Meilin's POV
Law 101. Monday morning.
I was early. Organized. Focused. The model scholarship student. My highlighter was uncapped, my notes already color-coded, and my bag tucked neatly at my feet. This class, this university—it was everything I'd worked for.
And I was determined to stay under the radar.
The lecture hall filled slowly with students, most of them loud and confident in their London-polished accents and designer bags. I kept my head down, lips curved in a small smile, soaking it all in.
Then the door opened.
Footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried. The kind of walk that made people turn around before they even knew why.
The room fell quiet. I looked up.
Theo Ashford had arrived.
Jet black hair tousled to perfection. Cigarette tucked behind his ear like a signature. Tattoos crawling down his arms like they were part of his skin since birth. Silver piercings glittering against his eyebrow, his lip, and both ears. His eyes—electric blue, lazy and sharp all at once—swept the room like he couldn't care less.
He wasn't just rich. He wasn't just powerful.
He was untouchable.
And he was walking straight toward me.
"He's not in this class," someone whispered from the back.
"Why's he here?"
"Is that—wait—is that Theo Ashford?"
I swallowed hard, pretending to focus on my notes, heart racing in triple time.
And then, like a scene straight out of a teen drama I was not emotionally prepared for—he sat down. Right next to me. In a seat that had been empty until now.
The air shifted. I felt it in my chest.
He draped his tattooed arm casually over the back of my chair, his body leaning ever so slightly into mine.
The whispers exploded like wildfire.
"Oh my God, who is she?"
"She's not even from London—look at her uniform."
"I think she's that Chinese scholarship girl?"
"No freaking way. He doesn't talk to anyone."
I stared straight ahead, blinking at the projector screen like my life depended on it.
He smelled like cigarettes and something darker, something addictive.
I felt people staring. Phones angled subtly—some not even trying to be subtle. The girls three rows ahead turned around completely, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.
I caught a few of the whispers.
"She's not even that pretty."
"He's probably just playing with her."
"She doesn't stand a chance."
My entire face burned. I wanted to shrink. Disappear. Be anywhere else.
"You're early," he said, low and close, voice thick and smoky. "Cute."
I turned my head just slightly. "You're not even in this class."
"Felt like showing up." He smirked, his eyes flicking down to my hands. "You're shaking."
"I'm not." I totally was.
He leaned closer, his breath brushing my ear. "Relax, scholarship girl."
I hated that I liked the way it sounded coming from his mouth.
Someone behind us snorted. Another girl openly took a video.
I shifted in my seat, tried to put space between us. My face was hot enough to fry an egg.
Then his fingers found my chin.
Calloused. Inked. Confident.
He tilted my head toward him, slow and deliberate, making me meet his eyes.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he said, voice like gravel and velvet all at once.
The world dropped away.
For a moment, it wasn't about orientation or my scholarship or the whispers circling us like hungry wolves.
It was just him. Just me. Just that look in his eyes—
Like I wasn't supposed to be part of his world.
And he didn't care.