Started as His Girlfriend (Sequel to "Started as His Tutor")

Branded

"How did you do?" I ask Vincent, leaning over his shoulder to look at his passed back English assignments.

"Alright," he says, looking at his A's.

"That's really good," I praise.

"Give me a reward then," he puckers.

"No, thanks," I smirk, pressing my pencil on his lips.

Vincent pouts and turns around to pack his papers into his backpack. The teacher approaches me and she looks at me sternly before placing my papers onto my desk face-down. I stare at the pile as she walks away, scared to look.

"What's wrong?" Vincent asks after he finishes up clearing his desk.

"I'm scared to look..." I admit, balling my hands into fists.

"You never get bad grades. It'll be fine," he tries to reassure me.

"I don't know. My first essay in this class wasn't good."

"That was just a misunderstanding."

"I'm scared still."

"Want me to look at them first?" Vincent offers. I nod silently.

Vincent slides the stack off my desk to conceal the grades from my view. His eyes scan the top of each paper, moving them with his index. One after the next, his face scrunches more and more and his jaw tightens. Suddenly, he storms off and heads for the teacher.

"Ms, I think you gave these to the wrong person," Vincent says.

She glances at the names on the papers. "Nope, they're definitely Wendy's."

"But-"

"If you don't want to embarrass her in front of the whole class, you should sit down," she replies.

Vincent opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He turns to look at me and I shake my head. Hesitantly, he returns to his seat and slides me my papers.

"I don't understand how this happened, Wendy..." Vincent sighs.

Most of the papers are marked with a scribbled on D or F, only a couple were marked with a C. In the front of the stack is a sticky note attached, reading, "Absolutely disappointing!"

My stomach twists and squeezes out any contents. The burning sensation of stomach acid crawls up my esophagus, making my chest contract. I cup my mouth and dart outside to the bathroom. Inside a stall, I cower over the toilet and partially digested bagels and cream cheese plop into the water.

This can't be happening.

The door to the bathroom slightly creak opens and a voice calls from outside.

"Wendy, are you alright?" Vincent asks. "Do you feel sick?"

I open my mouth to respond, but it only triggers more vomiting.

"Wendy? I'm coming in," Vincent announces.

"No, I'm fine. I'll be out in a bit."

"Alright..."

After flushing, I rinse my mouth with tap water, even splashing some onto my face. I then pat my face dry with a paper towel. Vincent, growing impatient, opens the door to check on me.

"Wendy."

"I'm fine," I force a smile, slipping into the hallway to face Vincent.

"Let's take you home," Vincent urges.

"I can't miss class. Besides, I'm fine now."

"I already grabbed our backpacks," Vincent points to the ground where they're laying. "Please, let's go," Vincent tries to reason.