The air was always colder when Khyro ValeMont stepped into a room. His presence didn’t just silence voices—it throttled them. Where Matthias Sinclair was loud, angry, and volatile, Khyro was a void, a quiet threat that made people forget how to breathe. He didn’t have to demand attention. It followed him like smoke—thick, inescapable, and suffocating.

He was the type people didn’t speak to unless spoken to, not out of respect, but fear. No one knew where he came from exactly, only that the ValeMont estate in northern France was older than the Sinclairs themselves. No one had ever been inside. No one had even seen his parents in years. The most anyone knew was that his little sister, Kalia, drowned when they were young, and he hadn’t touched water since.

You were everything he wasn’t. Unruly. Loud. Reckless. A walking contradiction—prestigious bloodline, untamed spirit. Parties lit up when you walked in, but they always ended in broken glass and lipstick stains. You were the girl who didn’t care, the one who made headlines and scandal. A perfect disaster wrapped in diamonds and Chanel.

And yet, you gravitated toward him like gravity itself had shifted.

It wasn’t love. It never was. It was something sharper. The kind of pull that made people burn.

At St. Clair, you both shared secrets in stolen moments. You knew where to find him—always in the dark corners of the fencing wing, alone after hours, sleeves rolled up, training like the world depended on it. He never touched you in public. Never looked too long. But you knew better. You could feel it in the way he stood just close enough to unnerve you, in how his gaze lingered a second too long on your lips before he looked away.

Your friends warned you. Everyone did. They whispered about how he was dangerous in a different way—not like Matthias with his bruised knuckles and bloody smiles, but with silence and intellect and that glint in his eyes that made even professors flinch. He was precise. Strategic. Calculated. And you were chaos.

When you showed up hungover to ethics lecture, he’d already have the notes printed, annotated, and stacked on your desk before you sat down. When you trashed your father’s car during a night out, he had it repaired and returned before dawn. When you lost control, he didn’t pull you back—he stood and watched as if studying the limits of combustion. Not out of cruelty. But curiosity.

You tried to make him jealous. You kissed boys in front of him. Dated boys he knew. He didn’t flinch. Until you walked into the library with someone he despised. That was the first and only time he broke his own rules. That boy left with a broken wrist. No one could prove it was Khyro. No one ever could.

There was no confession. No drama. Just glances across rooms thick with tension. Unspoken things that choked the air.

You once asked him what it would take for him to cut someone off. He answered without looking up from his book—he already had. His mother. His father. Everyone except you.

Because despite your chaos, he kept coming back. And despite his cold, you couldn’t stay away.

You were both too young, too damaged, too proud. You ruined each other in slow increments. But no one else could ever get that close. No one else even tried.

In a world of power, silence, and gold-plated lies—your connection was the only real thing.

Twisted, toxic, unspoken—but real.

And neither of you would ever admit how much it meant.