1-The Muse

Krystina Romanovski

There are two rules to surviving college.

Rule one: Keep your head down.

Rule two: Pretend he doesn't exist.

Simple enough, right? Wrong.

The universe has a twisted sense of humour, and by the universe, I mean Massimo Bianchi. The heir to the Bianchi Empire, a walking catalogue ad with piercing blue eyes and a smirk sharp enough to cut glass. When I say he's a walking-talking ruler of hell.

He's wind, and I'm a dandelion—fragile, inconspicuous, and one gust away from being blown into oblivion.

And too delicate to survive him.

So, here I am, walking across the campus with my head down, clutching my books to my chest like they're a shield against the war zone that is life—or at least the life I lead here. My cardigan, an oversized sage-green number, hangs off my shoulders in a way that screams, Please don't notice me. Jeans, sneakers, and hoping my bangs hide most of my face.

Invisibility is the goal, and I'm the reigning champion of blending into the background. Or so I like to think.

Massimo Bianchi, however, has other plans.

He's the kind of person who thrives on attention.

Someone who walks into a room and commands it. And for some reason that defies all logic, he's decided to turn me into his personal target.

I'm not sure why.

Maybe he's bored. Maybe he doesn't like my face. Or maybe he still holds grudges over that one letter. letter that has changed my life for the worst reasons. Whatever it is.

I hate him.

Okay, maybe hate is a strong word. My mother always says to never hate anyone, that it's a heavy word, like something equivalent to love in a harsh way. But if anyone is deserving of that word, it's him. Massimo Bianchi, the bane of my existence. The poison on my lips. The shadow in my dreams. My sweetest torment.

The universe, or Massimo Bianchi in this case, isn't done with me just yet.

"Krystina!" I turn around to see Anna running towards me all while struggling to hold her Stanley. Her fiery red hair looks ferocious in curls and I wonder how can she run in those heels?

My best friend bounds toward me and it took me a minute to notice her expressions of panic and excitement, which can only mean one thing: trouble.

"Have you heard?" she pants, grabbing my arm. "There's a fight on the football court. It's insane! You have to come."

I blink at her. "Do I have to?"

"Yes!" she exclaims, already tugging me in the opposite direction of my planned escape.

"Anna, I don't like fights. I don't like blood. And I don't like..." My words trail off as we approach the growing horde of students, all shouting and cheering like it's the highlight of their year. "...crowds."

"Oh, come on, it's just a fight," Anna insists, waving off my hesitation. "You'll survive. Now hurry! Massimo's shirtless!"

I freeze. That's the problem, Anna. It's Massimo.

I dig my heels into the ground. "I'll go to class!"

But before I can make my escape, another wave of students surges forward, and I'm swept into the chaos like a leaf caught in a current. My pulse quickens as I'm jostled left and right, my books nearly tumbling from my grasp.

"I don't want to be here!" I protest, but it's no use. The crowd moves with a will of its own, and suddenly, I'm pushed to the front, the noise reaching a deafening pitch.

And then I see him.

In the middle of the chaos, Massimo Bianchi towers over the crowd like a god of war, shirtless, his olive skin glistening with sweat under the harsh sunlight and for a moment, I am dread-struck, if that's even a word.

He's wearing black athletic shorts slung low on his hips, and every muscle in his body moves like it's been sculpted by a master artist. His shoulders are broad and they flex as he delivers a devastating punch to his opponent, sending him sprawling to the ground. Opponent being Damian Rossi. Another arrogant brat.

But it is not him I am scared of, no, definitely not, it's the one mounting him looking every bit like the self-appointed king of this campus. His dark hair is damp, strands falling messily across his forehead. His jawline, sharp enough to cut glass, is clenched with focus, and those piercing blue eyes—the kind that seems to see right through you—are locked onto his target with intensity.

I swallow hard.

He's breathtaking in a way that's almost cruel. A vision of masculine perfection wrapped in arrogance and danger.

The air feels thicker, and harder to breathe as the crowd erupts in cheers.

