The silver-plated sign on the door read Advanced Macroeconomics – Room 402.
Elena Vance gripped the straps of her backpack until her knuckles turned white. This was it. Two years of grueling community college courses and three part-time jobs had finally landed her a transfer spot at Blackwood University. She wasn't here for the parties or the prestige; she was here for the gold-tassel degree that would get her family out of debt.
She pushed the door open, the scent of expensive cologne and old mahogany hitting her instantly. The lecture hall was steep, filled with students in designer knits and hushed voices.
She found a seat in the third row, pulled out her battered laptop, and took a deep breath. New start. No distractions.
Then, the back door of the lecture hall swung open.
The room didn't just go quiet; the air seemed to thin out. Elena didn't have to look up to know who it was. That specific rhythmic stride—confident, heavy, and arrogant—was burned into her muscle memory.
"Is this seat taken?" a voice drawled.
Elena froze. The voice was deeper than she remembered, stripped of its teenage softness, replaced by a jagged, icy edge.
She looked up.
Standing in the aisle was Julian Blackwood. The boy who had promised her the world under the oak tree five years ago. The boy who had looked her in the eye while his family's lawyers handed her mother an NDA and a "relocation" check before vanishing without a trace.
He looked different. His jaw was sharper, his eyes—once a warm hazel—were now the color of flint. He wore a tailored black coat that cost more than Elena's tuition.
"Julian," she breathed, the name tasting like ash.
Julian didn't smile. He didn't even acknowledge the flicker of pain in her eyes. Instead, he leaned down, his face inches from hers, close enough for her to smell the familiar scent of sandalwood and betrayal.
"It's Mr. Blackwood to you, Vance," he whispered, his voice loud enough for the surrounding students to hear. "And you're in my seat."
Elena felt the heat crawl up her neck. The "Love" she had carried like a hidden wound for years didn't just die in that moment—it curdled.
"There are fifty other seats, Julian," she snapped, her voice regaining its steel.
Julian straightened up, his gaze raking over her faded hoodie and the cracked screen of her laptop with visible disdain. "I don't like sharing my space with trash. Especially trash that was paid to stay in the gutter."
The girl next to Elena gasped. A few boys in the back chuckled.
Elena stood up, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She didn't move for him, though. She leaned in, mirroring his posture, her eyes narrowed.
"I gave the money back, Julian. Every cent. I'm here because I earned it," she hissed. "So if you want this seat, you're going to have to drag me out of it."
Julian's eyes flashed—not with anger, but with a dark, predatory flicker of interest that vanished as quickly as it appeared. He leaned back, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.
"Fine. Keep the seat, Elena," he said, turning to walk toward the row behind her. "But don't expect to keep your scholarship by the end of the semester. I don't just forget faces. I destroy them."
As the professor walked in, Elena sat back down, her hands trembling. She had come to Blackwood to build a future, but she had just walked into a war zone.