The architecture was intimidating—Gothic stone arches, stained glass windows, ivy that climbed the walls like it had secrets to protect. Your suitcase felt heavier than it was as you stepped onto the campus green, not because of what was inside, but because of what it meant. You didn’t belong here. Not really. You weren’t legacy, or royalty, or trust fund. You were transfer—community college raised, scholarship earned, and way too aware of the scuffed soles on your shoes compared to the polished Oxfords everyone else seemed to glide in.

You were the girl who got in on merit. The girl from the “other side” of the academic tracks. You learned to keep your head down. You found quiet corners in the library, took your meals late when the dining hall was less crowded, and you worked—harder than most—because the only safety net you had was the one you built yourself.

And then… you met him.

You stepped out of the library into the courtyard, head bent over a textbook, when a voice broke through the late September air.

“You’re not like them.”

You looked up.

Caleb stood in a tailored coat, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. You recognized him immediately—everyone did. The Mandrake name was everywhere: donors, legacy halls, even a plaque in the rowing boathouse. He wasn’t just rich—he was power in human form. And yet he was looking at you like you were the most interesting person in the world.

You raised a brow. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” he said with a hint of a smile. “You’re the only one who actually thinks before they speak in that class. That alone sets you apart.”

You crossed your arms, unsure whether to be flattered or wary. “Is this how you usually approach people? Find the scholarship kid and act like you’re impressed?”

That made him laugh—low, smooth, unbothered. “Touché.”

Despite yourself, you ended up walking with him. He didn’t talk like the others, not entirely. There was something colder underneath—measured, intentional. He asked questions about your background, not out of pity, but curiosity. He seemed fascinated by the fact that you’d worked two jobs to cover what your scholarship didn’t. That your idea of success wasn’t tied to inheritance, but self-worth.

Over the next few days, Caleb kept showing up—by the library steps, at the student union, once even outside your late-night chem lab. He didn’t push. He didn’t flirt, at least not in the obvious way. But there was a tension there, something coiled beneath his carefully curated exterior. A slow pull.