The problem with public humiliation is that it does not arrive quietly. It spreads like a well-funded research paper, complete with citations, audience participation, and an alarming level of peer review from people who have absolutely no right to comment on my life decisions.
Which is how I found myself sitting inside Lecture Hall 3B, surrounded by students who were very clearly not minding their own business. They were staring—not subtly, not respectfully, not even academically. They were staring like I was a live demonstration of poor decision-making, and beside me sat the co-author of my downfall, Nathaniel Rowan Clarke, calmly writing notes as if his life had not been legally entangled with mine less than twenty-four hours ago.
I slowly turned my head and glared at him. He did not react. Of course he didn't. He never reacts immediately. He processes, evaluates, calculates—probably categorizes my glare into levels of hostility like it's a grading system. Meanwhile, I was approaching emotional combustion.
Behind us, I could feel it—the whispers, the giggles, the very loud lack of discretion.
"They're really married?"
"I saw the picture."
"Bro she shouted it in the cafeteria."
"I thought it was a joke—"
"It's not."
I clenched my jaw, breathed in, breathed out, and maintained composure for approximately three seconds before glaring at Nate again.
"This is your fault," I whispered with controlled fury.
"It is not," he replied calmly, still writing.
"Your existence is the root cause," I continued.
"That is not a valid argument."
"It is emotionally valid," I snapped.
"It is logically flawed," he replied.
I kicked his foot—not hard, just enough to express dissatisfaction. He paused, looked at me, and said, "Violence does not strengthen your position."
"It strengthens my emotional stability," I replied immediately.
Behind us, Clara made a soft, dreamy sound. I froze and slowly turned to find her staring at us with her hands clasped and eyes sparkling like she had just witnessed a live romance scene.
"This is so cute," she whispered.
"It is not cute," I said immediately.
"It's dynamic," she insisted.
"It's conflict," I corrected.
"It's chemistry," she countered.
"It's a legal error," I replied with finality.
Amara leaned forward from her seat, grinning like someone who had just unlocked premium entertainment. "So," she said, dragging the word out, "married life treating you well?"
I stared at her long and hard, then Jules adjusted her glasses beside her and observed the situation like a researcher documenting behavioral patterns. "Her eye twitch has increased in frequency," she noted calmly.
"That is because I am surrounded by people who value chaos over survival," I said.
"That is because you shouted in a public cafeteria," Nate added.
I kicked him again, harder this time.
Before I could escalate further, the door opened—and salvation did not enter, because Ms. Alvarez walked in.
"Good afternoon, disappointments," she said cheerfully.
The class immediately came alive, greeting her loudly, some even shouting confessions of love like they had forgotten basic academic dignity. She dropped her bag on the desk and glanced toward the back with mild amusement. "I know," she said, "it's a burden being this attractive and academically superior."
Laughter filled the room, but then her gaze shifted—and landed directly on us.
Specifically, me and Nate, sitting together like a legally binding inconvenience.
Her eyebrow lifted slightly. "Seriously, you two," she said, pointing at us. "I expected you to end up together eventually, but I didn't expect you to get married before me. I don't even have a boyfriend."
The class exploded. I felt my dignity quietly exit through the nearest emergency door.
"Miss, I'll marry you!" someone shouted from the back.
Without missing a beat, she replied, "You can't even pass your quizzes. I don't date liabilities." The class howled, and she continued walking like she hadn't just dismantled someone's entire romantic future.
"I have standards," she added. "Low standards, but still higher than your GPA."
I stared straight ahead, unresponsive, while beside me Nate calmly turned a page in his notebook like none of this concerned him. I slowly turned and glared at him again before kicking his foot.
"This is your fault," I whispered, my voice dangerously close to breaking.
"It is clearly not," he replied.
"You exist."
"You shouted."
I kicked him again.
"I was provoked," I insisted.
"You escalated."
"I expressed."
"You broadcasted."
I stared at him, and he stared back—calm, stable, infuriating. Then my composure cracked just slightly. "This is your fault," I repeated, quieter now.
He paused, actually paused this time, then looked at me properly before saying, "Fine... it's my fault."
I blinked. My brain stopped processing for a second because that response was not part of the expected script.
Behind us, Clara gasped softly. "Aww..."
Amara leaned forward dramatically. "Did you hear that? He took the blame."
Jules nodded. "Conflict de-escalation strategy."
"Romantic," Clara insisted.
"It is not romantic," I said automatically.
"It is efficient," Nate added.
Unfortunately, this only made things worse, because Amara immediately reenacted the scene in the most offensive way possible. Jules, without hesitation, turned toward her and transformed into a disturbingly accurate version of me—dramatic posture, exaggerated expression, and all.
"This is your fault!" she snapped, pointing at Amara with theatrical offense. "Your existence is the problem!"
Amara, now fully committed to the role, straightened her posture, crossed her arms, and lowered her voice in a poor but determined imitation of Nate.
"That is not a valid argument," she replied calmly.
Jules flipped her hair—something I did not even do—and gasped. "It is emotionally valid!"
Amara adjusted her imaginary glasses like Nate and sighed. "Fine... it's my fault."
The accuracy.
