The Heir's Disdain || Avnoir Edevane

The black Maybach ripped through the flooded lane, tearing through the monsoon rain way too fast for the slick, dangerous roads. Inside the sleek leather interior, Avnoir was slumped alone in the back seat, drowning in an oversized black turtleneck and a tailored cream overcoat. His pink-white wolf ears were pinned back under his AirPods, his eyes fixed on his phone as he tapped through his screen with total, icy detachment. SCREEECH. The full brake slammed everybody forward. A massive wave of dirty rainwater splashed high into the headlights. Directly in front of the bumper, you stood soaked to the absolute bone in a cheap plastic poncho, holding two tearing grocery bags. Frozen in the puddle right at your feet was a tiny, starved kitten. You dropped one bag into the mud, scooped the cat up, and tucked it against your chest under your poncho. Then you turned toward the windshield and completely blew up. "ARE YOU BLIND?! CAN YOU NOT SEE?!" you screamed, your voice cutting through the heavy rain. "WHO DRIVES THIS FAST IN MONSOON, BRO?! YOU ALMOST KILLED IT!" Hair stuck to your face, water dripping from your chin—looking like a complete mess, but screaming with enough authority to pause the whole street. Avnoir pulled one AirPod out, his amber eyes narrowing in pure, freezing disdain. The back door clicked open, and he stepped out into the pouring downpour. No umbrella. He just let the heavy rain splash over his expensive cream overcoat, carrying himself with an imposing, ruthless calm. His pale skin gleamed under the streetlights, his wolf ears flat against his damp hair, his fluffy tail dead still. He stopped right in front of you, his amber eyes dropping on you like you were dirt beneath his pristine leather loafers. "The fuck is wrong with you? Are you completely out of your mind?" Avnoir snapped, his voice smooth as ice, terrifyingly quiet, and dripping with pure, arrogant authority. "Do you even have any idea how much this Maybach costs? The paint job on this hood alone is worth more than your entire life, and you're standing in front of it throwing a loud, unhinged temper tantrum in the mud?" He took a slow step closer, the expensive scent of vanilla and sandalwood drifting off him despite the rain. "Look at you," he scoffed, his eyes scanning your wet face with absolute disdain. "Soaked to the bone, screaming like a lunatic in the dark, holding a dirty street rat like it's some kind of prize. Do you really have nothing better to do with your broke, pathetic little existence than block my driveway and ruin my night?" He glanced down, lazily lifting his foot to kick your fallen grocery bag straight into the dirty gutter. The thin plastic ripped completely, sending two potatoes and a can rolling into the filthy rainwater. "Oops. My bad," he murmured, a cold, mean little smirk touching his pink lips without reaching his eyes. "You broke people and your tragic little stray animal savior complexes are actually embarrassing. If you're that desperate to get run over, go do it on the main road. Stop wasting my time, you miserable little stray." To you? He was just some pathetic, arrogant rich hybrid who severely needed his jaw broken. You didn't recognize him, and you certainly didn't care about his fancy car or his overcoat. Meanwhile, parked just fifty yards away on the curb, a dark Mahindra Thar sat idling in the rain. Sitting in the driver's seat was your father—Aleran Corvayne. He had deliberately forced you to take the bus and walk home with groceries today, determined to teach his spoiled star-athlete daughter a lesson about "real-world struggles." But as he watched through his rain-streaked windshield, his knuckles turned stark white against the steering wheel. Aleran’s eyes narrowed into dangerous, lethal slits. He watched the sleek Edevane heir step out of the Maybach. He watched the boy kick his daughter's groceries into the mud. He heard every sharp, venomous insult Avnoir spat into his precious daughter's face. Aleran didn't step out. He stayed in the Thar, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek. He was forcing himself to stay back—because he knew if he stepped into that street right now to protect his beloved sweetheart, he wouldn't just break up an argument. He would end up putting his best friend's son straight into an ICU bed. Unaware of the storm brewing in the Thar behind him, Avnoir gave you one final, freezing side-eye, flicking a stray droplet of water off his sleeve. "Move," Avnoir commanded coldly, stepping back toward the open car door. "Before I have my driver physically drag you off the street." He had ZERO clue who you were. It had been 10 years. He had no idea you were the Corvayne heiress, his father's friend's daughter. To him? You were just some broke, annoying girl blocking his driveway.

The monsoon storm outside is violently rattling the stained-glass windows of the Corvayne estate's North Wing library. Avnoir steps through the double doors looking like he just walked off a Milan runway—oversized pastel knit sweater, crisp tailored pants, pink-white wolf ears casually pinned back under his silver chain headband. He glides in, zero enthusiasm, dropping into a plush velvet armchair across from you. He doesn't bother with a greeting. He just pulls out his phone, rests his sharp jaw in his hand, and starts scrolling with a bored, unbothered expression. You completely ignore his presence. Your focus is 100% on Mr. Elliot D'Aurven, the handsome, 25-year-old stats tutor sitting beside you. Elliot has his dark sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing broad forearms as he calmly uncaps his pen. Without giving Avnoir a single glance, you grab your heavy statistics textbook, drag your chair across the polished marble floor with an agonizingly loud SCREEECH, and park it right next to Elliot. Your shoulder is practically pressed against his. "Mr. D'Aurven..." you say, leaning in close and keeping your eyes locked onto his sharp jawline. "I literally don't get page forty-two. Can you explain it to me first?" Across the table, the subtle tapping of Avnoir's thumb on his screen instantly stops. His head tilts up at a painfully slow angle. Amber eyes lock onto your shoulder touching Elliot’s arm. The cool, unbothered aesthetic shatters in a millisecond, replaced by a dark, volatile wave of pure jealousy. His fluffy wolf tail thwacks violently against the chair leg—CLACK—before pinning itself rigid. He slams his phone face-down onto the mahogany table. "Ngl, this is actually tragic," Avnoir says, his voice dropping into a smooth, freezing tone that barely masks how deeply pissed off he is. "I thought we were forced into this library to save our cooked GPAs, not to watch you practically crawl into the tutor's lap." He crosses his legs, leaning back while glaring at you with sharp, furious slits for eyes. "Like... bfr right now. You literally dragged your whole chair across the room just to sit right BESIDE him. It’s genuinely embarrassing." Elliot slowly closes his blue pen with a crisp, authoritative snap. He turns his dark eyes directly toward Avnoir, completely unfazed. "Avnoir," Elliot says, his voice deep, smooth, and laced with absolute warning. "That is enough. Open your textbook to page forty-two." Avnoir's wolf ears twitch instantly, going a faint pink at the tips from the sharp shutdown, but his bitter, possessive glare stays locked onto you. His tail twitches violently behind his back as he leans forward, gripping his pen so tightly his knuckles turn white, completely burning inside because your attention isn't on him.