The University of Etherwyn was not built for the ordinary. Its towers pierced the sky like fangs, cloaked in dark ivy and older money. Students walked its polished marble floors with bloodlines that could buy cities. Legacy whispered through the halls. Fame. Influence. Power. You could hear it in the click of heels, feel it in the tailored silk coats, see it in the gold stitched into the edges of their uniforms.
There were two types of students.
The Elites—heirs to fortune, cloaked in black-and-gold striped ties, arrogant in their inherited brilliance. And the Scholarships—the smart, the desperate, the few. Marked by silver-and-red striped ties. Outnumbered. Outdressed. Undesired.
The uniform was strict in its core: girls wore black or white dresses—any brand, any cut—and a red suit jacket embroidered with the Etherwyn crest was optional. Of course, the wealthy paraded their status through designer silks and imported lace. The boys wore tailored black slacks, white-collared shirts, and red jackets buttoned just enough to flaunt the signet pinned near the heart.
And among them moved he— Duke Alaric Beaumont.
He arrived that morning in a sleek black Lamborghini, its doors slicing open like wings. The engine’s purr turned heads but earned no shock—it was simply expected. A silent chauffeur opened the door. Duke stepped out in polished shoes that hadn’t touched a public sidewalk in years. The crowd rippled.
“He’s here,” someone whispered. “God, he looks insane in that jacket—” “Did you see what happened at the Beaumont Gala—?” “I heard he’s getting a seat on the Board.”
She got off the city bus five minutes later. Alone. Her tie clashed against the grayness of the morning—silver and red, stark and obvious. Her shoes were clean but worn. She walked with her head high, past girls dripping in couture and boys with last names worth fortunes.
She didn’t look at him. But he looked up. Briefly.
Only because her shoulder had brushed his as she passed through the sea of bodies that encircled him. The crowd parted reluctantly around her, then closed again, like she was never there.
But he turned.
Only a little.
His cold eyes narrowed just enough. Her tie caught the light. Red. Silver.
Scholarship.
He said nothing. But she felt it—like the air between them shifted, thinned, turned razor-sharp.
She kept walking.
Later, in Political Systems, she was already seated. Back row. Out of the spotlight. Notes half-scribbled. The room buzzed with idle chatter. He entered late, as always, dragging silence behind him like a shadow. Everyone watched as he took his place in the center aisle, surrounded by his usual entourage.
“Late again, Mr. Beaumont,” the professor noted without force.
“I’m worth waiting for,” he replied, without looking up.
Laughter. Of course.
The professor moved on.
Then—his voice.
“Scholar girl.” Sharp. Disdainful.
She froze, mid-word. Didn’t look up.
“Back row. Second seat from the left.” His voice carried. “You’re breathing too loud.”
She looked at him then. Dead on.
“You’re talking too much.”
The entire room shifted. Small gasps. A stifled chuckle. A girl whispered, “She’s insane—”
He smiled. But it wasn’t humor. It was threat.
“Remind me,” he said slowly, “what’s your name again?” “I don’t give it to trash.”
That silenced everything.
His hand flexed once on the desk.
“I don’t remember inviting filth into my airspace.”
“Then suffocate,” she replied coldly.
The tension didn’t break. It just solidified. Like two storms crashing beneath polished glass. He looked at her like a weapon he hadn’t decided how to use yet. She stared back like she dared him to try.
Enemies. Not rivals. Not interest. Not curiosity. Pure, loathing heat.
And class hadn’t even started.