CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ALICE
I sit in the row directly in front of Zade,
feeling the heat of his gaze burning into the back of my neck.
I don't look back.
I can't.
Not when my bank account is empty
and my this uniform is the only thing
keeping me upright knowing it
was worth it...
The Professor for today,
Mr. Westcott—a man in his mid-fifties with a face like crumpled parchment
and eyes that see through bullshit—steps to the podium.
"Logistics," Westcott begins, tapping a chalk against the board.
"The world thinks it's just moving
boxes from A to B.
But in this room, it's the difference between a billion-dollar empire and a bankruptcy filing. Someone define it for me.
Not the textbook version.
The real version."
Zade doesn't even wait to be called on.
He leans back, his voice smooth and dripping with the arrogance of someone who has never seen a supply chain fail.
"Logistics is the art of optimization," Zade drawls.
"It's about leverage. You calculate the shortest route, negotiate the lowest fuel cost, and ensure the asset reaches its destination with maximum profit margin.
It's a game of chess where the board is the globe and the pieces are moved by the highest bidder."
It's a perfect answer.
Cold.
Efficient.
A view from the top of the ivory tower.
My hand goes up before I can stop it.
"That's only half the truth," I say, my voice cutting through the admiring murmurs following Zade's answer.
Westcott arches an eyebrow.
"Is that so, Ms. Miller?
Please, enlighten us."
I turn slightly, catching Zade's eyes.
He's smirking, waiting for me to fail.
"Optimization is a luxury," I state firmly. "Real logistics is about survival.
It's what happens when the 'shortest route' is blocked by a strike you didn't see coming, or the 'lowest fuel cost' doubles overnight.
It's about the struggle—calculating exactly how many hours a person can work before they break, or how to stretch a failing resource to cover a gap that shouldn't exist. It's not just a game of chess.
It's the grit and the desperation behind the move."
The room goes silent.
I'm not talking about corporate
spreadsheets; I'm talking about the
way I've had to live my life.
Zade's smirk falters.
He leans forward, his hands slamming onto the desk behind me, mimicking his move from yesterday.
"Desperation isn't a strategy, Alice," he hisses, his voice a low growl.
"It's a weakness.
If you're calculating 'grit,' you've
already lost the market."
"And if you're only calculating 'profit,' Zade,"
I fire back, leaning toward him
until I can see the gold flecks in his
bourbon eyes,
"you'll never see the moment the people under you decide to burn your empire down."
Mr. Westcott clears his throat, a small,
impressed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"An interesting debate. Wealth vs. Willpower.
Let's see which one survives the semester."
I turn back to my notes, my heart racing.
I can hear Zade's heavy breathing behind me.
He's pissed.
He's whatever I want him be....