The lights in Chris Donovan's hostel room were off, but sleep refused him.
The room itself was immaculate—too immaculate. Black leather couch untouched. Sneakers aligned like trophies along one wall. Framed photos resting on the desk: his father mid-air in an old championship game, sweat flying, crowd frozen behind him in awe. Another photo—his mother, Margaret Donovan, in a tailored suit, standing before the glass headquarters of Donovan Athletics, smiling like a woman who never lost.
Chris lay on his bed, one arm draped over his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
Anna Carter.
Her name replayed itself without permission.
Not her face exactly—though he could picture it now, calm and unbothered—but the way she had not looked at him.
The refusal.
The quiet dismissal.
It gnawed at him.
He turned sharply, sitting up, elbows on his knees, fingers digging into his hair.
"Who the hell does she think she is?" he muttered into the silence.
The words echoed back at him, useless and unsatisfying.
Girls had always reacted to him in predictable ways. Some laughed too loudly. Some tried to act unimpressed and failed within minutes. Others hovered, waiting for a moment of acknowledgment like it was a reward.
Anna had done none of it.
She hadn't hovered.
She hadn't stared.
She hadn't adjusted herself to be seen.
She hadn't cared.
That was the part that burned.
Chris stood and paced the room, bare feet silent against the polished floor. His mind replayed the scene over and over, twisting it, reshaping it, trying to regain control of it.
He remembered how he'd approached her—confident, relaxed, already bored because he knew the ending. He remembered the way she'd answered with single words, like conversation was an inconvenience rather than an opportunity.
He stopped pacing.
His reflection stared back at him from the mirror across the room.
Tall. Built. Familiar confidence etched into his posture.
This face had been on billboards before he even turned eighteen. This name—Donovan—had opened doors he never knocked on.
And yet.
She didn't even look impressed.
A sharp laugh escaped him, humorless.
"Unbelievable."
Chris dropped onto the edge of his bed again, elbows pressing into his thighs.
Did she not know who he was?
That thought struck him suddenly, and his anger shifted—twisted into something sharper, more dangerous.
Maybe she doesn't know.
Maybe she didn't recognize the name Donovan.
Maybe she didn't grow up watching highlight reels of Richard Donovan dominating courts across the country, becoming a legend not just in one state, but many.
Chris's father.
Richard Donovan—the man who'd turned raw talent into history, whose jersey still hung in multiple arenas, whose retirement announcement had been covered by every major sports network.
The man whose presence alone could silence a room.
Chris clenched his fists.
People recognized him before they recognized Chris.
"You're Richard Donovan's son," they always said.
With awe.
With expectation.
With envy.
He had been raised in the shadow of greatness—and groomed to stand within it.
And his mother?
Margaret Donovan.
Chris exhaled slowly.
His mother wasn't just successful—she was formidable.
She had taken his father's legacy and turned it into an empire. Donovan Athletics wasn't just a sneaker company; it was influence. Power. Contracts signed over champagne and private jets. Athletes begged for endorsement deals. Coaches shook her hand like they were grateful for the chance.
Margaret Donovan did not ask for respect.
She assumed it.
Chris had learned early how the world worked.
Status mattered.
Legacy mattered.
And at Westbrook Academy, his status was undeniable.
Upperclassmen deferred. Coaches watched him differently. Administrators smiled too quickly.
This school was practically built to accommodate boys like him.
And yet—
Anna Carter had looked through him like glass.
His teeth ground together.
"No," he said quietly, as if correcting the universe itself. "That's not how this works."
He stood again, moving toward the window.
Outside, the academy grounds stretched under soft lights—perfect courts, perfect lawns, everything manicured to excellence.
He pressed his palm against the glass.
She will learn, he thought.
Not violently.
Not dramatically.
But inevitably.
Everyone learned who Chris Donovan was.
Everyone learned where he stood.
The anger that had begun as humiliation now solidified into something colder.
Control.
He would not chase her like the others.
He would not beg for attention.
He would remind her—slowly, deliberately—where she stood in this place.
She was a scholarship girl.
Temporary.
Replaceable.
And he was not.
Chris straightened, squaring his shoulders.
A smile tugged faintly at his lips—not warm, not kind.
Calculated.
"Enjoy it while it lasts," he murmured into the night. "Because no one walks into my world and ignores me."
Somewhere across campus, Anna Carter slept peacefully for the first time since arriving—unaware that her quiet refusal had ignited something dangerous.
Unaware that she had bruised the pride of a boy who had never been told no.
And boys like Chris Donovan did not forget slights.
They collected them.
They returned them.
The night had settled fully by the time Chris Donovan stopped pacing.
The anger had cooled—not faded, but refined.
