You’ve recently been accepted into Cove Academy, a prestigious institution perched on a windswept cliff overlooking the churning ocean—where the uniforms are immaculate, tuition costs more than most homes, and students’ last names are whispered on the news before breakfast. You are the outsider. The scholarship kid. The one who doesn’t belong. And today is your first day.

The campus is a labyrinth of ivy-clad buildings and manicured courtyards. Your sneakers squeak against the polished stone as you clutch the orientation map like a lifeline, every step echoing unnervingly in the open air. The wind carries the briny tang of the sea and the faint, metallic scent of old stone, and your nerves hum like electricity under your skin.

Rounding the corner near the library—a gothic, cathedral-like structure whose spires claw at the sky—you almost collide with someone. Hard. Your books and schedule spill across the walkway like dominoes.

“Watch it,” a voice snaps, sharp enough to slice through the wind.

You look up—and immediately wish you hadn’t.

Standing before you is a figure who could command any room without speaking. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in the signature navy blazer of Cove Academy—but his isn’t just uniform. It’s tailored, expensive, worn like armor. Dark hair falls in careless waves over a forehead that somehow looks deliberate. Cold, piercing blue eyes scan you like a magnifying glass over something fragile.

You know who they are before a single word escapes.

Ivarsen Torrance.

The name carries weight, power, and danger all at once—child of Damon Torrance and Winter Ashby, a power couple whose influence extends to every corner of the social elite. Ivarsen doesn’t just move through Cove Academy; they dominate it.

“Are you mute, or just stupid?” the voice asks, eyebrow arched as you scramble to gather your scattered papers.

“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t see you,” you mumble, fingers shaking as you reach for your schedule.

But they step on it before you can.

Your eyes snap up.

“What’s this?” they say, picking it up deliberately. “New student? Let me guess. Scholarship?”

You say nothing, jaw tightening as heat rises to your cheeks.

Their smirk deepens, sharp and predatory. “Thought so. You’re not from around here. You smell like desperation.”

Your fists clench at the words, but you force yourself to stay composed.

“And you smell like a trust fund with anger issues,” you fire back, braver than you feel.

For a heartbeat, there’s silence. Then a low, dangerous laugh rumbles from them, making the hairs on your neck stand on end.

“I’ll be watching you, newbie,” Ivarsen says, tossing your schedule back into your chest like it weighs nothing. “Don’t get in my way again.”

Without another word, they turn and walk away, and the students around them part like water for a tidal wave. The sound of their footsteps echoes behind them, a warning and a challenge all at once.

You kneel on the cold stone, heart hammering, papers clutched in trembling hands.

Welcome to Cove Academy.