With the announcement of the number I had drawn in the lottery, I immediately felt a sharp shift in the atmosphere around me. It wasn't subtle at all. It was as if an invisible wave of emotions had been directed straight at me. Some students stared at me with almost palpable hatred, sharp looks filled with barely concealed murderous intent. Others showed pure frustration—slumped shoulders, clenched jaws—as if they had just lost something extremely valuable. There were also those who simply looked at me with envy, raw and bitter, making no effort to hide it.
All of those looks had the same origin: Olivia's pathetic admirers.
It was almost comical to realize how such a simple draw had the power to destabilize so many people. For them, being paired with Olivia wasn't just an academic assignment—it was an opportunity, a dream, maybe even an obsession. For me, however, it was just that: an assignment.
"You can go sit with your partner," the professor announced, pointing in my direction with a quick gesture before calling another student to continue the draw.
I stood up calmly, still feeling the stares drilled into me. Before moving, I glanced briefly at Nathan. He was looking at me too, but his expression was different. There was envy, yes, but not the sick kind. In Nathan's case, it was mild, almost innocent. He wasn't an admirer of Olivia—at least not in the exaggerated way most people were—but it was obvious he would have liked to be in my place.
Honestly, Nathan would have preferred to work with anyone other than the strange student he had been paired with. Strange enough, in fact, that even Nathan—who was already considered eccentric by many—looked uncomfortable sitting next to him.
I walked down the aisle between the rows of desks until I reached where Olivia was sitting. Seeing her up close only reinforced what everyone already knew: she was genuinely beautiful. The contrast between her straight, well-kept black hair, her intense blue eyes, and her pale skin gave her an almost unreal appearance, like a princess from a movie or a character from a magazine cover. It was a kind of beauty that drew attention even against her will—or at least that was the impression she gave.
As if she had already expected me to approach, Olivia discreetly pulled a chair away from the desk beside her, making space for me to sit. I did so without ceremony and, in a neutral, almost indifferent tone, said:
"Hi. I hope we get along well on this assignment."
She looked at me for a brief moment, visibly surprised by my tone. Olivia was clearly used to a different kind of approach: overly enthusiastic voices, exaggerated smiles, forced attempts to impress. None of that came from me.
Given how many admirers she had, it was natural for her to assume I was just another one of them. After all, almost every man in the program behaved the same way around her. But honestly, I didn't care much. Yes, Olivia was beautiful—there was no denying that—but what were the real chances of winning her over? Practically none. There were taller, more athletic, more charismatic, and certainly more interesting men than me constantly trying to get her attention.
At the end of the draw, the professor once again captured everyone's attention. This time, he began announcing the topics assigned to each pair. When it was our turn, he explained that our assignment would be to interview a company's CEO. We would need to prepare a series of questions about how to start a business, manage it, and make it successful.
By irony—or perhaps luck—I was the heir to one.
The bell rang shortly after, ending the class. Students began to stand up, and the room filled with murmurs and side conversations.
"I think the hardest part of our assignment will be finding time to talk to a CEO," Olivia commented as she organized her materials.
"That won't be a problem," I replied, quickly checking the time on my phone. "I know one. We just need to organize the interview. But I have another class now, so I need to go."
She nodded.
"Give me your contact information. That way it'll be easier to organize everything."
We exchanged contacts right there. While we did, I noticed a few more envious looks directed at me from around the room. I ignored them. I was already used to that kind of thing.
I went to my next class, and the rest of the day passed completely normally. I didn't run into Vanessa on campus—she had said she wouldn't be able to come that day because she had things to take care of at home. That night, I received a message from Olivia.
We agreed to meet at my place the following afternoon. Neither of us had classes, so it seemed like the perfect day. I agreed without any issues.
…
(POV Olivia)
From a very young age, I had always received too much attention from the people around me—even though I never asked for it. It was something that seemed to happen naturally, without any effort on my part. My mother used to say I had been "blessed by the heavens," as if my appearance were a divine gift, something to be celebrated. Back then, I believed her. Today, I see that this "blessing" came with a price far too high.
From my earliest years in school, I stood out. All it took was walking into a classroom to feel eyes turn toward me. Some curious, some admiring, others clearly carrying intentions I didn't yet know how to name when I was a child. Over time, I learned exactly what those looks meant.
That attention never came alone. It was always accompanied by envy, silent comparisons, and poorly hidden resentment.
