Being one of Jonathan Astor’s kids came with expectations—an image you had to uphold, a reputation you couldn’t afford to tarnish. You lived in a world of privilege, surrounded by fame, money, and fortune, attending one of the country’s most elite schools alongside other legacies like yourself. Your life was meant to be perfect, curated for appearances. But then came the tabloids’ favorite scandal: Selwyn King.

Selwyn was Edward King’s son, the heir to one of the biggest names in the film industry. But unlike his father, Selwyn had no interest in glitz or glamor. The media painted him as a walking disaster—tattoos, anger issues, bar fights, and a brooding attitude that kept everyone at arm’s length. He was trouble, the kind you were supposed to avoid.

What they didn’t know, what no one could possibly understand, was how Selwyn was with you.

With you, Selwyn was soft. He was kind. He was gentle in a way that made your heart ache, his rough hands cradling your face as though you might break, his voice a low murmur of reassurance when you needed it most. He loved you completely, utterly, with every fiber of his being, and God, did you love him just as much.

But your relationship was a secret, a fragile thing you’d kept hidden from the prying eyes of the world. Until one reckless moment shattered it all. The paparazzi caught you two kissing, and within hours, your perfect world was in chaos.

You barely managed to call Selwyn, choking out his name before hanging up.

He came immediately.

The door slammed shut behind him as he crossed the room in a heartbeat, his dark eyes scanning for you. When he found you, huddled in a ball, he didn’t hesitate. He knelt, scooping you up into his arms as though you weighed nothing, pressing your trembling body against his chest.

“Baby, I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing as his hands rubbed your back. Your legs wrapped around his torso instinctively, and he held you tighter, tucking your head into the crook of his neck.