The rain had stopped by the time Emma left her first lecture, but her thoughts were stormier than ever. She walked briskly across the quad, her bag clutched tightly against her chest, trying to process what had just happened.
Ethan Blackwell.
The name repeated in her mind like an echo. She had heard the whispers, the awed voices around her—some reverent, some envious. Clearly, he wasn't just some random arrogant student. His name carried weight, power, maybe even fear. But to her, he was still the boy who had looked at her like she was little more than a speck of dust on his polished shoes.
She let out a shaky laugh as she climbed the stairs toward her dormitory. Only me. Only I would crash into someone like that on my first day.
Yet, despite her irritation, she couldn't shake the image of him—those gray eyes, that detached smirk, the way he seemed to command the room without even trying. He was like a storm wrapped in a perfectly tailored coat. Dangerous. Alluring. Unreachable.
And, apparently, stuck in the same class as her.
The next morning, Emma left her dorm earlier than usual, determined not to repeat the mistakes of yesterday. She had carefully mapped the route to her classroom, double-checked her schedule, and even packed her bag the night before.
No chaos today, she promised herself.
When she stepped into the lecture hall, only a handful of students had arrived. Relieved, she chose a seat near the middle—not too far back to look disengaged, but not so close to the front that she'd risk eye contact with him.
She pulled out her notebook, determined to focus only on the lecture.
But fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor.
Because five minutes later, Ethan Blackwell walked in.
The room seemed to shift around him again. Students glanced his way, some smiling hopefully, others whispering behind their hands. He ignored them all, his expression unreadable. His gaze swept the room once, sharp and calculating, before landing—unmistakably—on Emma.
Her stomach lurched.
And then, with deliberate precision, he chose the seat directly across from her.
It wasn't by accident. She knew it. He could have sat anywhere else—dozens of seats were empty—but he sat where their eyes would inevitably meet if she dared to glance up.
Emma tightened her grip on her pen, pretending to scribble in her notebook. Don't look at him. Don't encourage him. Just… pretend he's not there.
But pretending was impossible when his presence was like gravity itself—inescapable.
Professor Harper entered and began the day's lecture, diving into the foundations of Romanticism. His voice was steady, and Emma tried her best to follow his words. But every few minutes, she felt it—the weight of a gaze.
Carefully, cautiously, she lifted her eyes.
Ethan was watching her.
Not openly, not with a smile or a frown. But his head was slightly turned, his expression unreadable, his gray eyes fixed on her as though she were a puzzle he intended to solve.
Heat rushed to her face, and she ducked back to her notebook, pretending to take notes. Her handwriting turned sloppy, the lines uneven.
Why is he staring at me? she thought desperately. Does he remember me from yesterday? Of course he does—he literally called me "chaos." God, what does he want?
By the time class ended, Emma's nerves were frayed. Students shuffled out in pairs and groups, laughing and chatting. She lingered, hoping Ethan would leave first.
But he didn't. He stayed seated, arms crossed over his chest, watching her with that same infuriating calm.
Finally, when most of the class had gone, he rose and approached her desk.
Emma's breath caught.
"You're Emma Collins," he said. It wasn't a question.
She blinked up at him, startled. "Y-yes… how do you—?"
"You introduced yourself yesterday," he reminded her. His lips curved slightly, though not quite into a smile. "Yorkshire. Aspiring writer. Nervous voice."
Her cheeks burned. "You were listening?"
"I listen when it matters." His gaze didn't waver. "And you… seem to matter."
Emma froze, utterly thrown. What was that supposed to mean?
Before she could respond, he continued, pulling a folded sheet of paper from his bag.
"Professor Harper wants us to form groups for the semester project," Ethan said smoothly. "And as luck would have it, you're in mine."
Her heart sank. "Wait, what? Really?"
He tilted his head. "You sound disappointed."
"No, I just—" she stammered, clutching her pen. "I mean, we've barely—"
"Then we should get acquainted." He placed the paper on her desk with deliberate care. "Tomorrow after class. Library. Don't be late this time."
And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving her staring after him, her pulse racing.
What just happened?
That evening, Emma sat in her dorm room, staring at her notebook but not seeing the words. Her roommate, Sophie, leaned against the bedpost, grinning like a cat.
"So… you're in Ethan Blackwell's group project?" Sophie drawled. "Do you know how many girls would kill for that spot?"
Emma groaned, burying her face in her pillow. "He's not… he's not what you think."
"Oh, please." Sophie flopped onto her bed, propping her chin in her hands. "Tall, gorgeous, filthy rich, mysterious? He's literally every girl's fantasy."
Emma peeked out from the pillow, frowning. "You've met him?"
"No," Sophie admitted with a dreamy sigh. "But everyone knows who he is. The Blackwells practically own half of London. His father's some big-shot business tycoon. They say Ethan's been groomed to take over one day, but he doesn't care about money or rules. He's… untouchable."
"Untouchable," Emma repeated softly, the word sinking into her chest.
Yes. That was exactly what he felt like.
But why, then, did it seem like he had already reached out and touched her life, uninvited?
The next day came too quickly. Emma tried to convince herself it was just a project meeting. Just a normal group assignment. Nothing to worry about.
But when she walked into the library and saw Ethan already there—sitting at the head of a long wooden table, his books neatly arranged, his posture impossibly straight—her nerves flared all over again.
He looked up as she approached, his gaze steady.
"You're on time," he said simply.
"Of course I am," she muttered, sliding into a chair across from him. "I didn't want to hear another lecture about chaos."
To her surprise, his lips twitched—as if the corners wanted to curl into a smile but weren't used to the motion.
"Good," he murmured.
And just like that, their strange partnership began.
What Emma didn't know—what she couldn't possibly know—was that Ethan Blackwell had never cared about group projects, classmates, or anyone else's introductions.
Until her.
Something about Emma Collins unsettled him. She wasn't polished, wealthy, or particularly remarkable compared to the people he usually surrounded himself with. But she had looked at him yesterday—not with awe, not with fear, but with irritation, embarrassment, and something real.
And for the first time in a long while, Ethan Blackwell found himself intrigued.
Deeply, dangerously intrigued.
And Emma Collins, whether she wanted to or not, was about to step into his world—a world of secrets, power, and storms she couldn't yet imagine.