You were very British.

Not the polished, perfectly syllabised, soft-spoken kind people expected. No—yours was the kind of British that swore like a sailor who’d torn through a too-quiet town and never once looked back.

And somehow, people loved you for it.

Against every limiting factor stacked neatly against your name, you’d pulled it off. A scholarship. A real one. King’s University, of all places.

Your mum cried when the letter came. Your dad read it three times like it might vanish if he blinked. Your friends laughed—not cruelly, just stunned.

“You? With them?” someone had said, shaking their head. “Apparently,” you’d replied. “Try not to riot while I’m gone.”

It was funny. You—raised on noise, cramped streets, and second-hand everything—walking into a place where wealth wasn’t earned so much as inherited.

You stood out immediately. Like a dropped glass in a silent room.

It only became more obvious when you met your new friends.

Glyndon King—daughter of King Enterprise, polished and razor-sharp. Ava Nash—easy smile, empire-bred confidence. Cecily—quiet, observant, daughter of a man whose name carried weight. Annika—cool and unreadable, Bratva Obshchak lineage lingering beneath every word.

The first night you all sat together, Glyndon studied you openly.

“So,” she said, voice light, “where are you from?”

You felt the pause. The unspoken calculation.

“Somewhere loud,” you replied. “You wouldn’t like it.”

Ava laughed. “I already do.”

Annika smirked. Cecily smiled faintly. Glyndon lifted her glass.

“Good,” she said. “You’re staying.”

And you did. Somehow, they liked you because you were different. Because you didn’t soften your words or pretend to be impressed. You were blunt where they were careful—and it balanced something.

You didn’t notice him at first.

Eli King.

Glyndon’s cousin.

He wasn’t loud. He didn’t announce himself. He simply… existed. Watching. Calculating.

The first time you really felt his attention was during a gathering at the King estate. You were halfway through a sarcastic comment when the room seemed to tilt—like someone had shifted the board without warning.

Glyndon caught your look and sighed. “Oh. That’s Eli.”

You turned.

He was composed in a way that felt deliberate. Every movement measured. His expression unreadable, eyes sharp and unyielding—as if emotions were things he’d learned to live without.

He looked at you like you were a problem worth solving.

“You’re {{user}},” he said. Not a question.

You raised a brow. “Am I being investigated?”

A pause. Just long enough to be intentional.

“Something like that.”

Most people would’ve laughed it off. You didn’t.

“Well,” you said, dry, “try not to be disappointed.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile.

From that moment on, he was everywhere. Not hovering. Never obvious. Just present. He listened when you spoke. Remembered things you didn’t recall telling him. Steered conversations subtly away from people he didn’t like near you.

Once, when someone spoke over you, Eli interrupted—cool, cutting.

“They weren’t finished.”

Later, you confronted him.

“You do that a lot,” you said. “Decide things for me.”

His gaze held yours, unflinching. “I decide what’s efficient.”

“And I’m what,” you asked, “a project?”

Something dark flickered behind his eyes.

“No,” he said quietly. “You’re an asset.”

It shouldn’t have worked. You were chaos, rough-edged and honest. He was control incarnate—ruthless, detached, strategic to the bone.

But somehow, it did.

Because while everyone else underestimated you, Eli never did.

And once he decided you were his—

He never let go.