The sun beamed down on Royal Heights Business College — the kingdom of heirs, socialites, and futures forged in gold. But today, all eyes weren't on legacy. They were on him.
A black Rolls-Royce pulled into the courtyard, its doors opening in smooth precision.
Tristan Greystorm stepped out.
Gasps echoed.
Girls on the lawn clutched their chests.
"Is it hot in here, or did Greystorm just arrive?"
"Oh my god, I'd die if he looked at me."
"I heard he turned down the daughter of the defense minister."
"I'd say yes even if he ruined me."
He walked with that impossible confidence — like the world owed him praise just for breathing. A team followed, handing out navy gift boxes stamped with the Greystorm Motors logo.
Inside? iPads. AirPods. Branded tech kits.
Each labeled: "Welcome to your future — Greystorm style."
But just when people thought they'd witnessed the highlight of the day…
A cherry-red Aston Martin glided in.
And the crowd parted.
Long legs stepped out first, followed by sharp white heels and the unmistakable aura of power and poise.
Gianna Veymont.
Whispers burst like wildfire.
"Is that her?"
"She looks like a goddess—"
"Even her perfume smells expensive."
"No wonder all the guys worship her. I'd sell a kidney to look like that."
Jealous glares cut across the air from girls clutching their purses tighter. The boys? Practically drooling.
She didn't even glance at Tristan as she strolled past him, white sunglasses slipping down her nose just enough to meet his gaze for a split second — challenging him.
Her team began distributing rose-printed luxury bags filled with exclusive Veymont skincare, silk scarves, handwritten notes, and limited-edition perfumes not even released yet.
🎤 The Clash
Tristan (to his friend, smirking):
"Did she really think lotion samples can outshine my tech drop?"
Gianna (to her assistant, loud enough for him to hear):
"Don't worry. Some boys throw toys when they feel ignored."
Tristan:
"You're really enjoying your fifteen minutes, huh?"
Gianna (turning around, deadly sweet):
"Oh no, Tristan. I live rent-free in your head — that's a lifetime lease."
A hush fell. Their friends froze, watching the two most feared heirs in Royal Heights rip into each other with velvet-lined claws.
Tristan (stepping closer, voice low):
"You know what they say, Gianna. Queens fall the hardest."
Gianna (smirking):
"Then you better pray I don't land on your empire."
🎹 Meanwhile, In Another Room…
Far from the chaos, Emrys Greystorm adjusted his glasses and sank into his piano keys, the notes of Chopin echoing through the empty music hall.
His phone buzzed with group chat updates.
"It's chaos. G vs T. Campus is melting."
"Freshers are literally fighting over free stuff. Lol."
He sighed and muted it.
"Let them have their war," he murmured, never missing a note.
💃 The Dance
That night at the welcome gala, chandeliers bathed the ballroom in golden light. Gianna entered in a silver gown that made even professors stare. Tristan, in a black velvet tux, looked like the kind of trouble no one would mind falling into.
And for some twisted reason — fate, amusement, or ego — they ended up paired for the ceremonial welcome dance.
His hand found her waist. Her fingers touched his shoulder.
Gianna (mocking whisper):
"Don't fall for me, Greystorm."
Tristan (smirking):
"Too late."
They moved like fire and ice — clashing, complementing, impossible to ignore. Phones were out. Whispers were louder than the violins.
For one split second, the hatred melted into something dangerous.
They locked eyes.
Then the music stopped.
And Tristan leaned in, lips just inches from her ear.
Tristan:
"Look at your phone."
Confused, Gianna stepped back and unlocked it.
Ping.
💔 The Betrayal
📸 A photo.
Her boyfriend. Kissing her best friend.
Captured. Uploaded. Viral.
And just below it:
@TristanGreystormOfficial
"The cheater gets cheated. Guess karma prefers luxury brands."
#RoyalJustice #VeymontDown
Gasps. Laughter. Eyes on her.
Gianna stood frozen. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak.
Her world cracked.
Mascara-streaked tears welled in her eyes. She turned and walked away from the ballroom without a word.
And Tristan — still holding her warmth in his hand — watched her leave.
Tristan had been watching — not expecting the tears, the pain, the realness.
She was supposed to be untouchable. Arrogant. Cold. Just like him.
But in that moment, she looked... human.
He didn't speak. Just stared.
And for the first time, Tristan Greystorm didn't feel victorious.
He felt like a villain.