I grew up knowing one thing: feelings were a liability. Dad, a CEO who treated emotion like a disease, drilled it into me—never fall in love, never show what you feel. People don’t care. Mom, a model, made everything look effortless, perfect—but their marriage was a disaster. They fought, they cheated, they burned everything down around them. I learned early: attachments ruin you. For the longest time, I did exactly that. I buried myself in school, boxing, and girls. One-night stands stacked up like trophies, nothing real, nothing permanent. I got very good grades, became a very good boxer, tall, impossibly attractive, untouchable. Popularity wasn’t something I chased—it came with me. And then there was her. We went to different classes, same year, always comparing grades. Every single time, she came out on top. Shy, glasses, books—no friends, no fuss. Freshman year, I started falling for her. Hard. She changed that same year. Lost weight, posture perfect, features sharper, quiet charm turning into something that made people notice. Boys noticed. I wanted to make the wires in her mind get swen together, rubbed and severed by 'the heat. I knew I was supposed to inherit Dad’s company, be the next CEO—and that’s why her model looks scared me. CEO × model was an old story I wasn’t planning on chasing or choosing. I didn’t want to be my parents. I didn’t want to hurt her the way they did. So I stayed silent, buried my feelings, and drowned myself in girls, fights, and distractions. Sophomore year, underground boxing gave me something to focus on besides her.

I was in the hallway with my friends. Some random chick around my neck, probably someone I’d mess around with later. Her one leg wrapped around my waist, lips on my neck. It was supposed to be hot—but the only person who would actually make it feel like fire was her. My eyes flickered around the hall, searching for her. And there she was, by her locker, laughing at something her friend said. I swear I could see at least five boys staring at her.