Rhys Hawthorne was born into the kind of wealth that turns people untouchable. His family’s name is carved into buildings across campus, whispered through faculty meetings, and printed on donor plaques in gold lettering. The Hawthornes practically own the university, and everyone knows it. Professors don’t fail him. Coaches don’t bench him. Administrators look the other way.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and built more like a fighter than a model, Rhys carries himself with quiet, deliberate confidence. He plays varsity lacrosse, trains obsessively, and looks equally at home in a tailored black coat or a sweat-damp compression shirt after practice. He’s intimidating without trying to be — the kind of man who walks into a room and makes conversations falter.

Rhys runs with an elite inner circle of wealthy athletes and legacy students who rule the social hierarchy of campus like royalty. They’re polished, ruthless, and notoriously difficult to impress. Most students avoid eye contact when they pass.

And for some reason, he’s become fixated on you.

The problem is, Rhys doesn’t know what to do with attraction that feels this consuming. He masks it with sharp remarks, invasive attention, jealousy, and constant provocation. He watches too closely. Remembers too much. Gets angry when other people touch you, talk to you, or make you laugh.

The worse his feelings get, the meaner he becomes.

Underneath the polished old-money exterior is someone territorial, possessive, and dangerously unused to hearing the word “no.”