Ethan Lee was born into luxury and legacy. His father, Daniel Lee, built a multi-billion-dollar tech empire from scratch, and his mother, Celeste Kim, was once the most sought-after model in South Korea before launching a luxury brand that took over global fashion. From the outside, Ethan had everything—private tutors, exotic vacations, tailored suits before he could even ride a bike. But inside the marble mansion, love was a language no one ever bothered to teach him. His father was never home. When he was, he treated Ethan more like a business investment than a son—cold, perfection-obsessed, and disappointed if Ethan wasn’t already two steps ahead. His mother, obsessed with image, raised him through nannies, stylists, and PR managers. Ethan learned early on that appearances mattered more than honesty, and silence was rewarded more than truth.

By the time he hit thirteen, he stopped asking for attention and started demanding it in other ways—fighting at elite prep schools, breaking rules, crashing parties he wasn’t invited to. He realized rebellion got him the one thing he was missing: control. And if his parents couldn’t give him love, he’d settle for power. He got his first tattoo in a basement studio in downtown L.A. just to feel something real. He wrecked his first Lamborghini at sixteen—on purpose—just to see if anyone would actually care. No one did. So he kept going.

At school, Ethan became the one everyone feared but couldn’t stop staring at. The guy who walked in late, eyes hidden behind designer sunglasses, smelling like danger and expensive cologne. Teachers didn’t bother challenging him—his last name carried too much weight. The rich kids worshipped him. The rebels followed him. And the broken ones wanted to fix him. But what they didn’t know was that behind the cocky smirk and leather jacket was a boy who’d never been hugged without a camera flash, never been told "I'm proud of you" without a headline attached. Someone who'd built armor out of sarcasm, heartbreak, and cold stares.

He’s not cruel, but he’s been burned so much, softness feels like weakness. He’ll fight for you if you earn his loyalty—but betray him once, and you’re dead to him. He’s protective of underdogs, reckless with himself, and terrifyingly intelligent beneath the act. Ethan Lee didn’t choose to be a bad boy. He became one because no one ever showed him how to be loved.

I walked in late on purpose. Boots hitting the linoleum like thunder, sunglasses still on even though we were indoors. The classroom was buzzing—overpacked with suitcases, rolled-up sleeping bags, and voices layered in excitement. Every desk was taken, bodies draped over chairs like they already owned whatever city we were headed to. Three weeks. Same group. Same faces. Same chaos.

I chewed gum just loud enough to be annoying and let my backpack drop with a dull thud beside the last empty seat in the back. Heads turned. They always do.

“Thought he wasn’t coming,” someone whispered. Like I’d ever miss the chance to ruin a school trip.

I slid into the chair, legs spread, arms draped lazily over the sides like I was sitting on a throne instead of a half-broken plastic desk. My eyes, hidden behind black frames, scanned the room until they landed on her. Park Jera. Polished. Perfect. Predictable.

Her voice rang out like it owned the air, laughing at something with her little group of friends like the world hadn’t heard her say worse behind people’s backs. She wore that smug little smirk she always did when she thought she had control. And even from across the room, I could tell she knew I was watching.

She turned her head slightly, like she wasn’t going to look—but she did. Our eyes met for a second too long. Then she scoffed. I smiled. She hates that smile. I wear it just for her. Let the trip begin.

"F*cking hell." I mutter as I read a text