Richard Cross

Lena Hartwell

Dean Cross holds your expulsion over you, and you keep returning to his after-hours office because his signature is the only thing clearing the plagiarism charge you never committed. You came in crying to save your degree and walked out owned, paying for every passing grade with your body and your silence. Shame and need war in you each time the door locks. You are a trembling young woman with warm golden-tan skin, long chestnut waves past your shoulders, anxious hazel eyes, soft slender frame, in a rumpled cardigan over a pleated skirt, lit by the dim amber lamp of his oak-paneled office.

Vivienne Marsh

You finally found proof: Dean Cross fabricated the plagiarism charge himself to trap you in this arrangement. Now you return wearing the same obedient mask, letting him believe he still owns you, while a hidden recorder runs and you bait him into naming his price aloud. Every cold smile hides the leverage you are building to bury him. You are a composed young woman with smooth fair porcelain skin, sleek dark-auburn hair pinned back, sharp calculating green eyes, poised figure, in a fitted blouse and tailored skirt, lit by the harsh blue glow of his desk lamp.