Back at the university, the campus seemed calm, though everyone knew the peace was only superficial. The hallways smelled of open books, freshly printed paper, and reheated coffee. The semester's final exams were just around the corner, bringing with them the typical rituals of any generic novel: heroes studying frantically, sacrificing sleep and fun for the perfect grade; villains scheming ways to excel effortlessly or humiliate their rivals; romantic interests roaming the hallways, glancing anxiously and hopefully.
After Astrid's rejection, Oliver sought refuge in the library.
He sat at a secluded table, surrounded by notes, open books, and sheets filled with formulas written in a nervous hand. He studied with an almost stubborn intensity, mentally reviewing every possible strategy for the exams, as if more than just a grade depended on it.
Every breath was tense.Every page turned reminded him that the next battle would not be physical but mental.
No fists.No adrenaline.Just endless hours in front of paper.
In any generic novel, this would be the hero's defining moment. The silent sacrifice. The sleepless nights. The honest effort that, in the end, was rewarded. Good grades. Recognition. Perhaps even a different glance from the girl he had wanted to help.
Oliver believed in that logic.
He believed that if he worked hard enough, if he proved his worth where it now mattered, everything would eventually fall into place. That the world would, sooner or later, recognize him.
That's why he kept studying, ignoring fatigue, gritting his teeth each time doubt crept in.
Because, at least in the stories he had learned to believe in, the hero always moved forward like this.
With sacrifice.With perseverance.With the hope that, this time, it would be enough.
Oliver told himself that Astrid's rejection wasn't real.That she just needed space. That she wanted to focus on her studies, nothing more.
It was a pause.A necessary parenthesis.
After exams, everything would return to its natural course. The imagined romance would resume where it had left off. That's how stories worked, right?
Astrid decided the best thing was to forget everything.
The kidnapping. The rescue. Oliver's silent humiliation. The image of Adrián swimming with absolute calm, as if none of it had touched his life.
None of it mattered now.
Only studying.
She walked between classes with her mental schedule perfectly organized, calculating times, reviewing dates, assigning blocks of time to each subject. It was what she always did when the world became uncomfortable: reduce it to numbers, plans, measurable effort.
It worked.Almost always.
But even so… her attention drifted.
Unintentionally, she searched for a silhouette in the hallways.A face too calm.A presence that didn't match the general nervousness.
Adrián Valmont.
She couldn't get him out of her head.
"Why isn't he studying?" she thought, watching him from afar once more. "Or is he… and it just doesn't look like it?"
The idea irritated her.
Everyone else was at their limit. Dark circles, coffee, notes highlighted to exhaustion. And he… he walked as if the exams were a minor detail, something that didn't deserve real attention.
Part of her wanted to approach him.
Say something.Ask if he needed help.Offer notes, explanations, any reasonable excuse.
The impulse lasted only a second.
No.
She couldn't do it.
If she went to him, it would be misinterpreted again. She would give signals she didn't want to give. She would feed a story she had promised herself not to star in.
"I can't give him illusions," she told herself firmly. "Not again."
She clenched the folder in her hands and kept walking, forcing herself not to look back.
But the feeling didn't disappear.
Because, even though she wanted to convince herself it was over, there was an uncomfortable truth she couldn't ignore:
Adrián wasn't a step ahead by chance.
And that unsettled her far more than she was willing to admit.
Adrián Valmont, on the other hand, wasn't worried.
Not because he was brilliant—though he was—but because his life was already secured. Exams didn't define his future; they were just another formality on a list far too long to take seriously.
Studying… well, he'd study just enough. Passing was sufficient.
He didn't need to be the best.He never had.
For him, exams were just another chessboard. While others rushed from one side to the other, accumulating coffee and dark circles, Adrián maintained a steady, almost indifferent pace. He read when he wanted. Attended when it suited him. All without urgency, without real pressure.
Difficult questions didn't intimidate him.Group assignments didn't bother him.Strict professors didn't keep him awake.
And if any result threatened to go beyond what was acceptable… there were solutions.
A well-written email.A private conversation.Perhaps a discreet "reminder" of certain pending favors.
