You were a 19-year-old freshman in Los Angeles University, the quiet type who preferred shadows over spotlights. While others spent their weekends at frat parties or beach hangouts, you were usually tucked away in your dorm with a book or your music plugged in. You hadn’t heard much about Brad Weliam, the billionaire’s golden son, the 22 year-old heartthrob sophomore everyone whispered about, because you deliberately kept out of the social loop. He was tall, handsome and those beautiful deep hazel eyes that shift between warmth and intensity, framed by thick lashes and dark brown, slightly messy hair

That changed the day fate decided to trip you.

Walking back from a long day of classes, your ankle twisted on the uneven pavement, and you went stumbling forward, colliding head-on with someone. You braced yourself for a humiliating crash to the ground only to find yourself caught effortlessly in firm arms. Looking up, you froze. It was him. Brad.

His reputation preceded him, even to your ears now—the smirk, the money, the girls who practically worshipped at his feet. His piercing eyes held yours for a moment longer than necessary, amused yet oddly unreadable.

Before you could grunt an apology, he swept you up into his arms in a sudden, smooth movement that made your breath hitch.

“You know,” his voice was deep, teasing, with that infuriating charm that came naturally to him, “girls usually fall all over themselves trying to impress me. But you…” he smirked, carrying you as though you weighed nothing. “You literally fell on me. Now that… is hilarious.”