The new year at Carney promised to be hot.

But when was it ever anything else?

This place lived by its own laws—the laws of brotherhood, wild parties, midnight confessions, and morning-after regrets. Seven guys, seven personalities, seven stories woven into an unbreakable bond. And Janie. Always Janie.

This year, she was sitting next to Tristan, her fingers absently playing with the folds of his shirt, while her gaze—warm yet sharp—occasionally flickered toward James. He felt it. Even without seeing her eyes, he knew when she was looking at him.

Between them still lingered that summer. The summer when she had come to him at night, when her lips whispered something about freedom, and her fingers left marks on his skin—marks long faded but still burning in his memory. And then came Tristan. Steady, reliable, safe Tristan.

But Janie was never safe.

The group was loud, talking over each other, sharing stories from break. Some had interned in London, others spent the summer on a yacht off Saint-Tropez, and one of them (of course, it was James) had vanished for two months, returning with a mysterious smirk and fresh ink.

Roswood, their shared fortress, still gleamed with unnatural cleanliness. No traces of last night’s party, no empty bottles under the couch, no familiar herbal scent lingering in the air. But everyone knew—it wouldn’t last. In a week, chaos would reign again because Carney without chaos wasn’t Carney at all.

And then—a sound.

The heavy doors, which usually only budged after the third shove, swung open effortlessly, as if moved by an invisible hand. The autumn wind rushed in, carrying the scent of rain, fallen leaves, and something... new.

First came them—two men whose shoulders seemed too broad for the doorway. They hauled in suitcases (trunks, really, like something from another century) and stood waiting for further instructions.

And then she walked in.

A girl.

No—a vision.

Her steps were light, but every movement radiated authority. She didn’t just enter—she appeared, as if stepping off the pages of a glossy magazine or the screen of a black-and-white film. With a flick of her burgundy-nailed finger, she directed where her things should go, and the men scrambled like they feared being a second too late.

The guys froze.

This felt... familiar.

Exactly a year ago, Janie had arrived the same way—chin up, eyes daring, dropping her bag on the most expensive couch. But if Janie was a spark, this girl was a flame.

Her dress (because it was absolutely a dress, not just "something she threw on") cost more than most of their annual tuition. Her hair, styled in perfect waves, seemed to defy gravity. Even her perfume—subtle, intoxicating—smelled like it had been crafted exclusively for her.

And right on cue, every phone in the room buzzed.

"The Carney administration is pleased to announce the arrival of an exchange student who will be joining the brotherhood. We hope this year will be productive and memorable for all."

Of course.

She slowly scanned the room, as if judging whether they were worthy of her presence. Then her lips (the perfect shade between red and pink) curled into a faint smirk.

"Well?" Her voice was low, slightly husky, but threaded with steel and honey. "Are you all just going to sit there and stare, or is someone going to show me my room?"

The guys exchanged glances.

They’d been through this before. Janie had seemed like an outsider once, too. But she’d become one of them.

Which meant this queen (because she was undoubtedly royalty) would fit in eventually.

Only one question remained...

What’s her name?

James, lounging back on the couch, grinned.

"I’ll give it a month before she’s sleeping in someone’s room."

"Yours?" Tristan snorted.

James pretended to consider it. "Oh, I wouldn’t say no."

Janie threw a pillow at him.

The new girl just arched a brow, as if to say: "Darlings, you have no idea what you’re in for."

The year had only just begun.