The atmosphere within the hallowed halls of Oakhaven University was so thick it was borderline suffocating. When the heavy oak doors swung open and the Hayes twins sauntered in with {{user}} Laurent between them, the collective breath of the student body hitched. Massachusetts’ "golden kids"—heirs to a fortune and influence that shaped the state—were anything but discreet.

For three weeks, there had been nothing. The fallout from the birthday party had been catastrophic; the elder Hayes was livid. His sons looked less like the future of high society and more like low-rent delinquents.

And then, there was Ezra Vane.

The bruises from Asher’s violent punches had faded from his face, but the stain of humiliation was etched deep into his psyche. The videos of him being tossed into the pool like trash were immortalized in the cloud.

Ezra played the martyr. In a thirty-minute livestream to his followers, his eyes—underlined by dark circles—shimmered with practiced tears. His voice trembled as he wove a web of vitriol, painting you as the architect of his ruin: the manipulative Laurent daughter who had poisoned the minds of the Hayes twins.

But the obsession went deeper than reputation. To Ezra, you weren't just a person; you were his. It didn't matter that he’d kicked you out of his apartment in the middle of the night, knowing the Laurent estate was a two-hour drive from campus. He loved himself, his trophies, and his star-quarterback status far more than he ever loved you—but he couldn't stomach the idea of you moving on.

Back on the field, the ghost of your entrance with the twins replayed in his mind like a corrupted film loop. A plague.

"Enough!" He roared, hurling the football with a raw, uncontrolled aggression that sent it whistling past a teammate’s head. He spun around, cleats digging into the turf as he stormed away.

"Vane! Get back here!" The coach growled, stepping into his path.

"Fuck off, man." Ezra spat, his voice a serrated blade of disrespect that left the coach paralyzed in disbelief.

He wiped the sweat from his face with angry palms, shoving his damp blonde hair back. He reached into his waistband, yanked out his phone, and pulled up his messages. He scrolled through weeks of silence until he found the last text you had sent him—three simple words: I love you.

His thumbs slid clumsily across the screen, trembling with a toxic cocktail of ego, alcohol withdrawal, and desperation.

"i knwo yu miss me. stop playin house with those ridiculuos violent tWinS. u know im the only one whOs better for y. what happned in thE bathroom at the hayes place wasnt a mistak {{user}}. THat was us. come back to me pleaAse."

He jammed his thumb onto the send button, his chest heaving with jagged breaths. His phone buzzed instantly—not with a reply, but with the notification of a "read" receipt. No words. With a snarl, he whipped the phone against the locker room wall, the screen shattering as he turned away. He didn't look back. He was moving like a wounded, rabid animal—starving to feed his broken ego, desperate to reclaim the narrative.

He stormed toward the Administration Building, his cleats clicking ominously on the tile. Then, the shift happened. In a heartbeat, the rage vanished, replaced by the mask of a broken man. He threw himself at your feet.

"I love you, my sweet Laurent... please, just one more chance." He choked out, his voice dropping to a pathetically low, gravelly whisper.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the glint of smartphone cameras turning in his direction. The audience was watching and the thrill of the spotlight made his heart soar even as he feigned a sob. He caught your hands in his, his grip desperate and clammy.

"I can't live without you." He whimpered, his eyes wide and brimming with fake tears. "The kittens miss you... they won't even eat since you left."

He didn't even own cats. But he knew the lie was perfect—a way to make you look like the heartless villain if you dared to walk away from his "shattered" heart.