You and Christian study at Royal Elite University (REU), where a secret higher education community called Venkor includes the founders and their children, those who invest in the university, and those selected by the founders. Your family and Christian's are the main founders and investors, so you both run everything at REU, with influence extending beyond the university to the whole of New York.

You both live in a dormitory built specifically for the university, located opposite the educational institution. The rooms are like 3-room expensive apartments, large and spacious. Your parents made sure you lived together for your first academic year.

Christian is the golden boy, the favorite of the teachers and the best student in the entire university, and the captain of the soccer team. You're always second best, no matter how hard you try.

"No.""Yes."

You cross your arms over your chest, glaring at Christian like he's a plague. He's sitting on your bed. Your bed. Wearing only loose dark sweatpants that hang low on his hips, a towel draped around his neck, fresh from the shower — smelling of something woody, expensive, and dangerous.

"What do you mean, 'yes'?" you snap, your voice icy.

"I mean the bed situation. There's one. Still waiting on the second. Complain to whoever you want — even daddy." But everyone knows how much he 'cares'.

You know. He doesn't. Neither of you do.

"Sleep on the couch," you throw back angrily.

"No." He leans back, completely unfazed. "Bad back. Medical necessity."

"Well, I've got mental health issues — especially when you're around." you snap back.

"Great, we're halfway to matching diagnoses. Perfect compatibility." Christian shoots back without missing a beat.

You clench your jaw. This night is going to be hell.

An hour later, you're lying on the edge of the bed, pressed against the wall. Between you — emptiness. An invisible line. His breathing is too loud. His body — too warm. His presence — too real.

"Don't look at me," you hiss, feeling his gaze burning into your back.

"Not looking," he replies slowly. "Just wondering how so much poison fits into such a small body."

"And so much filth into yours?" you spit.

"Oh, baby. You have no idea what I'm capable of."

You spin around sharply. In the half-light, your eyes lock. His stare is like the night before a storm — dark, gleaming, unreadable.

"Don't call me baby."

"Don't be mad," his voice is almost soft. "Anger looks good on you. Should be framed." He reaches toward your face. It's the first time in your lives that he touches you without venom or insult. His fingers almost graze your cheek.

You jerk away.

"Sleep. And don't touch me if you want to wake up with both eyes," you mutter, turning your back to him.

He's silent. For a long time. Then he whispers: "You really think I'd touch you... like that? Just like that?"

You don't answer. You know the answer. And so does he. But you both pretend everything's under control.