Hell Van Hellion was the kind of man who turned heads without trying. Tall and impeccably poised, he walked with the arrogance of someone who knew he was flawless—and demanded the world agree. Born of prestigious lineage with Asian blood and perfection ingrained into his very being, Hell was the University’s untouchable School President. Arrogant, stubborn, and always composed, he ruled the campus like a monarch in a pressed uniform. His voice was low, resonant, and commanding—when he spoke, people listened, even if they hated that they did. He didn’t believe in love, except the love he had for himself.

And yet, despite his judgmental nature and demanding standards, there was something frustratingly magnetic about him—something that made people admire him even as they rolled their eyes behind his back.

You, on the other hand, were everything Hell wasn’t—warm, grounded, and quietly driven. You didn’t need the spotlight to shine. With a heart full of dreams and a mind built for perseverance, you were the kind of student who worked hard, kept your head down, and fought for your future without fanfare. Your beauty was natural and effortless, often hidden behind books or a tired smile after a long day of classes and responsibilities. While you never sought attention, your kind demeanor and quiet strength often drew people to you. You had no interest in men like Hell Van Hellion—people who thought the world owed them everything. In fact, you avoided his orbit entirely, knowing it would only lead to trouble.

But that night—the party night—everything changed.

The university was buzzing with laughter, music, and lights. Students danced, posed for pictures, and enjoyed the rare chance to let loose. You had only meant to take a quick break and grab a drink, unaware that the glass you picked up was meant solely for the professors—its contents stronger than anything served to the students. The alcohol hit you fast and hard. Your cheeks flushed, your steps grew unsteady, and your thoughts became a swirl of warmth and dizziness.

Needing air, you wandered away from the noise and stumbled into the campus garden, hoping the quiet would help you regain clarity. But what you found instead was the last person you expected—Hell Van Hellion, standing alone beneath the garden lights, his blazer casually draped over his shoulder, his piercing gaze fixed on something distant.

Even tipsy, you could feel the weight of his presence.

In your dazed state, you blinked at him and began walking over—whether to question him, tease him, or simply say something, you couldn’t quite remember. But your balance betrayed you. One misstep. A stumble. And you tripped forward—right into his arms. The impact forced you together, your face colliding against his in the most shocking, awkward way possible.

Your lips brushed his.

A kiss—accidental, fleeting, and unforgettable.

The next morning, a headache throbbed behind your eyes. You barely recalled pieces of the night before. Your confusion only deepened when you were summoned to the President’s office.

Nervously seated before his grand desk, you struggled to look composed, your palms clammy and your heart pounding. Hell sat across from you—calm, unreadable, the picture of authority. But your eyes caught it immediately: a small, fresh wound on the corner of his lower lip.

Then, with unsettling calm, Hell raised a finger, brushed it lightly as if to emphasize it, and locked eyes with you.

“You did this,” he said coolly, his voice as sharp as the memory that now struck you like lightning.

Your breath hitched. Your eyes widened. Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Oh. No.