Page 90 of His to Own

I hold my books close to my chest. The desire to be a writer is the main thing I want in this life and yet… am I good enough? “I don’t know what to submit,” I admit.

“Any one of your poems. Pick what you think is the best one. I look forward to reading it.”

“I’m sure people like Polina are better suited for your internship than I am.”

He frowns. “What makes you think that? I’ve read some of your writing in the past. You’re good. You should submit. I told you to fight, remember? Don’t give up before you have to.” He gives me a nod of encouragement before walking away.

Polina storms over to me. Always Polina. Always watching. Always there when I don’t want her to be. “Having second thoughts on the internship?”

“What do you want, Polina?” I ask with a tired sigh.

“I asked you a question.”

“No,” I lie. “I’m not having second thoughts.”

“Good. I already submitted my writing piece. A short story about a woman in an abusive relationship. I took inspiration from you, actually.”

I tense. “Me?”

“You and your husband. It’s clear he’s abusive. You always look so scared. And word spread around campus about you and Alexei and the fact that your husband beat him up.”

“People know?”

Polina shrugs. “Of course people know. People talk.”

“How do you know I’m in an abusive relationship? You’re making assumptions.”

“Are you? Or are you not?”

I want to snap at Polina and tell her to mind her own business but I can’t help but wonder if she’s right or not. Am I in an abusive relationship? Just because Maxim doesn’t beat me, doesn’t mean he’s not controlling. I hate him for how he tries to control my life and yet… I want him to take control sometimes. I want to just be free to not think for a moment. Just a moment.

“I’m not,” I finally answer because I don’t want to give Polina any ammunition against me.

“Doesn’t matter anyway. I still wrote the story and it’s a good one.”

“How does it end?”

She looks me dead in the eye. “He ends up killing her.”

A shiver takes hold of my body. Polina tosses her long hair over her shoulder and gives me a fake smile before she continues on her way. The moment she’s gone, I let out a breath.

Of course. Nothing can be that easy.

“Mrs. Morozov?” A man asks me as he approaches. Older with a bald head and a nice enough suit but not too nice. “I’m the dean of admissions. Dr. Petrov. I’d like for you to come to my office.”

“Why?” I squeak out.

“It’s better if we speak privately.”

I follow behind him with my throat on fire and my legs like stone. What is happening?

I settle into the dean’s office and wait for him to speak.

“There’s been a complication,” he says, sitting behind his desk and steepling his fingers together.

“What complication?”

“One of our previous professors came to me with a complaint about you. She said that you plagiarized one of the essays you wrote for her class. It was this one.” He slides a piece of paper across the desk. It was the paper I wrote on Othello. I know exactly which teacher he’s talking about.