Chapter 1

The rain in Shanghai didn’t wash things clean; it just made the neon bleed into the puddles.

Lin Xia squeezed her umbrella handle until her knuckles turned the color of curdled milk. Her fingers hurt, but the ache was a good anchor. It kept her from looking down at how her thighs chafed beneath the heavy pleated fabric of the Shengli International Academy uniform—a skirt clearly never designed with someone of her proportions in mind.

The fabric clung to her hips like an accusation, tight and loud.

Every step she took toward the towering wrought-iron gates felt like a march toward a beautifully gilded firing squad.

“Just keep your head down, Xia-Xia,” her mother’s voice had whispered that morning, smelling of cheap menthol balm and frying oil from the dumpling stall downstairs. “A full scholarship to a place like this... it’s a miracle. Don’t let them see you're small, even if you feel it.”

But Xia wasn't small. That was the whole problem. She was a heavy, soft, round shape in a world that demanded razor-sharp collarbones and legs like chopsticks.

She reached into her damp blazer pocket, her thumb brushing against the smooth, worn plastic of a photocard. It was her secret liturgy. Her armor. The glossy face of Ren, China’s brightest rising idol, smiled back at her from the cardboard. He didn’t know she existed, of course. To him, she was just a number in a sea of screaming stadium lights, a silhouette in a crowded fan forum where she spent her nights translating his interviews. But in her head, when the world got too loud and her own skin felt too tight, she imagined his voice—smooth as silk, telling her she was enough. It was a pathetic, childish fantasy, but it was the only thing that kept her chest from collapsing under the weight of her own ribcage.

She tucked the card away safely just as a violent vroom shattered the morning fog.

The sound didn't just vibrate in the air; it rattled Xia’s teeth. A sleek, midnight-black Bugatti roared past the gates, spraying a curtain of dirty, oil-slicked rainwater right toward the sidewalk.

Xia didn't have the reflexes to jump. She just closed her eyes and braced for the impact.

Splat.

The icy, muddy water drenched the right side of her uniform, soaking through her white shirt and leaving a jagged, ugly brown stain across her chest and skirt. The umbrella had done nothing. She stood there, dripping, frozen, while the sports car screeched to a halt a few meters ahead, its taillights glowing like angry red eyes.

The driver’s side door swung open upward, like a wing. And out stepped Lu Sicheng.

Xia knew him before she even saw his face clearly. Everyone in China knew the Heimeng—the Black Monarchs. Five boys who didn't just inherit the world; they owned the banks that leased it. And Sicheng was the apex predator of the group. His family’s wealth wasn't just old money; it was the foundational bedrock of Shanghai's real estate and banking empires.

He didn't look like a student. He looked like an expensive sin. His uniform blazer was unbuttoned, thrown carelessly over a black silk shirt, and his silver-tipped hair was perfectly tousled despite the humidity. He didn't look back at the girl he’d just soaked. He didn't even look at his car. He just grabbed his leather bag from the passenger seat and started walking toward the main building.

"Hey!"

The word left Xia’s mouth before her brain could stop it. It was loud, cracked, and completely devoid of the submission everyone usually offered the Heimeng.

Sicheng paused. He didn't turn around immediately. He just tilted his head slightly, as if amused that a stray dog had barked at his heels. When he finally turned, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes scanned her.

From her wet, matted hair down to her muddy shoes, and then up to her wide, flushed face.

There was no guilt in his expression. Only a profound, suffocating boredom.

"You splashed me," Xia said, her voice trembling now, the adrenaline fading into a cold, hot wave of humiliation. "You saw me standing here. You could have slowed down."

A few other students who were walking by stopped, their eyes widening. Someone whispered, “Is she insane? That’s Lu Sicheng.”

Sicheng took two steps toward her. The air around him smelled of expensive cedarwood and expensive tobacco—a scent that shouldn't belong to an eighteen-year-old. He looked at the muddy water dripping from her hem, then met her eyes. His lips curved into a cruel, lazy smirk that didn't reach his eyes at all.

"The sidewalk is for people, fat girl," he said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that felt like a slap. "If you take up the whole walkway, you're bound to get hit by the traffic. Move faster next time."

The cruelty of it wasn't just the words; it was the casual delivery. He said it like he was commenting on the weather. Like her weight, her wet clothes, and her entire existence were just a minor inconvenience to his morning view.

Xia felt the blood rush to her ears, a roaring sound filling her skull. "What did you call me?"

"Are you deaf too?" Sicheng sighed, looking at his platinum watch. "I don't have time for charity cases. If you want compensation for the cheap uniform, talk to my driver. Don't waste my breath."

He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Xia standing in the rain, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The small crowd of students laughed softly, covering their mouths with manicured hands as they hurried past her to avoid being associated with the freak who had just challenged the king.

Xia stood there for a full minute, her hands shaking so badly she could barely hold her umbrella. The humiliation was an old friend—she’d met it in every school she’d ever attended—but here, it felt sharper.

It felt like a physical weight pressing down on her chest, making it hard to draw air into her lungs.

