Enemies to lovers - PART 2 — “THE FIRST CUT”

24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsr3C75MKGw

The first bench was a punishment, gifted by the HOD a month ago.

And like always, Suniti sat there with her three friends, straight-backed, pretending to listen, pretending not to hate the spotlight.

She didn’t know today the spotlight would burn.

When Sohum entered, the entire class buzzed with excitement.

But his eyes didn’t scan the room.

They found her.

Immediately.

Cold.

Flat.

Almost amused.

Suniti forced herself not to look away.

He turned to the board, voice low and emotionless.

“Software Engineering.”

No introduction.

No smile.

No warmth.

A few students straightened nervously.

Sohum spoke like authority itself — steady, sharp, and unforgiving.

“This subject needs discipline and seriousness. If you cannot manage that—”

his eyes flicked to the first bench,

“—you won’t survive my classes.”

Suniti’s jaw tightened, but she stayed silent.

Her friends exchanged worried glances.

Then came the part she hated.

“Let’s test how much you all remember.”

He looked directly at her.

“You. Stand up.”

Her heart dropped.

Suniti stood slowly, feeling every pair of eyes land on her.

“What is Software Engineering?” he asked.

She gave the right definition — clear, confident, proud.

The class nodded.

But Sohum didn’t react.

Not even a twitch.

He tilted his head slightly, expression flat.

“That’s the textbook line. Do you understand it or did you just memorize it to sound intelligent?”

A soft wave of laughter spread across the class.

Suniti swallowed hard.

“I understand it, sir.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” he said calmly, as if stating the weather.

“If you really understood, you wouldn’t have paused twice.”

“I didn’t pause—”

“You did,” he cut her off, his tone sharp. “Don’t argue with me.”

The humiliation hit her like a slap.

Her fingers curled tightly around her notebook.

“Next question,” he continued, his voice colder now.

“What are the phases of a software process model?”

She answered again — correctly.

But he didn’t even wait for her to finish.

“Stop. Sit.”

She sat down slowly, chest tight, breath uneven.

He looked directly at her again.

And this time… he smirked.

A small, cruel smirk.

“As expected. Half confidence, half attitude. Very little actual depth.”

Suniti froze.

Her friends looked at her, horrified.

He continued, addressing the class but slicing her with every word—

“This is what happens when students rely on overconfidence. They think volume equals intelligence. It doesn’t.”

The class was silent.

Suniti wasn’t.

Inside, she was breaking.

Her eyes burned —

not from sadness,

but from the type of humiliation that makes your throat ache and your chest tighten.

But she refused to look weak.

She blinked the tears back so hard her eyelids hurt.

Sohum watched her.

Watched her struggle.

Watched her blink too fast.

Watched her lips tremble for a second before she steadied them.

And he didn’t look away.

If anything, his eyes grew colder.

He liked it.

The control.

The imbalance.

The power of watching someone who slapped him earlier now fight tears because of him.

He shouldn't have enjoyed it.

But he did.

A lot.

He turned to the board and continued the lecture like nothing happened.

Suniti stared at her notes, hoping her tears wouldn’t betray her by falling.

One escaped.

Just one.

She wiped it quickly when no one was looking except—

He saw it.

And for the first time since entering the class, a reaction flickered across his face.

Not concern.

Not guilt.

Something darker.

Sharper.

Satisfied.

As if he was silently telling her:

“Next time, think before you raise your hand on someone.”

Suniti clenched her jaw.

She didn’t break.

But she cracked.

And somewhere deep in her chest, a tiny fire ignited.

Not love.

Not yet.

Revenge.

Pure, burning revenge.

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