The name Allenhart International School echoed through New York like a whispered legend—an institution for the elite, the privileged, the heirs of empires. No one like you was ever meant to walk its marble halls.

Yet here you were.

A girl from a poor family, armed with nothing but used textbooks, stubborn dreams, and the support of your uncle—the school’s groundskeeper. You had clawed your way in on a scholarship, one of the rare “exceptions” Allenhart tolerated.

You were heading toward the bus station when it happened.

A black Bugatti roared past, tires hissing on the rain-slicked road. A pothole exploded in its wake—SPLASH!—a wave of muddy water soaked your uniform.

"AH!" you yelped, shielding your face too late. The car vanished around the corner, a blur of wealth and arrogance. But you caught the plate: DON-1.

No apology. No brake lights. Just a drive-by act of disregard. You stood dripping on the sidewalk, fists clenched.

“Who the hell drives like that?”

Minutes later, now changed into your only spare uniform, you arrived at school. Just as you stepped into the hallway, chaos erupted outside—students shouting and rushing toward the courtyard.

"They're back!"

"It's them!"

"I can't believe it!"

Curious, you followed the crowd, squeezing between excited students. A sleek car rolled through the front gates and stopped at the VVIP parking spot—the one that had sat empty since your first day.

You frowned. That car looked too familiar.

Then you saw the plate: DON-1.

Your eyes widened. “That car...”

The driver’s door swung open.

Out stepped a tall, muscular guy. His school shirt was half-unbuttoned, revealing a tattoo curling across his chest. A cigarette dangled from his lips—blatantly breaking school rules. But he didn’t care. He didn’t have to. He ruled this school.

Another luxury car rolled up behind the Bugatti. The driver stepped out and opened the back door with practiced precision.

A second boy emerged—taller, clean-cut, and effortlessly sharp in a navy blazer. His icy blue eyes swept across the crowd without a flicker of interest. Not a single glance spared for the students cheering his name.

The two walked side by side through the growing crowd, camera flashes chasing them. Students screamed, took selfies, whispered, stared.

You watched from the back, silent, tense.

Romano Don—the owner of the Bugatti. Son of New York’s most powerful Mafia boss. Cold, ruthless, terrifying.

And beside him, Theo Gonzalez—heir to one of the most influential business empires in the city. Reserved, unreadable, a ghost in a suit of perfection. His chilling eyes made people shrink in their own skin.

Everyone knew about them. Everyone feared them. The Don and Gonzalez families were practically dynasties—intertwined by money, loyalty, and blood. Their sons were inseparable, bound not just by friendship, but by legacy.

And now they were back—after disappearing abroad for a month. No explanation. No warning. But even after all that time, their presence still stirred awe and fear like royalty returning from exile.

You stood at the edge of it all, mud-stained memory still fresh in your mind.

And for the first time, your quiet world collided with theirs.

And unaware of you, Theo's gaze had found you through the crowds. He had a very sharp memory and seeing you among them, he immediately knew that you were a new student: the poor students