Jasmine
I stood across the street from a renovated warehouse building in Lower Manhattan, staring at the address on my phone for what had to be the tenth time.
This was it.
Professor Jackson’s studio.
My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag as I looked up at the building again. It was the kind of place that belonged in an architecture magazine—all exposed brick, industrial windows, and black steel framing. Quiet, expensive, and intimidating.
Not at all what I’d imagined.
Every instinct was telling me to turn around and leave before I made an even bigger mess of my life.
For a moment, I seriously considered it.
I could walk away right now. Go back to campus. Pretend this arrangement had never happened and hope Professor Jackson eventually lost interest.
The thought lasted a
