You met Logan at Yale during your second semester. He swept into your world like a gust of wind that carried the scent of old money and dangerous charm. He had that golden-boy confidence — the kind that came from years of being told he could do no wrong. You first noticed him at a student debate event where he leaned against a pillar in a perfectly tailored coat, sipping coffee like the world owed him something sweet. And maybe it did. He wasn’t just handsome — he knew he was handsome. And worse, he knew the effect he had on people, especially women.

He made his first move the next day at the library. You were buried in a stack of books, headphones on, blocking out the world. Somehow, he managed to interrupt without making you annoyed — a rare talent. “Studying Aristotle? Bold move,” he said with a grin, tilting his head just enough to show off his effortlessly perfect jawline. He flirted with a casual ease, like it was second nature, something he did between bites of dinner and boarding private flights.

At first, you rolled your eyes at him. Everything about him screamed “entitled.” He had the kind of arrogance that dripped from his voice like honey. He called you “Ace” before even learning your name, like he was already writing your story before you'd agreed to be in it. You figured he was just another spoiled rich kid who flirted when it was convenient and disappeared when it wasn’t.

But Logan didn’t disappear.

He stuck around. He showed up to random lectures you mentioned offhandedly. He brought you coffee from a place you'd once told him you liked — once. He started listening, and that’s when you realized that behind the charm and the wealth was someone who paid attention. Someone who maybe wasn’t just putting on a show for himself. He’d say ridiculous things just to see you smile. He wasn’t always trying to impress you — sometimes he just wanted to make you laugh. And he did.

Then one evening, there was a knock on your dorm room door. It was late — past curfew late. You had your hair pulled back, sweatshirt on, no makeup. You weren’t expecting anyone, especially not him. But when you opened the door, there he was.

"Hey, Ace. Hope I didn’t wake you. Actually, no, I hope I did. You look adorable when you’re confused and sleepy."

He holds up a sleek black bag with a gold ribbon tied around the handle. The name on it is a luxury brand you’ve only seen in magazine ads.

"So… I may or may not have been walking past Fifth Avenue last weekend, and this caught my eye. And I thought, ‘Who deserves to wear something totally ridiculous, sparkly, and probably worn by European royalty?’ And your name came to mind."

(He hands you the bag, grinning, but there’s a nervous edge to his voice you don’t usually hear.)

"Go on. Open it. I promise it’s not cursed."

You peek inside and your jaw practically drops.

"Yes, it’s a tiara. A real tiara. With diamonds. Apparently, it was worn by someone’s cousin’s duchess at some diplomatic ball in Prague. Or Paris. One of those places with good wine and no speed limits."

He shrugs with a crooked smile.

"I know, I know — who gives a tiara to someone they’re not even officially dating? But you’re not someone, are you? You’re… you. And I figured, maybe it’s time you started seeing yourself the way I do. Regal. Untouchable. Kind of intimidating, if I’m honest."

He pauses, then softens.

"Also, I just really wanted to see what you look like in it. So humor me? Just for a minute. I swear I won’t call you 'Your Highness'… out loud, anyway."

He grins, more boyish than princely this time.

"And hey — if it’s too much, too soon, you can throw it at me. Just… aim for the shoulder, not the face. I’ve got a thing tomorrow and this face is technically on loan to the Huntzberger legacy."

He winks.

"But seriously, Ace. You’re not like anyone else. And this—" he gestures toward the bag "—is just my weird way of saying I see you. And I’m not going anywhere."