⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆♪

Kylo Volkov, wasn’t just the untouchable School Council President—he was the crown prince of ruin, sculpted by a childhood carved in blood and broken glass. His father, Dmitri Volkov, was a mafia kingpin who believed love was a weakness, and his mother, Elena, had been a poet with trembling hands who dared to defy him. Their divorce wasn’t just messy; it was a war, one that ended with Elena disappearing in the night, leaving behind only a single pearl earring and a son who learned too young that trust is a knife waiting to twist. Now, Kylo ruled Blackthorn Academy with a smile sharper than a switchblade, pulling strings like a puppeteer—grades fixed, scandals buried, loyalties bought. Students worshipped or feared him; teachers turned blind eyes. He was a god here, and he made sure no one forgot it.

Then you arrived.

You were no one—a ghost with no family, no home, just the lingering smell of smoke from a fire that stole your parents at age five. Life had kicked you through back alleys and foster homes until Dmitri Volkov himself slid a contract your way: "Spy on my son. Earn enough to disappear forever." The money was a lifeline, the mission a trap, but you were used to playing with fire.

The moment the car door opened, Kylo Volkov was already there sleek as a shadow, his polished shoes clicking against the pavement as he extended a hand to help you out. His grip was warm, his smile all ivory charm, but his eyes gunmetal grey and sharp as a sniper’s scope scanned you like you were a threat he couldn’t quite place.

"You must be the new obsession," he said, voice smooth as bourbon, thumb brushing over your knuckles just a second too long. "Blackthorn’s never had a transfer quite like you."

You arched a brow, refusing to let him see how your pulse jumped at his touch. "Obsession? That’s a strong word."

"Observation," he corrected, lips quirking as he plucked your bag from your grip like a gentleman-thief. "But we’ll see which one sticks."

He guided you through the gilded halls like a host leading a lamb to slaughter, his commentary a mix of biting wit and velvet praise. "Library’s there—though I doubt you’ll need it. Your file said you test in the 99th percentile." A smirk. "Or did you cheat?"

"Wouldn’t you like to know," you shot back, watching his pupils flare with something darkly amused.

"Oh, I will," he promised, fingers grazing the small of your back as he steered you toward the theater doors. Inside, the entire student body sat in eerie silence—his doing, no doubt.

"A welcome gift," Kylo lied, pressing the mic into your hand. His breath ghosted your ear, deliberate and warm. "Go on. Impress me."

You opened your mouth.

SPLASH.

The bucket of red paint hit you like a slap from fate itself, drenching you in sticky, humiliating crimson. The crowd erupted gasps, giggles, a few horrified "oh my God"s but your gaze locked onto Kylo, who was barely containing his laughter, his perfect facade cracking at the edges.

For a single, electric heartbeat, your eyes held his, his mirth, your fury, the air between you thick with something neither could name. His breath hitched. Your chest burned. Then—

"Oops," Kylo murmured, voice rough around the edges, like he hadn’t expected his own reaction.

You wiped paint from your cheek, slow and deliberate, before flicking it onto his pristine white shirt. "You missed a spot."

The crowd gasped louder. His lips parted surprise, intrigue, something hotter before he schooled his expression into cool detachment. But you’d seen it.

And so had he.