Adrian Ashford
The sun hadn't even bothered to show up over Blackridge when I realized I'd already screwed up. And not just a little slip, either—the kind of mistake that threatens to unravel your whole semester if you're not careful, if you don't keep your guard up every second.
I got out of the black town car, the driver's nod already fading into the hush of the morning. I fiddled with my tie—a nervous habit I picked up from years of watching my dad get ready for boardrooms and hostile takeovers. I tried not to stare at the campus sprawling in front of me. Blackridge didn't look like a school. It looked like a fortress for the blessed few.
Everything screamed entitlement: ivy strangling the old stone walls, ancient gates pretending they'd been standing since the dawn of time, desperate to pass for Oxford or Cambridge if you just squinted hard enough. The air smelled like expensive cologne and grass cut with surgical precision, thick with a kind of ambition that seemed to shine up the very sidewalks. I hated it the second I breathed it in, but I couldn't let that show—not here.
This place was never really for me. Not all the way. I was here because my dad said so—because in his world, heirs to multinational companies had to "learn leadership from the ground up." In his mind, that meant I needed to rub elbows with other heirs, kids who'd never tasted consequence, who wielded privilege like a weapon. Kids just like me, honestly.
I straightened my blazer and reminded myself—image is everything. Didn't matter if my hands shook or my stomach twisted itself into knots. I could practically hear my father's voice, cold and sharp: "Control is power, Adrian. Don't let anyone see you slip." I'd repeated that to myself so many times it sometimes drowned out every other thought.
Still, I slipped anyway.
He was right there on the steps, as if he'd been waiting for me—Luca Moretti. He had the kind of confidence you can't fake. The kind that makes the air feel electric, like he'd tapped into the campus's power supply. His eyes dared you to look away.
His whole posture was a challenge—arms crossed, a grin tugging at his mouth, half invitation, half warning. I'd seen his face in the business section every time his family empire snatched up another dying tech company and turned it to gold. In person, he was even more intense—dark hair perfectly messy, eyes a little too sharp, a smile that promised trouble and fun in equal measure.
I cared, instantly. I cared way more than I wanted to, and I hated myself for it. For the jolt in my chest, for the way I kept looking back at him like I was caught on a hook. I knew his type—every school like this had a Moretti. But this one was mine to deal with, and already I could feel him pulling me off balance.
He leaned against the railing, just watching while the crowd of new students spilled across the steps. Some smiled at him, others gave him a wide berth—maybe intimidated, maybe just smart enough to keep out of the blast zone. I did neither. I just stood there, spine stiff, pretending I couldn't be rattled, even though my pulse jumped every time his eyes flicked over to me.
I reminded myself—he's the enemy. Corporate rival, legacy rival, the living, breathing cautionary tale my father never stopped warning me about. He was the threat I was supposed to outmaneuver, the shadow behind every story about power and loyalty. But honestly, it wasn't his reputation that shook me. It was the way he looked at me—like he was already sizing me up, making a list of my weaknesses for later.
He caught me staring. I should've looked away. I didn't. Weakness, my father would've called it. But I held his gaze, stubborn, refusing to give up an inch.
Luca pushed off the railing, moving with that kind of easy swagger you only see in people who've never had to apologize for taking up space. He walked straight for me, cutting through the crowd without breaking stride. My stomach twisted—not out of fear, but something sharper. A thrill I couldn't quite name. The kind I only ever got during the most brutal debates.
"You Ashford?" he called out, his voice cutting through the chatter like a blade. Hearing my name in his mouth made something in me flinch.
"Yes," I said, clipped and careful. I'd practiced this—calm, polite, unreadable—but all the practice in the world didn't help once he was close enough for me to see the gold in his eyes.
"I'm Luca Moretti." He grinned wider, like the universe had just handed him a new favorite toy. "Looks like we'll be seeing a lot of each other this semester."