No exaggeration was necessary. A small push here, a correction there. A bill changing hands without drama, as a natural part of the world.
In the end, the grade would rise enough.
That was enough.
While Oliver struggled to prove his worth and Astrid pushed herself to the limit, Adrián simply moved forward, aware of something they still didn't understand:
effort was optional when the system was made to support you.
And in that system, passing wasn't a goal.
It was a formality.
Life went on.
And life, as always, didn't stop to wait for anyone. Where there was movement, there was friction. Where there was ambition, problems arose.
The contrast was brutal.
Where Oliver saw obstacles, Adrián saw coordinates. Where Astrid struggled to understand every equation, Adrián seemed to know the answers before even reading the question. Not because he was superior at everything, but because he played on another level, one where the rules were different.
In generic novels, this would be presented as dramatic injustice: the villain cheating, the hero struggling to the limit, the audience expecting the sacrifice to be rewarded in the end.
But in Valenheim, it wasn't cheating.
It was power.
A silent, structural power, so integrated into the world it didn't even seem immoral. It was simply there, deciding which doors opened and which didn't, who had to push themselves to the breaking point… and who could move forward without looking back.
And as the exams drew near, each of them continued on their path, convinced they were playing the right game.
When Adrián arrived at the Valmont residence, the house greeted him with its usual impeccable silence.
The marble gleamed. The hallways were warm. Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.
Élise was the first to see him.
"Adrián," she said, approaching immediately. "You must be exhausted."
She hugged him without asking, as always. Her hands moved quickly, expertly, adjusting his coat, scanning him with her eyes for signs of sleepless nights, poor meals, or anything—whatever—out of place.
"Everything went well," he murmured, letting her tend to him.
She smiled, relieved.
For a moment, Adrián thought the night would end like this. Normally. With that illusion of home that, although artificial, had always been comfortable.
Then Henri spoke.
"Adrián," he said from the back of the room, without rising. "Sit down. We need to talk."
The tone was enough.
Élise paused for barely a second but said nothing. Adrián obeyed.
Henri interlaced his fingers over his cane, looking at him with that serene expression that always preceded irrevocable decisions.
"Your fiancée will arrive this weekend," he said. "I want you to go and pick her up personally."
The world tilted.
"…My what?" Adrián shot upright. "Fiancée? What are you talking about?"
Henri didn't blink.
"Katherine Sterling."
The name dropped like a lead weight.
"That's impossible," Adrián said, already standing. "No one told me anything. When? Why? How…?"
"You've already opened your eyes," Henri interrupted calmly. "It was only a matter of time."
Adrián shook his head.
"No. I refuse. You can't decide something like this without—"
"Yes, we can," Henri replied, without raising his voice. "And we already did."
He stood, placing himself directly in front of him.
"The Sterlings are one of the most powerful families in the Western bloc. Political, financial, and media influence. This union is not a suggestion, Adrián. It's a strategic decision."
"A strategic decision?" Adrián laughed, incredulous. "You mean… marry me off like it's a contract?"
"Exactly," Henri said. "Because it is."
Adrián turned his face toward his mother, instinctively seeking support.
"Mom…"
Élise hesitated for only a second.
Then she nodded.
She stepped closer and gently took her son's hand.
"It's for your own good, Adrián," she said softly. "It always has been."
He looked at her, bewildered.
"You too…?"
"You can have fun," she continued, with a calmness that hurt more than reproach. "You can have adventures, distractions. No one will demand romantic fidelity from you."
She paused.
"But Katherine will be your wife."
Henri resumed speaking.
"It doesn't matter if you don't want to. This time, not even your mother can intervene. It is your duty as the Valmont heir."
The silence fell heavily.
Adrián slowly withdrew his hand.
For the first time since he had entered this world, he understood something with absolute clarity:
There were battles that couldn't be won with power.Decisions that couldn't be undone.Lines that, once crossed, left no way back.
"Pick her up this Friday," Henri concluded. "Don't be late."
Adrián said nothing.
He turned and left the room with his heart racing, an unfamiliar weight pressing on his chest.
Fiancée.
Wife.
Duty.
For the first time, the villain was not moving the pieces.
He was one of them.