Emma Collins had always imagined her first day at Colston University as a moment of rebirth. She had dreamt about it for years—walking through the ivy-draped gates of the prestigious campus, clutching a satchel full of books, her heart brimming with hope. It was supposed to be the start of a new chapter, a clean slate away from the small Yorkshire town she grew up in, where everyone knew everyone else's business.
But in reality, her "perfect" beginning was already a mess.
Rain had fallen heavily during the night, leaving the cobblestone paths slick and treacherous. The autumn air was sharp with the tang of wet leaves and the chatter of hundreds of students filling the quad. Emma, running late because she'd triple-checked her schedule, maps, and notebooks, was now sprinting across the courtyard with all the grace of a startled deer. Her bag bounced awkwardly against her shoulder, her hair whipped in the breeze, and her chest tightened with panic.
God, please, not on the first day. Don't let me be late on the first day.
She clutched her phone, checking the time. Ten minutes to her very first lecture—Introduction to English Literature. Ten minutes to find the right hall in a sprawling maze of old stone buildings.
She rounded a corner at full speed.
And slammed straight into someone.
The impact jolted her backwards and sent her bag slipping off her shoulder. Books spilled everywhere, scattering across the damp ground. She staggered, barely catching herself before hitting the pavement.
A gasp tore from her lips as she dropped to her knees, scrambling to gather her things. "I'm so, so sorry—I wasn't looking—"
Her words faltered when she looked up.
The person she'd collided with was a man—no, a boy her age, but there was nothing boyish about him. He was tall, at least a head taller than her, dressed in a long black coat that looked entirely too stylish for a university campus. His dark hair, slightly tousled from the wind, framed a face so sharply cut it might have been sculpted from marble.
But it wasn't his looks that made Emma's stomach twist.
It was his eyes.
Steel-gray, cold as winter frost, they swept over her like she was an inconvenience—a smudge on his pristine day.
He didn't kneel to help. He didn't even bend down. He merely adjusted his coat, straightened the leather strap of his sleek bag, and said in a low, smooth voice that dripped disdain:
"Do you always make a habit of crashing into people? Or is today a special occasion?"
Emma froze, blinking at him. The arrogance in his tone stung more than the fall.
"I—no, I didn't mean—" She fumbled with her books, clutching them to her chest, her cheeks burning. "I was just in a hurry. I wasn't—"
"Paying attention," he finished for her, lips curling into the faintest, most infuriating smirk. "Clearly."
The way he said it—like a verdict—made her bristle. But instead of snapping back, she bit her tongue. She couldn't afford to start her university life by arguing with strangers, no matter how infuriatingly rude they were.
"I'm sorry," she muttered again, her voice smaller this time.
For a brief moment, she thought maybe—just maybe—he'd soften. Maybe he'd say it was fine. Maybe he'd even help her pick up the pen that had rolled near his polished shoes.
But instead, he stepped back, hands in his coat pockets, his gaze utterly detached.
"Next time," he said calmly, "try not to get in my way. I don't like… chaos."
And with that, he walked past her, leaving her crouched on the damp stones, heart pounding with humiliation.
Emma stared after him, bewildered and indignant all at once. Who was he? Who had the nerve to talk like that on the very first day of school?
Shaking her head, she gathered the last of her things and stood, brushing dirt off her skirt. Forget him, she told herself. You'll never see him again. Big campus. Thousands of students. He's just some arrogant jerk who probably thinks he's God's gift to the world.
But deep down, some traitorous part of her knew the truth. Encounters like that didn't happen just to disappear. Fate had a way of being cruel—and she had a gnawing feeling she hadn't seen the last of him.
Emma slipped into the lecture hall just as the clock struck the hour. The room was already buzzing with students settling into seats, shuffling notebooks, and chatting nervously. She ducked her head and scurried to the back row, praying the professor wouldn't notice her late arrival.
Her heart finally began to calm as she laid her books on the desk, taking in the grandeur of the hall—the tall arched windows, the smell of old wood and fresh ink, the massive chalkboard stretching across the front.
She let out a relieved breath. You made it, Emma. First hurdle, over.
Then the doors opened again.
And her blood ran cold.
He walked in.
The stranger from the courtyard.
His presence seemed to silence the room in an almost imperceptible way. Conversations dimmed, gazes followed him. He moved with a kind of quiet authority, as though the world parted for him without him needing to ask. His coat fell open just enough to reveal the crisp shirt beneath, his movements deliberate and unhurried.
Emma sank lower in her seat, praying he wouldn't notice her. What were the odds? Out of all the buildings, all the classes, all the rooms—why this one?
He didn't glance back. He didn't need to. He walked straight to the front row, chose a seat dead center, and sat with the composed ease of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere at once.
Emma exhaled shakily. Okay. Fine. He's here. But he probably won't even remember you. Just… focus on the lecture.
The professor entered—a tall man with glasses and a tweed jacket, carrying a stack of books. "Good morning, everyone. Welcome to Introduction to English Literature. I'm Professor Harper, and over the next year, we'll be exploring the foundations of British and American literary traditions…"
His voice was calm, scholarly, and reassuring, but Emma's attention wavered. Her eyes, against her will, kept drifting toward the boy in the front.
Who was he? Why did he act like the world revolved around him? And why—despite her irritation—could she not look away?
The professor soon began calling for introductions. One by one, students stood and shared their names, where they were from, and a little about themselves. Emma's stomach twisted with dread. She hated public speaking.
When it was her turn, she rose slowly, clutching her notebook like a shield. "Um… hello. I'm Emma Collins. I'm from Yorkshire. I… I love reading, obviously, and writing, too. I'd like to become an author one day."
Her voice wavered slightly, but she forced a smile, then sat quickly, cheeks burning. She prayed no one noticed how her hands trembled.
But someone had noticed.
When she dared glance toward the front, she found those gray eyes on her. Calm. Assessing. As though he were weighing every word she'd spoken, measuring her against some invisible standard.
Her breath hitched. She looked away at once, pulse hammering.
Then, a few minutes later, it was his turn.
He rose without hurry, his tall frame drawing the attention of every girl in the room—and more than a few envious stares from the guys.
"Ethan Blackwell," he said simply. His voice was low, smooth, carrying effortlessly through the hall. "London."
That was it. He sat down again, not offering hobbies, interests, or ambitions like everyone else. Just his name. But the name itself was enough. Whispers rippled through the hall.
"Blackwell?"
"Like the Blackwell family?"
"Is he serious?"
Emma blinked, confused. The name clearly meant something to everyone else. She didn't follow London high society, so she had no idea why the room seemed to buzz with awe and curiosity.
All she knew was that fate had just played the cruelest trick on her.
The arrogant boy she'd sworn she wouldn't see again wasn't just in her class.
He was Ethan Blackwell.
And somehow, she knew he was going to turn her entire world upside down.