconstruction After Confession Rejection’ report, no less than 10,000 words, plagiarism rate under 10%.]

I’m dying over here.

I flopped onto my bed, dramatic as ever.

My roommate threw a pillow at me, told me to get a grip.

What fresh hell is this?

I texted my friend: “Do you think I can fake my own death and move to Canada?”

Thesis or advisor—you’ve got to secure at least one!

My best friend cheered me on:

“He wants a psychological reconstruction report? Then reconstruct it for him!”

She showed up with snacks and moral support.

I pulled an all-nighter, fueled by Red Bull and spite.

That night, I camped out in the lab, typing through my tears.

The cleaning crew gave me side-eye.

I just kept typing, determined to finish before sunrise.

Next day’s group meeting.

I shrank into the farthest corner, wishing I could disappear.

I wore my biggest hoodie, hood up, trying to blend into the wall.

No luck.

Until I heard Dr. Sinclair say, “Meeting dismissed,” and I tried to slip out.

I almost made it to the door when—

Then his voice cut through:

“Riley Evans, stay.”

Everyone looked at me with ‘good luck’ eyes.

They cleared out fast, leaving me alone with my doom.

I braced myself and stood there, forced to read aloud my ‘Psychological Reconstruction After Confession Rejection’:

“1. Build defense mechanisms: repeat every day—wise ones don’t fall in love, lone wolves go straight from master’s to PhD.”

“2. Divert attention: shift desire from crush to reading journal articles.”

“3. Sublimate emotions: turn secret love into hunger for knowledge.”

...

I read each line like I was testifying in court. My voice cracked, but I powered through.

“When did you start having these rebellious thoughts?”

Dr. Sinclair’s glasses flashed coldly.

His tone was pure professor, but his eyes looked almost... amused?

“Just, suddenly...”

I shrugged, cheeks burning.

I couldn’t meet his gaze.

Honestly, my feelings for Dr. Sinclair have been complicated for a long time.

He’s five years older than me.

When I was a kid, five years felt like a century.

Now, it’s just enough to make things awkward.

In my junior year of high school, I heard he was dating the school beauty.

She was the kind of girl who wore perfect braids and got straight A’s.

I hated her on principle.

For some reason, I felt especially upset.

It was like someone else had stolen what was mine.

But he wasn’t really my brother.

I reminded myself of that every day. Didn’t help.

Besides, when Tyler dated, I wanted to throw a party.

No jealousy there.

I felt like my thoughts about Dr. Sinclair were crossing a line.

I’d lie awake at night, overthinking every interaction.

Was I crossing a line? Was I just lonely?

I had no right to question him.

He’d never given me a reason to think otherwise. Still, the feelings lingered.

But I couldn’t help overthinking, and my grades plummeted.

My math teacher called home, convinced I was distracted by ‘outside influences.’

The teacher thought it was puppy love and called in the parents.

Mortifying. I wanted to crawl under my desk and never come out.

My brother was busy dating, so Dr. Sinclair came.

He showed up in a button-down and khakis, looking every bit the responsible adult.

The teacher was instantly charmed.

He kept a straight face, seriously lecturing me on the dangers of early romance.

He made it sound like a public service announcement.

I nodded along, dying inside.

He watched to see which loser had bad intentions toward me.

He eyed every boy in the hallway like they were suspects in a crime.

I pretended not to notice.

Who knows how I got through that time.

I coped by eating my weight in Oreos and blasting Taylor Swift on repeat.

Dr. Sinclair seems gentle on the surface, but is actually tough as nails.

He didn’t let me slack off, not for a second.

He had high standards and expected me to meet them.

After school, he’d walk me home, confiscate my phone, and make me do endless practice problems.

I’d grumble, but I always caved.

He’d bribe me with ice cream if I finished before dinner.

My grades were dragged up from a 70 to an 85 by sheer force.

He called it ‘tough love.’ I called it torture. But it worked.

Of course, my feelings for him faded little by little.

The crush dulled over time, replaced by respect and a grudging affection.

Especially now that I’m his grad student.

He scolds me eight hundred times a day.

I’ve lost count of how many times he’s called me out in front of the group.

It’s almost a routine now.

His gaze landed on my confession essay:

"If I can’t get rich overnight, can I at least get to hug you overnight?"

He raised an eyebrow, lips twitching.

I wanted to crawl under the table.

That cheesy line was so embarrassing I wanted to melt into the floor.

I coughed, lifting my chin stiffly:

“I just like you, I like you like crazy!”

I blurted it out, voice shaking.

My heart pounded so hard I thought he might hear it.

Inside, I was desperately hoping:

Let me graduate! Let me graduate!

I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the verdict.

“Really?”

He suddenly stood up and walked toward me.

He moved closer, the scent of cedar and something crisp—his cologne—filling the space between us.

My breath caught in my throat.

I stared at his Adam’s apple as he approached, my ears burning.

He tapped my forehead, smiling gently:

“Since you like me so much, as your advisor, how could I possibly let you graduate?”

Me: Ahhh?!

I swear, the whole world spun for a second.

I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throw my notebook at him.

But one thing was for sure: grad school was never going to be boring.