In high school, this became even more evident. Many girls began treating me differently—some cold, some aggressive, others falsely kind. There were those who got close to me only to find something to use against me later. My first—and only—relationship ended that way. Lies spread, rumors created out of thin air, intrusions planted with surgical precision. Not because I had done anything wrong, but simply because I existed. Because I attracted attention.
That marked me more than I liked to admit.
When I got to college, I naively thought things would be different. More mature people. More focused on studying. Less obsessed with appearances. I was wrong. In a program dominated almost entirely by men, with few women considered "above average," I once again became an unwanted focal point.
Even without wanting to. Even without encouraging it.
It deeply irritated me.
There were days when I could barely walk through the hallways without feeling those invasive, hungry, almost predatory stares. It was as if many of them didn't see me as a person, but as an idea, a desire, a fantasy object. On hotter days, it got worse. I wore shorter clothes simply because it was hot, because it was comfortable, because it was human. Still, the stares came with even greater intensity.
I felt disgusted.
Not by my body, but by the way it was visually consumed by strangers. As if I were displayed in an invisible showcase, being evaluated, desired, judged. For a long time, I came to the bitter conclusion that all men were like that. One hundred percent of them. That they all looked at me with the same shallow desire.
Until I met him.
On the day of the partner draw, I had already accepted my fate. Mentally, I prepared myself to work with yet another of the countless perverts who constantly drooled over me. I was tired, emotionally numb. I just wanted it to be over, to do the assignment and move on with my life.
When his name was announced, I needed a few seconds to connect it to a face. It was someone I had barely noticed before. He had a decent appearance, yes, but nothing striking. Nothing exaggerated. Nothing that screamed "look at me." He was… ordinary. Invisible, even.
And maybe because of that, I had already created a negative image of him in my mind for no real reason.
But reality was different. Very different.
He approached naturally, sat beside me without invading my personal space, without "accidentally" touching me, without forcing conversation just to hear my voice. There were no empty compliments, no disguised attempts at flirting. His eyes didn't scan me as if I were a newly won trophy. He spoke little, and when he did, it was direct and objective. He paid more attention to the professor than to me.
That completely threw me off.
It wasn't rejection. It wasn't coldness. It was… normality. Something I had almost forgotten what it felt like.
At the end of class, we exchanged contact information. For any other student in that program, that would have been the highlight of the semester. For him, it was simply what it should be: two classmates exchanging information to work on an academic project. No apparent ulterior motives.
He left shortly after.
No message. No attempt to start a conversation. No "hey, how are you?" disguised as academic interest. Nothing.
In the end, I was the one who took the initiative to message first. Not because I was romantically interested, but because… it bothered me. His silence. The absence of expectation. He replied politely, explaining that he had been in class all day and had momentarily forgotten about the assignment. No exaggerated apologies. No games.
We then agreed to meet at his place the next day. He sent me the location.
I didn't want him to know where I lived. Not exactly out of fear, but out of caution. I'd had too many experiences with people confusing proximity with intimacy. He agreed without question, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
The conversation ended there.
Still, it stayed in my head for the rest of the night. I had always been the center of attention. People always tried to start conversations with me, to please me, to impress me. He didn't do any of that. And somehow, that respectful indifference sparked an interest I hadn't expected to feel.
The next morning, I woke up thinking about him.
I chose simple clothes. Nothing flashy, nothing calculated. A comfortable blue skirt, a basic white shirt, white sneakers, and a crossbody bag. It was hot, and he didn't live far, so I decided to walk. I needed air. I needed to organize my thoughts.
The city was busy as always, even though it was Tuesday. Cars moved at a steady pace, people walked quickly along the sidewalks, open shops displayed sunlit windows. Everything felt too normal. My walk was calm, almost automatic, as if I were on autopilot—until I heard my name.
"Olivia."
It was as if the sound cut through the air and struck my spine directly.
My entire body stiffened instantly. My shoulders tensed, my breathing faltered for a second, and my heart gave an uncomfortable jolt. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Some voices carry their own weight, and that voice came with a feeling I knew all too well.
From my so-called "fan club"—which I never asked for—that person was the worst of all.
Luther.
Hair bleached far too much to look natural, overly tanned skin, as if he were always trying to prove something, and that smile… a smile that never reached his eyes. A smile that didn't convey kindness, but possession. Everything about that man deeply irritated me. His persistence disguised as courtesy, his obsession masked as interest, his absurd and disturbing certainty that someday, somehow, I would be his.
