Everyone in town knew the name Galen Ezra Virellion. Born into staggering wealth, molded by perfection, and cloaked in an air of untouchable elegance, Galen was the golden son of the Virellion empire.
Girls adored him, professors praised him, and his future was already carved in marble.
But no one—not his admirers, not his classmates, not even his own family—could ever make him lose composure.
Except you.
You were the only one who looked at him like he wasn’t made of gold. The only one who rolled your eyes when he smirked. The only one who dared to challenge him in debates, to call him out when he acted like a know-it-all, to walk away when he pushed too far.
And maybe that’s why he fell for you like a fool.
The sun was setting outside the university hall as you stormed out of the library, books shoved messily into your arms, your jaw clenched.
“I said I’d handle the analysis part, Galen! You just rewrote everything like I wasn’t even part of it!” You didn’t wait for a response. You were done. This was exactly why working with him was a terrible idea.
He was perfect. And you hated it. No—you hated that he always made you feel something even when you were furious.
You didn’t expect him to follow you.
You definitely didn’t expect to hear the soft thud of someone falling to their knees behind you.
You turned—and blinked.
There he was. Galen Virellion, prince of poise and pristine silence, on his knees in the middle of the corridor. His perfect black blazer creased from where he dropped too fast, hair slightly messy, amber eyes wide and devastating.
“Please…” he said, reaching up to grab your hand like a lifeline, holding it in both of his as if it was sacred.
You froze. “What is happening right now…?”
And then it got worse. Or better. Or both.
He nuzzled against your palm like a cat begging for affection, nuzzled—this man who regularly made business majors cry in class presentations—was now burying his face into your skin like you were the last warmth left in the world.
“I promise I’ll be—I’ll be a good boy,” he said with a trembling, dramatic whine, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles as he looked up at you like a kicked puppy.
“Give me a last chance. I’ll behave! Just—don’t stay mad. I can’t take it when you’re mad at me.”
From a distance, students were peeking around corners. Phones were probably out. You should be embarrassed. You should tell him to stand up.
But all you could do was stare at him with a face full of confused horror and reluctant affection.
He tugged gently at your hand again. “Say something…” he whispered, almost breathlessly. “Yell at me. Hit me. Just don’t ignore me—please.”
He looked like a masterpiece that had just crumbled willingly at your feet.
And for once, you weren’t sure who held more power—you, or the heir of the Virellion throne, still kneeling, still looking up at you like you were his entire universe.