The betrayal.
The audacity.
Clara clasped her hands together, watching the reenactment like it was the greatest romance scene ever performed live. "They even got the tone right," she whispered, completely enchanted.
I slowly turned toward them.
Very slowly.
Because rage, when properly cultivated, deserves a proper entrance.
Then came the glare.
Full intensity.
Maximum hostility.
They froze—not immediately, but gradually, like people realizing they had made a terrible life decision.
The reenactment stopped.
The damage, however, remained. She crossed her arms and mimicked Nate's voice while Jules imitated me with alarming accuracy. The betrayal was immediate and severe.
I turned slowly and gave them a death glare strong enough to silence a small crowd. They froze, not instantly, but gradually, like people realizing they had made a mistake.
Then I pointed at Nate. "They are bullying your wife," I said.
He blinked, looked at them, then at me, sighed deeply, and said, "Fine." He turned to the three of them. "I will not lend you my notes anymore."
Silence fell immediately.
Three gasps followed.
"That's unfair," Jules said.
"That's cruel," Clara added.
"That's devastating," Amara muttered.
"Behavioral consequences," Nate replied calmly.
I leaned back, smug and victorious, then stuck my tongue out at them like a dignified adult.
They behaved immediately.
Meanwhile, Ms. Alvarez had already begun discussing the schedule, writing on the board with the confidence of someone who had already accepted that we were all disappointing.
"Club recruitment week," she announced. "You seniors will facilitate, which means you will pretend to be responsible adults for at least three days."
Groans filled the room.
"Freshmen orientation," she continued. "You will guide them. Try not to traumatize them too early."
"Miss, what if they're already traumatized?" someone asked.
"Then you'll fit right in," she replied.
Laughter followed again, and she continued listing events, shutting down questions with efficiency that bordered on violence. At one point, someone asked for her booth schedule, and she smiled the wrong kind of smile.
"The kind where I fail students who annoy me," she said sweetly.
The student sat down immediately.
"Good choice," she added.
Minutes passed in a blur of announcements and academic threats, but not before the inevitable happened—questions. Some of them, surprisingly, made sense.
"Miss, how many students per group for facilitation?" someone asked.
"Five to six," she replied immediately. "Any more than that and you'll just form a social circle instead of doing actual work."
Another hand raised. "Miss, do we get assigned stations or do we choose?"
"You'll choose," she said. "Which means you'll fight over good spots like civilized animals."
That was... reasonable.
And then, as expected, reason left the room.
"Miss," someone from the back called out, "what booth will you be in?"
The class went quiet—not because it was a good question, but because everyone already knew where this was going.
Ms. Alvarez looked up slowly.
"I will be in the booth called 'grading your failures,'" she said calmly. "Open all week."
Laughter erupted.
But they didn't stop.
Of course they didn't.
"Miss, what's your schedule?" another one asked.
"For academic purposes," someone added, which immediately invalidated the statement.
She raised a brow. "My schedule is not part of your curriculum."
"Miss, what if we visit you?" someone tried again.
She smiled.
That same dangerous smile.
"The kind where I fail students who annoy me," she said sweetly. "Appointments are available immediately."
The student sat down.
Quickly.
And then—because this class had no survival instinct—
"Miss Zane," someone from the back shouted, "what about a booth date?"
The class collectively lost composure.
Whistles.
Gasps.
Encouragement from people who would not survive the consequences.
Ms. Alvarez paused.
Looked at him.
Evaluated.
Then said, completely unfazed, "You can't even pass my subject. What makes you think you qualify for a date?"
The room exploded.
She wasn't done.
"If you want my attention," she added, "submit your assignments on time. That's the closest you'll ever get."
The student sat down like his life had just been academically rejected.
"Next question," she said, as if she hadn't just dismantled someone's future.
No one raised their hand after that.
Order, once again, was restored.
A few more practical reminders followed—deadlines, expectations, consequences—until finally she clapped once and said, "Alright, dismissed."
Freedom arrived instantly.
I stood up, grabbed Nate's wrist without hesitation, and dragged him out of the room. "We need to talk," I said.
Behind us, Amara, Jules, and Clara stood up almost in sync.
"We're coming," Amara said.
"No," I replied immediately.
"We're part of this now," Jules added.
"No."
"We're emotionally invested," Clara said.
"Absolutely not," I said, turning toward them and pointing with full authority. "This situation has already escalated beyond acceptable levels. Your presence will increase chaos significantly."
"That's not proven," Jules said.
"It is statistically obvious," I replied.
Amara grinned. "Come on, married—"
"Do not finish that sentence," I warned.
Silence followed.
Then I turned back, tightened my grip on Nate's wrist, and continued dragging him away, because if this situation was going to be fixed, it would not happen in public—and definitely not with an audience.
The moment the classroom door closed behind us, I did not slow down, hesitate, or consider dignity, witnesses, or the fragile concept of emotional stability. I grabbed Nathaniel Rowan Clarke by the sleeve and dragged him across the hallway like a woman who had already lost everything and was now operating purely on momentum and spite.
"Sera," he said calmly behind me, keeping pace in a way that suggested cooperation more than resistance, "you are pulling my arm."
