Rex didn’t respond. He had already said what needed to be said, if they wanted to believe him, fine. If not, that was their problem, not his — and frankly, he could care less about them. Besides, even if there was sothing between him and Daisy—which there wasn’t—what business was it of theirs? Since when did he owe anyone an explanation for who he spent ti with, or what kind of relationship he pursued? He didn’t need validation or approval. Not from them. Not from anyone.
So, he kept walking, hands in his pockets, head held high, moving with that casual, almost lazy confidence that only made things worse for the ones still staring after him. So watched his back with quiet frustration, the kind buried deep in the eyes, masked by forced smirks or clenched jaws. A few gritted their teeth, unable to hide how much it bothered them. Not everyone takes rejection well — especially when it doesn’t look like rejection at all.
Others just sighed and shook their heads, resigned to a truth they weren’t ready to admit out loud.
And then there were people like Adrian—half-smirking, half-indifferent—who either didn’t care at all... or maybe had already accepted it. Maybe they understood that even if sothing did happen between Rex and Daisy, it wouldn’t be because of rumors or peer approval. It would be because two people simply clicked, despite everything stacked against them.
At the end of the day, Rex knew the truth: no matter how beautiful or well-liked soone is, they can’t be adored by everyone. That’s just life.
And he didn’t owe anyone an explanation. Not for a ride. Not for a conversation. And definitely not for the idea that, for once, soone might have chosen him.
On the other hand, completely unfazed by the emotions bubbling behind him, Rex made his way toward the classroom. Just as he reached the door, though, a man stepped in his path, soone he didn’t recognize.
Rex slowed to a stop, brow raised in mild confusion.
The man looked to be in his mid-thirties, dressed in smart business-casual, silver-rimd glasses perched neatly on his nose. His whole appearance scread academic, the kind of guy who wrote long research papers no one read but still got paid more than the professors who taught undergrads.
Rex had noticed him earlier in the hallway but hadn’t thought much of it. Now, though, the man seed to be here for him.
"Huh?" Rex muttered, unsure if the guy had the wrong person.
"I’m from the Chancellor’s office," the man said crisply, straight to the point. "Chancellor Johnson has requested to see you in his office. Imdiately." And just like that, he turned and walked away, disappearing with the sa professional efficiency he’d arrived with.
Rex blinked. "Oh. Uh... okay."
He adjusted course without complaint, heading toward the administrative building while running through a ntal list of what he might have done to warrant a sudden summon. No overdue assignnts. No disciplinary slips. At least none that he rembered.
Still, it was odd.
And if you’re wondering why the guy called him Chancellor instead of Vice-Chancellor, well — you’re not alone. Rex had wondered about that, too. But the thing is, titles in academia and the corporate world were a whole ga of their own. In practice, people avoided terms like "Deputy" or "Vice" unless they absolutely had to. Made things sound too junior. Too... assistant-y.
He knew that better than most — not because of anything he’d learned in this life, but because of what he’d experienced in his last one.
As a novice, freshly recruited and clueless, he’d once made the mistake of casually referring to the Deputy Team Leader as just "Deputy" during a eting. The temperature in the room seed to drop by several degrees, as everyone looked at him with surprise and those narrowed eyes that said you’ve just stepped on a landmine . He felt that sothing had gone wrong, but didn’t know the gravity of the matter.
The Deputy Team Leader, a man known for his politeness and his habit of smiling while ntally filing away grudges — gave Rex a long, asured look. Not angry. Not offended. Just... cold. Calculating. Dismissive.
As a clueless novice he didn’t understand what he’d done wrong, not right away. But the consequences unfolded like a slow-burn nightmare.
Suddenly, he was left out of informal etings. Group chats would go silent whenever he joined. Tasks he was assigned started becoming impossible — incomplete docuntation, unclear instructions, shifting deadlines. When things inevitably went wrong, he got the bla. The praise he once received for small wins vanished overnight. He beca the guy who "just didn’t get it," the junior who needed "more ntoring", which really ant being micromanaged to death and publicly corrected for things no one else was expected to know.
He tried to fix things, tried to overcompensate, worked late, took initiative. But it didn’t matter. The damage was already done. That slip, that careless little drop of a title — had marked him as either arrogant or disrespectful in an environnt where hierarchy was sacred.
He didn’t even realize just how far he’d fallen until his probation review ca up, and he was given the most backhanded feedback imaginable: "You show potential, but there are questions about your attitude and fit within the team dynamic."
It was only when he was transferred out, a quiet removal under the guise of "broader exposure" — that he finally got a taste of what standard corporate hellhole everyone talked about.
And honestly? It was a relief. The new departnt was a ss, but at least it wasn’t quietly trying to ruin him.
So, he learned the hard way: in the workplace, it wasn’t just about competence. It was about optics. Tone. Respect. Titles. Perception. One wrong word could brand you a threat, a fool, or worse — soone forgettable.
And yes, these little, seemingly insignificant things? They could wreck your career faster than incompetence. Office politics, Rex had co to realize, was far more sinister and cutthroat than real-world politics. At least in real politics, you usually saw the knife coming.
Soon, he reached the administrative building. Shaking his head, he pushed away the lingering thoughts from his past life. What happened back then—resentnt, regret, lost chances, it didn’t matter right now. That Chapter was over. This was a new life, a new start.
Anyway, now he was a proud mber of squeezing class *ahem* Upper Class. No more office etings at 9 and deadlines at 6, no more tiptoeing around insecure middle managers with inflated titles and fragile egos. He had money, and soon will have connections, and power—or at least, the illusion of it. So, he didn’t need to worry about corporate shenanigans anymore.
...Right?
Right?
Straightening his posture and adjusting his collar, he stepped inside with a composed air.
He familiarly made his way directly toward the staff elevator. As he passed the reception counter, he caught sight of a familiar face—the sa female staff mber who had stopped him the last ti he’d co here. Without missing a beat, he offered her a warm, polite smile. Not too eager, not too distant—just the kind of sunny charm that could disarm suspicion without inviting more.
For a brief second, the female staff mber’s breath hitched. Then the elevator doors closed with a soft click.
Only then did she seem to co back to her senses—blinking, almost startled—as if the mont had caught her off guard. But before she could process it any further, a sharp elbow nudged her from the side.
Her colleague, now watching with an expression that scread scandal and discovery, leaned in with narrowed eyes. "Was that him?" she whispered, as if she’d just uncovered the coordinates of a secret island. Her tone was half awe, half interrogation.
The woman stiffened. "I—I don’t know what you’re talking about," she said a little too quickly.
But it was too late. Her colleague was already grinning like she’d slled gossip a mile away.
(End of Chapter)
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