Just thinking about it made my stomach churn.
It was a strange sensation, a mix of repulsion and alertness. It wasn't immediate fear, it wasn't panic, but a constant discomfort—as if I were always being watched, evaluated, marked. As if, to him, I wasn't a person, but a goal.
Still, I smiled.
The best fake smile I could summon. The one I had learned to use over the years. Polite. Light. Harmless. A shield.
"Hi, Luther," I said softly, almost automatically, as if my body knew exactly which role it needed to play to end that interaction as quickly as possible.
When he said I looked beautiful, I felt nauseous. Not because of the compliment itself, but because of the way he looked at me while saying it. It wasn't admiration. It was appropriation. When he asked if I was meeting a man, I felt something even worse.
Fear.
Not immediate physical fear, like someone about to be attacked, but that quiet, psychological fear that settles in when you realize someone is trying to cross invisible boundaries. The fear of someone who understands she is being watched too closely, thought about too much, desired in the wrong way.
Lying was instinct.
"I'm meeting a friend," I replied quickly, keeping the smile on my face.
I didn't wait for a response. I didn't give him room for more questions. I turned and started walking, feeling each step heavier than the last. Even without looking back, I knew. I felt it. His gaze burned into my back, as if it were memorizing every movement, every direction I took.
Only when I turned the corner and no longer heard his footsteps did I release the breath I hadn't even realized I was holding. A long sigh escaped my lips, accompanied by a tight knot in my chest.
I needed, somehow, to get rid of Luther.
I checked my phone again, as if it could anchor me to reality. Just one block left. I straightened my posture and kept walking, trying to slow my breathing and push away that lingering sensation of being followed, even knowing he wasn't there anymore.
When I finally arrived, I was completely caught off guard.
The building in front of me was luxurious. Not just nice—truly luxurious. An imposing façade, glass and concrete in modern lines, an elegant entrance, everything perfectly clean and organized. It wasn't the kind of place someone ordinary lived in without noticing.
My heart raced.
As someone who grew up in a middle-class family, that environment intimidated me instantly. Places like that had always felt distant, almost unreal—something I saw in magazines or movies, not part of the everyday life of someone my age.
Luke didn't seem like someone who lived in a place like that.
He was discreet. Simple. Almost invisible among others. Nothing about him screamed wealth, power, or ostentation.
Is he rich?
The question hit me hard, accompanied by an unexpected discomfort. It wasn't judgment—it was surprise. A sudden break in the mental image I had constructed of him.
I entered the lobby hesitantly, gave the apartment number, and waited. The doorman, a friendly older man, looked at me with discreet curiosity before calling to confirm. When the authorization came through, I felt a slight chill in my stomach.
I went up.
Every second in the elevator seemed to amplify my thoughts. The doors opened, I walked down the quiet hallway, and rang the doorbell.
The door opened almost immediately.
"Hi, Olivia. Come in, make yourself comfortable," he said with a calm, natural smile, as if none of this were extraordinary.
But it was.
As soon as I stepped inside, I was speechless. The living room was impressive. Not in an exaggerated or flashy way, but elegant, sophisticated, quiet. Leather sofas perfectly arranged, a fireplace that seemed more decorative than functional, an immaculate glass coffee table, a huge television integrated into the space. Everything there conveyed comfort and power in a subtle way.
It was the kind of luxury that didn't need to announce itself.
Then I saw her.
Sitting on the couch, relaxed, with an almost magnetic presence, was an absurdly beautiful woman. It wasn't just physical beauty—it was confidence, experience, something mature. For a moment, I felt smaller. Not entirely inferior, but out of place. As if I were in a space that didn't belong to me.
I recognized her immediately.
Bianca.
One of the most famous models of the moment. Someone I had seen in magazines, advertising campaigns, social media. Someone who existed in a completely different world from mine.
When she looked at me, I saw surprise on her face. And when she commented about me, I felt my face heat up—a strange mix of embarrassment and disbelief.
And then Luke responded.
Naturally. Without hesitation. Without changing his tone. Without trying to impress anyone.
Dismissing any implication as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
That was the moment my mind began to spin.
Luke wasn't just "different."
He was a mystery.
Who is Luke, really?
And for the first time in a long while, that question didn't fill me with unease—but with curiosity.
.....
Note: today, for some reason, I was really inspired and ended up writing in a way that surprises even me. I'll try to keep the quality, but I can't promise anything haha.