"Good," I replied without turning back. "Suffer in silence."
"I am not suffering," he said.
"Then suffer emotionally," I added. "I will measure it for you."
We reached my apartment in record time. I unlocked the door, pushed it open, stepped inside, and pulled him in before closing it with the kind of finality usually reserved for legal contracts and life-altering mistakes. There was a brief pause—the kind that exists right before chaos resumes.
"My apartment is next door," Nate said, adjusting his sleeve as if this entire situation was a mild inconvenience. "Can I change first?"
I turned slowly and glared at him like a woman who had just been publicly humiliated in a cafeteria and was now considering violence as a valid communication method. He stopped talking immediately.
Good.
I walked straight to the couch and flopped onto it dramatically, throwing my arms upward like a fallen aristocrat betrayed by fate, government systems, and basic literacy.
"I cannot believe this," I declared, staring at the ceiling. "It was supposed to be a secret—a controlled narrative, a contained disaster. And now it is public knowledge. PUBLIC, Nathaniel. We are trending!"
"We are not trending," he said.
"Emotionally, we are," I shot back.
Meanwhile, Nate sat down, opened a book, and started reading like nothing had happened—like we weren't just exposed in front of the entire student body, like my life wasn't collapsing under administrative consequences. I stared at him, long and unblinking.
"Well," he said calmly without looking up, "we were careless. We left the booklet accessible. Clara picking it up was unlikely but within the realm of possibility."
I slowly pushed myself upright. "Wow," I said. "You're not blaming me?"
He shook his head. "No. I am partly at fault. I am aware of your dramatic tendencies and failed to implement preventative measures."
There it was—a compliment disguised as an insult. I stared at him, then kicked him. Hard.
"OW—"
"That was rude," I snapped.
"That was factual," he replied.
"That was personal," I corrected.
"It was accurate," he said.
I opened my mouth, closed it, then opened it again—because the worst part was that he wasn't entirely wrong, which made it worse. Before I could escalate further, his phone rang. We both froze.
He glanced at the screen and paused. "It's my mother," he said.
I shot up like I had been electrocuted. "Aunt Elise?! Oh no—she knows. This is escalation. Phase Two. Parental involvement!"
Nate sighed and answered. "Hello, Mom."
A soft voice came through. "Nate? I heard the news... Is is true?"
I gasped and immediately scooted closer—very close, strategically close. "I'll put you on speaker," Nate said. "I'm with Sera." Click. Her voice filled the room.
"Auntie Elise!!!" I burst out, launching into the conversation like a dramatic witness taking the stand. "You will not believe what happened!"
And then I delivered a full narration—complete with gestures, emotion, and zero accountability. "It was the form," I said, pacing now because sitting was no longer enough. "It looked harmless—academic, trustworthy. It had formatting, Auntie Elise. FORMATTING!" I pointed at Nate. "And he was there. Watching. Allowing the disaster."
"You filled—"
"Silence," I cut in, raising a hand. "I am currently testifying."
I continued without pause. "And the clerk—too calm. Suspiciously calm. Who processes marriage like it's paperwork? And the weather was weird. I feel like that contributed." Nate looked at me; I ignored him. "And the plant—there was a plant. It saw everything. Said nothing. Complicit. And Nate 2.0—the monkey plushie—betrayed me emotionally."
There was a pause, then soft, warm laughter. "There, there, my little Sera," Aunt Elise said gently. "You've had a very stressful day."
I melted instantly. "I have," I said, hand over my chest. "Administrative trauma."
"Don't worry," she continued kindly. "I'll give Nate an earful."
I beamed brightly, practically glowing with validation. "Thank you, my gorgeous auntie! I love you!" I said with full sincerity, because appreciation must be expressed properly—especially when it comes with emotional support and promised disciplinary action toward her son.
Then I turned to Nate, smug and victorious, mouthing, "Your mom loves me more." He sighed—again—then turned off speaker and stepped aside to continue the call privately.
I leaned back, triumphant for approximately thirty seconds, until reality returned. He came back, sat beside me, and said, "We have to go home this weekend."
The victory died instantly. I collapsed. "Please bring a coffin," I muttered.
"Why?" he asked, then remembered.
Lucien—my brother. The menace. The protector. The executioner.
"Ah," he said.
"Yes," I replied weakly.
A quiet beat passed.
"Please ask him not to kill me," Nate said.
I stared at the ceiling, considered everything, and answered honestly. "No promises."
*****
End of Chapter 15
Event Log:
*Marriage: Publicly Confirmed (Lecture Hall Exposure)
*Class Awareness: Reached Full Saturation
*Ms. Alvarez: Acknowledged Marriage (CRITICAL DAMAGE)
*Social Reputation: Fully Compromised
*Nate: Accepted Blame (Temporary Buff Applied)
*Friends: Weaponized Situation (Mockery Level: MAX)
*Private Strategy Meeting: Initiated
*Aunt Elise: Contact Established (Unexpected Ally)
*Parental Visit: Scheduled (WEEKEND ARC UNLOCKED)
*Lucien: Threat Level Activated
*Annulment Success Rate: -82.7%