It no longer burned wildly in his chest. It had sharpened, like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. Calm anger. The kind that planned.
Chris stood near the center of his hostel room, phone in hand, staring at the reflection of his own face in the darkened window. The campus lights below glowed softly, ignorant of the shift that had just occurred inside him.
He had always believed control was inherited.
From his father—who commanded courts with authority so complete it bent crowds to silence.
From his mother—Margaret Donovan, whose calm voice could move markets and dismantle men twice her size.
Control wasn't loud.
Control didn't beg.
Control acted.
Chris turned toward the door and pressed a button on the wall panel.
"Ben," he said quietly into the intercom. "Come up."
There was no hesitation on the other end.
"Yes, sir."
Minutes later, the door opened with a soft click.
Ben stepped inside first—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark clothes that blended into shadows easily. His eyes swept the room automatically, trained to notice what others ignored. Behind him stood Marcus, equally silent, equally watchful.
They were not students.
They were not academy staff.
They were Donovan men.
Chris's protection had followed him everywhere since he was sixteen—not because he was weak, but because his family name came with risks.
Ben closed the door behind them.
"You called?" Ben asked.
Chris didn't look at him immediately.
He was still staring out the window, fingers tapping lightly against his phone.
"There's a girl," Chris said at last.
Ben raised an eyebrow slightly. "A problem?"
Chris turned.
His expression was composed now. Too composed.
"She embarrassed me," he said flatly.
Marcus shifted his weight subtly.
Ben waited.
"In public," Chris continued. "At my academy."
Ben exhaled through his nose. "That's unusual."
Chris's lips twitched—not a smile, not quite. "She thinks she's special."
"Who is she?" Ben asked.
Chris stepped closer, his voice lowering.
"That rude girl," he said. "Anna. Scholarship trash."
Ben's eyes flickered.
"Anna… Carter?"
Chris nodded. "That's the one."
"Child of nobody," Chris added, the words sharp with contempt. "No connections. No protection. Just attitude."
Marcus glanced at Ben briefly, but said nothing.
Chris began to pace again, slower this time, deliberate.
"She looked at me like I was nothing," Chris said. "Like I didn't exist. Like I was beneath her attention."
He stopped suddenly.
"That doesn't happen," he said quietly. "Not to me."
Ben studied him carefully.
"What do you want done?" Ben asked.
Chris didn't answer immediately.
He walked over to the desk and picked up one of the framed photos—his father mid-jump, crowd roaring beneath him. He stared at it for a moment, jaw tightening.
"She needs to learn," Chris said. "Who I am. Where she is."
Ben crossed his arms. "Learn how?"
Chris set the photo down with precision.
"I want her removed," he said. "Not expelled in a blaze of drama. Quietly. Cleanly."
Ben nodded slowly. "You want leverage."
"I want consequences," Chris corrected. "That follow her."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You're going to hide something in her room."
Marcus's head lifted slightly.
"What kind of something?" Ben asked.
Chris smiled then—but there was no warmth in it.
"Enough," he said. "Enough to raise suspicion. Enough to make them look twice. Enough that her scholarship starts to feel… fragile."
Ben considered this.
"No witnesses," Chris added. "No cameras. No fingerprints. Make it perfect."
Silence stretched.
Then Ben nodded once.
"Understood."
Chris's eyes gleamed faintly.
"I want her scared," he continued. "I want her questioning every step she takes. I want her to feel small."
He paused, then added coldly, "I want her to remember my face."
Ben met his gaze.
"And if she fights it?"
Chris laughed softly.
"Who's going to believe her?" he asked. "A girl who came from nothing? Against me?"
He spread his hands slightly.
"My father is a legend in half the states in this country. My mother owns the shoes these kids train in. This school breathes our name."
His voice hardened.
"She'll learn that some doors close when you're rude to the wrong people."
Ben straightened.
"Your wish," he said evenly, "is my command."
Marcus nodded in agreement.
Chris exhaled, the tension in his shoulders finally easing.
"Good," he said. "Do it tomorrow night."
Ben turned toward the door.
"One more thing," Chris added.
Ben paused.
"Make sure," Chris said quietly, "she never knows it was me."
Ben's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
"Of course."
The door closed behind them.
Chris stood alone again.
Outside, the academy slept peacefully—students dreaming of futures, unaware of how easily those futures could be bent by power.
Chris returned to his bed and lay back, hands folded behind his head.
For the first time since the party, his mind was quiet.
Satisfied.
Across campus, Anna Carter sat at her small desk, reviewing training schedules under dim light, unaware that danger had just been invited into her life—not loudly, not violently—but wrapped in privilege and delivered with a smile.
She believed hard work would protect her.
She did not yet know how cruel entitlement could be.