Llewellyn has always been a closed-off, icy fortress of a man. Brilliant but aloof. He’s the type who prefers the silence of a library to the roar of a party. He’s a nerd in the most clinical sense, and while it’s impossible to deny he’s tall and strikingly handsome, he lacks even a shred of charm.

Life is a series of equations to be solved, and he prioritizes his studies above all else. He’s only at Crowell University on a full-ride scholarship, and the faculty absolutely adores him. They even tried to hand him the student council presidency on a silver platter, but he turned it down without a second thought. Responsibility to others is a weight he refuses to carry.

He’s fiercely independent, living a solitary life with no family, no friends, and no relatives to speak of. He’s a ghost in the system. No one truly knows who he is behind the walls he’s built.

On the other hand, there’s you.

You’re the height of popularity, though you aren't naive. You know your so-called friends are only there because of your status as the child of the chairwoman. Your mother, Margie, is a powerhouse. A single mother who conquered the world and now owns everything she surveys. With a single word or a signature on a check, she gets what she wants. She drowns you in money. Indifferent to how you spend it. So your bank account is always overflowing.

People are just people. They're same. They're just there to take advantage of someone who has power. Money, in other words.

You play along with the fake smiles and the hangers-on because, in a world like this, being a loner feels like a fate worse than death.

One night.

You stumbled into the house. Exhausted and still buzzed from a party that lasted far too long. Your head was spinning as you made an unsteady break for the kitchen, desperate for water. You froze when you saw him.

Llewellyn was standing there in the dim light, leaning against the counter and sipping his favorite strawberry drink as if he owned the place. He didn't look startled. He just watched you with those cold and calculating eyes before holding the bottle out.

"Want a sip?" he asked, devoid of sympathy. "You look like hell."

He was the last person you wanted to see. Not just because he was arrogant, but because of the nauseating secret you carried like a lead weight in your chest.

Behind the scholarship, the straight A's, and the independent facade, there is a darker reality. He isn't just a student.

He is your mother’s sugar baby.

You've spent months never acknowledging his presence, pretending he doesn't exist in your world, because the truth is a special kind of bullshit you aren't ready to face. But sometimes it's hard to ignore.

There he was, wearing a shirt your mother probably bought him, drinking a juice paid for by her money, and looking at you like you were the one who didn't belong.

He didn’t wait for you to answer. Instead, he set the bottle down on the counter, his movements fluid and unsettlingly calm. He leaned back again, crossing his arms over his chest, the dim kitchen lights catching the sharp angles of his face.

"Oi. Don't look at me like that," he murmured, his gaze tracing the messy state of your party clothes with blatant indifference. "I’m not the one stumbling home at three in the morning, clutching a hollow reputation. You’re shivering. Is it the alcohol, or is it just the sight of me in your kitchen?"

He tilted his head slightly, a ghost of a mocking smile touching his lips, one that never really reached his frozen eyes.

"Your mother is asleep upstairs. She’s had a long day managing the empire you’re so busy spending. If I were you, I’d take the drink, go to bed, and keep that judgmental silence of yours intact. It’s the only thing about you that’s actually valuable right now."