I want to look away, to remind myself that he's a terrible person who takes joy in tormenting me. But my traitorous eyes are glued to him, unable to tear themselves away. This is the curse he has on me. He is the ruin of divine beauty, temptation draped in sin. I should run. But I can't.

"Krystina!" Anna hisses suddenly appearing beside me. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Worst.

"I'm fine," I mumble, pulling myself up and dusting my clothes.

I look up hoping to flee when our eyes meet, and my breath catches in my throat.

The smirk that spreads across his lips is pure trouble. He winks at me like he knows exactly what kind of effect he has. A sinful, vicious ache that coils deep in my belly. An attraction I do not want but can not deny.

Before I can process the moment, someone tosses a bottle of water at him. He catches it effortlessly, twisting the cap off with one hand and pouring it over himself all while looking at me. As if in slow motion, the water streams down his chest, highlighting every ridge and dip of his muscles, and the girls in the crowd go wild, screaming his name.

And then, because he's Massimo Bianchi and ruining my day is his favourite hobby, he throws the rest of the water straight at me.

The cold shock of it hits me like a slap, soaking through my cardigan and jeans. I gasp, stumbling back, but the damage is already done.

Laughter ripples through the crowd, and I stand there, drenched and humiliated, water dripping from my hair and clothes.

Massimo steps forward, the smirk on his face widening as he towers over me.

And just like that, the crowd erupts in laughter again, and I stand frozen in place.

He's staring right at me, and the world tilts on its axis. Or is it just me swaying?

Those eyes—icy, piercing, merciless. How do they manage to look both cruel and beautiful? Like a villain carved out of marble. A smirking statue of trouble.

Oh no. No, no, no. Why does he have to look like that?

My heart stutters. My brain short-circuits. My dignity—gone, fleeing for the hills.

Do something. Say something. Move. Anything.

But my body betrays me, frozen because everyone is looking at me. I am the centre of attention. And I can not accept that. And I hate it. My hands tighten on my books like they're a lifeline, but even they aren't enough to save me now.

Do I look as ridiculous as I feel? No, don't answer that. I already know the answer. I must look like a train wreck. A disaster. A clown. A very wet, and awkward clown.

I should move, but if I move, everyone will notice even more. Why is it so quiet all of a sudden? Or maybe it's not quiet. Maybe my brain just stopped registering sounds. Do I hear someone laughing? Oh no. Are they laughing at me? They're totally laughing at me.

My cheeks are on fire. Why is my cardigan so clingy right now? Why does it feel like I can not breathe?

I tremble, taking a step back, and then another. My eyes fall upon him.

Why is he still looking at me? Stop looking at me!

That stupid, infuriating smirk. It's like he knows. Like he can see my thoughts spilling out of my head. He did it intentionally.

Stop being ridiculous, Krystina. You're not in a rom-com. He's not the brooding hero. He's the villain, remember? The guy who literally just poured water on you.

And then, as if the universe hasn't punished me enough, he winks.

Oh. My. God.

I think I just forgot how to breathe. My lungs have gone on strike. My brain is now a field of static. I'm standing here, looking like an absolute idiot while he's—what? Enjoying this? Of course, he is.

I can't even swallow properly. My throat feels dry, which is ironic, considering I'm still drenched.

Suddenly, I'm hyper-aware of everything. The water drips down my cardigan. My sneakers squelching slightly on the ground. My hair sticks to my face like seaweed.

This is it. This is how I die. Humiliated to death by Massimo Bianchi and his stupid, stupid smirk.

What's worse? He knows it. Oh, he knows.

But I do the only thing I can. I straighten my spine, tighten my grip on my books, and mutter the most intelligent, cutting response I can muster.

"I... I need to go."

And then I flee.

Because that's all I know how to do when it comes to him—run. Run before I make an even bigger fool of myself.

But even as I disappear into the crowd, I swear I feel his eyes.

His eyes follow me.

I hate him.

No, really. I do.

Or at least, I want to.