SIENNA>>>
The first thing I notice about Blackthorn University is that no one here looks worried.
Not about money.Not about tuition.Not about whether their card will decline when they grab coffee.
The rideshare pulls up in front of the main gates, and I hesitate before opening the door.
Beyond the iron arches, the campus stretches wide and immaculate—stone buildings, ivy crawling like it owns the walls, fountains carved from marble that probably cost more than my childhood home.
Students drift across the courtyard like they're walking through a country club instead of a university.
Tailored coats. Designer bags. Watches that gleam when they check the time.
I check my bank app instead.
$143.82.
I lock my phone and inhale slowly.
Three years.That's all I need.Three years of keeping my head down.
I step out of the car.
The driver pops the trunk. My suitcase looks embarrassingly small compared to the polished black SUVs lining the curb.
A girl nearby glances at me, then at my luggage, then away again.
Catalogued. Dismissed.
Fine.
I didn't come here to impress anyone.
I came here because Blackthorn's business program is ranked top five in the country, and because when they offered me a full scholarship, I understood something very clearly:
This was my only way out.
Out of overdue notices.Out of watching my mom work double shifts.Out of calculating grocery totals before I reach the register.
Failure isn't an option.
I adjust the strap of my bag and start toward the gates.
That's when the whispering starts.
"He's back."
"Did you hear about last year?"
"Kingsley never misses first week."
Kingsley.
The name moves through the courtyard like a shift in temperature.
I don't know who Kingsley is, but apparently everyone else does.
A black car rolls through the gates.
Not flashy. Not loud.
Just expensive.
The kind of car that doesn't need attention because it assumes it.
The courtyard quiets—not completely, but enough.
The car door opens.
He steps out.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark coat tailored perfectly to his frame. His movements are controlled, economical. No wasted motion. No unnecessary expression.
He doesn't scan the crowd.
The crowd adjusts around him.
Students move without being told. Conversations lower. Someone actually steps aside mid-sentence.
Power isn't always loud.
Sometimes it just exists, and everyone else reacts.
He buttons his coat, gaze sliding across the courtyard.
And then it lands on me.
It's not admiration.
Not curiosity.
It's assessment.
Like he's trying to determine whether I belong in his line of sight.
I hold his stare.
Not because I'm brave.
Because I'm stubborn.
I've seen men like him before—just on smaller scales. Local businessmen. School board donors. Men who think money rewrites the rules of gravity.
They expect you to look down.
I don't.
His eyes narrow slightly.
Not angry.
Annoyed.
Like I'm something inconvenient in an otherwise orderly world.
A problem.
Heat creeps up my spine, but I don't break eye contact.
If he's campus royalty, he can deal with one girl who doesn't curtsy.
Someone laughs near him. A tall blond guy says something I can't hear.
He doesn't respond.
He's still looking at me.
Then deliberately he looks away first.
And somehow that feels like a challenge instead of a victory.
The spell breaks. Noise resumes. Conversations rise.
I exhale slowly.
Weird.
I shake it off and head toward the administration building.
I don't have time for rich-boy politics.
Inside, everything smells like polished wood and ambition.
Marble floors. Oil paintings of past donors. A plaque listing "Founding Families."
Kingsley is etched near the top.
Of course it is.
I collect my orientation packet, nod through polite introductions, and map out my class schedule.
Business Ethics. Advanced Corporate Strategy. Microeconomics.
Exactly where I want to be.
Exactly where I have to excel.
An hour later, I step back into the courtyard, scanning for the business building.
That's when I hear it again.
"Kingsley."
This time closer.
He's walking across the quad with three guys who look like they've never stood in a checkout line in their lives.
He doesn't laugh when they laugh.
He doesn't gesture wildly.
He listens.
And when he speaks, they lean in slightly.
Control without effort.
He catches me looking.
Again.
This time there's no surprise in his gaze.
Just recognition.
He knows who I am now.
Not my name.
But my defiance.
He slows.
His friends keep walking a few steps before realizing he's stopped.
He doesn't look at them.
He looks at me.
I should look away.
I don't.
The space between us feels charged, like the air before lightning strikes.
He takes a single step in my direction.
I don't move.
My pulse ticks faster, but I refuse to give him anything else.
Up close, he's worse.
Sharper. Colder. His features are almost too precise, like they were designed instead of born.
His voice, when he finally speaks, is low and controlled.
"You're new."
It's not a question.
"Yes."
My voice doesn't shake. Small miracle.
His gaze drifts briefly to my worn suitcase by my side. My shoes. My coat that definitely didn't come from whatever store the girls around here shop at.
A faint shift in his expression.
Calculation.
"And you already look lost."
There it is.
Not loud. Not cruel.
Just enough edge to cut.
I tilt my head slightly.
"Funny," I reply. "I was thinking the same about you."
A flicker.
Not anger.
Interest.
His friends go quiet.
One of them mutters, "Careful."
But I'm not talking to them.
I'm talking to him.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
"You don't know who you're talking to."
There's no threat in his tone.
That makes it worse.
"I don't need to," I say evenly. "You don't own the sidewalks."
A beat of silence.
The wind shifts between us.
For half a second—just half—I think I've gone too far.
Then his mouth curves slightly.
Not a smile.
Something sharper.
"What's your name?"
"Sienna."
"Sienna," he repeats, like he's testing how it sounds.
I shouldn't like the way he says it.
I definitely shouldn't notice the way his voice drops a fraction lower when he does.
He steps closer.
Close enough that I can smell something subtle and expensive.
Close enough that I should step back.
I don't.
"You should be careful," he says quietly. "This campus eats girls who don't understand hierarchy."
My heart pounds, but my chin lifts.
"Then it's a good thing I'm not here to climb it."
Something changes in his eyes.
Not amusement.
Not irritation.
Something darker.
Like I just handed him a puzzle.
"Everyone climbs," he says. "Whether they admit it or not."
"Not everyone worships," I reply.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
Then back to my eyes.
A pause stretches.
Too long.
Too intimate.
Then one of his friends clears his throat.
"Rowan."
Rowan.
So that's his name.
He doesn't look away from me as he answers.
"Go ahead," he tells them.
They hesitate, then move off.
He's still standing in front of me.
Still blocking the path.
"You'll learn," he says softly.
"Learn what?"
"How things work here."
I meet his stare without blinking.
"Maybe I'll teach you instead."
For the first time, something cracks.
Just slightly.
Not in control.
But in composure.
His eyes darken.
Slowly, deliberately, he steps aside.
"Welcome to Blackthorn, Sienna."
Not friendly.
Not warm.
A warning.
I walk past him without rushing.
I refuse to feel small.
But as I cross the courtyard, I feel his gaze on my back.
Heavy.
Intent.
Possessive.
And I don't know why, but a quiet certainty settles in my chest.
I didn't just cross paths with Rowan Kingsley.
I stepped into something.
And judging by the way he looked at me—
He's not used to losing.