The interior of Shengli International Academy was less like a school and more like a museum for the obscenely wealthy. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and oil paintings of dead benefactors lined the hallways. Xia dragged her feet toward the office, her wet shoes making a pathetic squelch-squelch sound with every step.

By the time she reached her homeroom—Class 12-A—she had managed to dry her uniform slightly with paper towels from the bathroom, but the brown stain remained, a glaring badge of her lower-class status.

When she stepped through the door, the chatter in the room died instantly.

Thirty pairs of eyes landed on her. Some showed disgust, others amusement, but most just showed the clinical indifference people reserved for a broken piece of furniture.

"Ah, our transfer student," the teacher, a frail-looking man named Mr. Gao, said without much enthusiasm. "Lin Xia. She’s here on the municipal academic merit scholarship. Please take the empty seat in the back row next to Zhou Mei."

Xia didn't look at anyone. She kept her eyes glued to the floorboards as she walked down the aisle. But as she neared the back, she realized her seat was directly across from a cluster of desks that felt like the epicenter of gravity in the room.

The Heimeng.

All five of them were there, scattered across the back corner like gods lounging on Mount Olympus.

Next to Sicheng sat Jin, the son of a massive shipping and import-export conglomerate, currently spinning an expensive fountain pen between his long fingers. Behind him was Yan, whose family controlled the largest domestic airline legacy, his eyes glued to a tablet displaying stock charts. In the corner was Rui, the heir to a hospitality and manufacturing empire that supplied half the luxury hotels in Asia; he was yawning, looking thoroughly exhausted by the mere concept of 8:00 AM.

But it was the fifth boy who caught Xia’s eye for a fraction of a second. Han. His family owned the largest medical and pharmaceutical legacy in the region, but unlike the others, he wasn't radiating arrogance. He sat quietly, a thick textbook open on his desk, his expression calm and distant. He was the only one who didn't look at Xia with mockery when she sat down. He just looked, blinked, and went back to his reading.

Sicheng, however, didn't look back at his book. He leaned back in his chair, his long legs stretched out into the aisle, forcing Xia to awkwardly step over his designer sneakers to get to her desk.

"Watch your step, scholarship," Sicheng murmured, not even looking up as she passed. "Don't want you tripping and causing an earthquake."

A ripple of snickers went through the rows nearby. Xia’s teeth bit into her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. She sat down heavily, her desk shaking slightly under the impact.

"Don't listen to him. He’s an asshole."

The whisper was quiet, sharp, and came from the desk right next to her.

Xia turned her head. Sitting there was a girl with thick, round-rimmed glasses that slid down her nose, her dark hair pulled into two messy braids.

She wore the same uniform, but she’d customized it with a bright pink Ren pin pinned to her collar—the exact same limited-edition idol badge Xia had hidden in her pencil case at home.

"I'm Zhou Mei," the girl whispered, offering a small, slightly crooked smile. "And seriously, if you let Lu Sicheng see that he gets under your skin, he’ll just dig his heels in deeper. He’s like a tick, but with a trust fund."

Xia blinked, surprised. Looking at Mei’s expensive leather schoolbag and the diamond studs in her ears, she was clearly from money. Wealthy families didn't usually associate with scholarship dregs.

"Lin Xia," Xia whispered back, her defensive walls shifting just an inch. "And thanks. I figured that out the hard way outside."

"I saw," Mei said, her eyes shifting to the stain on Xia’s shirt. "He’s brutal. The whole group is, honestly. Except maybe Han, but Han doesn't talk to anyone who isn't a medical journal. Just stay in your lane, find your people, and ignore the royalty. By the way... is that a Ren fanclub ribbon on your bag?"

Xia’s heart did a small, sudden flip. She looked down at her backpack. A tiny, faded blue ribbon—the official color of Ren’s fandom—was tied to the zipper.

"You're a fan?" Xia breathed, her voice dropping even lower.

Mei’s eyes lit up behind her thick lenses. "Are you kidding? I went to his Shanghai concert three times last year. I’m literally the admin for one of his biggest sub-forums."

"Wait... are you Cloud_Nine_99?" Xia asked, her eyes widening.

Mei gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle a squeal. "No way. Are you Summer_Day_Rain? The one who does the English translations for his old interviews?"

Xia nodded, a genuine smile finally breaking through the cloud of misery that had hung over her since morning. For a moment, the heavy atmosphere of the classroom, the judgment of thirty wealthy heirs, and the looming threat of Lu Sicheng faded into the background. In this massive, hostile fortress of a school, she had found a tether.

"We are going to be best friends," Mei declared in a fierce whisper. "I don't care if you're a transfer. We're going to survive this place together."

The truce didn't last long.

By the time afternoon rolled around, the humidity in Shanghai had risen to a stifling, sticky peak. The air conditioning in the old academy building was struggling, and Xia felt every single layer of her uniform sticking to her skin like wet plastic.

During the break before the final literature period, the classroom had mostly emptied out, with students heading to the cafeteria or the courtyard. Xia stayed behind, wanting to finish a summary sheet she had missed from the previous semester's curriculum. Mei had gone to the restroom to fix her braids.

