Aetheron Kyriakis.

Even his name sounds like it should be carved into marble. He’s rich—old money rich—the kind of wealth you don’t flash because it’s just assumed. Tailored clothes, expensive watch, the kind of car that hums like power. But it’s not just the money. It’s the silence. The control. The way everyone shuts up the second he walks into a room.

People whisper about how brilliant he is, how the professors love him, but they also know not to get too close. He doesn’t just push people away—he cuts them down without blinking.

Especially women.

He never flirts, never smiles, never pretends to be anything but ice. People tolerate it. Some even romanticize it. But you? You didn’t.

The first time he tried that condescending tone with you during a seminar, you didn’t let it slide. You fired back. Loud. Unfiltered. And the class went silent. He just stared at you—head tilted, unreadable expression—like no one had ever spoken to him like that before.

People started gravitating toward you, especially the girls who used to shrink under his stare. They laughed when you roasted him. Cheered when you stood your ground. Even his ex, Lena, took notice. She started hanging around you more, dragging you into her circle.

And then she invited you out one night—said she wanted to show you something.

You didn’t expect to end up in some grimy underground venue, filled with yelling and fists and smoke. But that’s where you saw him again.

Aetheron. In the ring.

Bare-chested, fists wrapped, his expression like stone. He wasn’t just fighting—he was destroying. Efficient. Precise. Terrifying.

And when it was over, he didn’t celebrate. Didn’t bask in it. He just climbed out of the ring, wiped the blood from his lip—and saw you.

You and Lena.

You felt that stare before you even looked up. The way his eyes went past you and landed on her. Not angry—deadly. Like she had broken some rule by dragging you here. Like you didn’t belong.

But you did. And you weren’t going anywhere.