Xia was focusing so hard on her character strokes that she didn't hear the footsteps until they stopped right in front of her desk.

A shadow fell over her paper.

She looked up. Lu Sicheng was standing there, a half-empty can of expensive imported iced coffee in his hand. He wasn't looking at her; his gaze was fixed on the open notebook page where she had inadvertently doodled a small, neat heart around the name 'Ren' in the margin.

"An idol fan," Sicheng said, his voice dripping with dry amusement. "Of course. The fat ones always love the pretty boys they'll never meet."

Xia’s hand clamped down on her pen until the plastic groaned. "Get away from my desk."

"Your desk?" Sicheng leaned down, placing both hands on the wooden surface, bringing his face level with hers. The scent of him—cold, sharp, and heavy—flooded her senses. "Everything in this building belongs to my family’s foundation, Lin Xia. Including the chair you're currently stretching out. You're here on our charity. Remember that."

"I'm here because I passed the exam with the highest score in the district," she hissed, her eyes blazing with a fire she didn't know she possessed. "Not because of your family's spare change."

Sicheng didn't look angry. He looked delighted by her resistance. It was the look of a boy who had found a new, resilient bug to squash under his heel.

"Highest score," he repeated, mocking her tone.

"Impressive. Let’s see if that brain can help you with your balance."

Before she could realize what he was doing, Sicheng lifted his hand and casually inverted the iced coffee can directly over her open backpack, which was resting on the floor by her feet.

The dark, sugary liquid poured out in a steady, thick stream, drenching her textbooks, her notebooks, and—

The photocard.

Xia’s breath left her in a sharp, painful gasp. She lunged forward, grabbing her bag, but it was too late. The coffee had soaked through the canvas, pooling inside the main compartment. She reached in, her fingers dripping with brown sludge, and pulled out the small piece of cardboard.

The plastic sleeve hadn't been sealed. The sticky coffee had crept inside, dissolving the ink on Ren’s face, turning the bright, perfect smile into a smeared, distorted smudge of gray and blue.

It was just a piece of paper. Objectively, it was worth less than five yuan. But to Xia, it was the one clean thing she had left. It was her escape hatch from the reality of her mother’s tired sighs, the smell of grease, and the constant, crushing weight of being the girl nobody wanted to look at.

And he had ruined it just because he was bored.

A hot, stinging tear leaked out of her eye, tracking a clean line through the dust on her cheek. She didn't want to cry in front of him—god, she would rather die than cry in front of him—but the grief was too heavy, too sudden.

Sicheng watched the tear fall. For a split second, a tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of something crossed his face—a shadow of discomfort, perhaps—but it was gone before Xia could identify it. His expression hardened back into that cold, untouchable porcelain mask.

"Oops," he said, his voice flat. "My hand slipped."

Xia didn't scream. She didn't throw her book at him. The sadness inside her was too thick for anger; it felt like lead in her veins. She slowly stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floorboards.

"You're a monster," she whispered, her voice low and steady despite the trembling of her chin. "You have everything. You have more money than you could spend in three lifetimes, and you spend your time hurting people who have nothing. You're pathetic, Lu Sicheng."

Sicheng’s eyes narrowed, the lazy smirk finally vanishing from his face. No one spoke to him like that. No one looked at him with that kind of pure, unadulterated disgust—especially not a girl like her.

"What did you say?" he asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register.

"I said you're pathetic," Xia repeated, stepping out from behind her desk. She didn't care about the scholarship anymore. She didn't care about the uniform or the rules. She just wanted to be away from the smell of his coffee and the suffocating weight of his presence.

She grabbed her dripping backpack by the strap and walked toward the exit.

Just as she reached the door, she ran into someone coming in. It was Han. He stopped, looking at her red eyes, the wet bag in her hand, and then past her to Sicheng, who was still standing by her desk with the empty can.

Han sighed, a soft, weary sound. "Sicheng. Again?"

Sicheng didn't answer. He just tossed the empty can into the recycling bin with a loud clunk and walked out the back door of the classroom without looking back.

Han looked at Xia for another long moment. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, clean packet of antiseptic wipes and a clean linen handkerchief, placing them on the nearest desk beside her.

"The coffee leaves stains if you don't scrub it out within twenty minutes," Han said quietly, his tone devoid of any mockery or pity. It was just a statement of fact. "There’s a sink in the biology lab down the hall. It’s usually empty."

Xia looked at the handkerchief, then up at his calm, unreadable face. "Why are you helping me? You're one of them."

"I'm not helping you," Han replied smoothly, turning toward his own seat. "I just prefer a quiet classroom. And Sicheng is always loud when he’s being childish."

Xia didn't take the handkerchief. She couldn't trust anyone in this place. She just clutched her ruined bag tighter against her chest and walked out into the corridor, her wet shoes repeating that same, rhythmic squelch-squelch against the marble floors, a lonely echo in the vast, cold halls of Shengli Academy.

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