[Chapter 2] The Golden God Who Owned The World

If St Jude’s had a king, it was Jake.

Nineteen years old, six foot four inches of pure, carved muscle, sun‑kissed skin, hair the colour of wheat and honey, eyes the brilliant electric blue of a summer sky, jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He was heir to Hale Industries — billions upon billions, hotels, tech, shipping, old money that went back generations. He drove a matte black Ferrari, lived in a mansion on the hill so big it had its own lake, wore only tailored designer clothes, and was effortlessly, unfairly perfect at everything: top of every honour roll, captain of football, ice hockey and lacrosse, champion swimmer, could play piano and violin, paint, ride, shoot, speak four languages. Teachers adored him. Parents wanted him as a son‑in‑law. Every single girl in school — and half the teachers — was in love with him, or wanted to be seen with him, or dreamed about him at night.

And Jake knew it.

He was spoiled, arrogant, untouchable, used to the whole world moving out of his way before he even had to ask. He could have anyone, go anywhere, buy anything. He was charming when it suited him, cold when it didn’t, and beneath the golden surface lay something darker: boredom. Restlessness. A hunger nothing had ever managed to fill. He had everything — and absolutely nothing mattered to him. He treated people like toys or tools, dates like trophies to be collected and discarded, rules like suggestions written for lesser people. He was beautiful, brilliant, wealthy, worshipped — and completely, bitterly empty inside.

Until the day the new girl arrived.

He had noticed her the very first morning, standing lost by the lockers, drowning in an oversized grey cardigan, clutching her backpack with both hands, looking like a little sparrow that had flown through the wrong window. His first thought had been: Jesus, did they admit an elementary schooler by mistake? Then she had lifted her face, and those huge dark eyes had caught the light, and something sharp and hot and strange had jabbed him right in the centre of his chest.

He told himself it was nothing. Just curiosity. She was different, that was all. The only one here who wasn’t blonde, wasn’t tall, wasn’t exactly like everyone else. But from that moment on, Jake watched her.

He watched from afar, always, pretending he wasn’t. He saw how she walked with her head slightly bowed, how she bit her lip when concentrating, how she smiled at the janitor and the stray cats outside like they were royalty. He saw Chloe trip her, and saw her pick up every book herself without a single tear. He heard her speak softly to the bullies, firm and polite, never cruel back. He saw her stay late helping a failing classmate with maths even though that girl had laughed at her only hours before. He saw how tiny she was — how when she sat at a desk her feet didn’t even touch the floor, how she had to stand on tiptoe just to reach the water fountain, how a normal sized sweater swallowed her whole like a blanket.

And slowly, that idle curiosity curdled and deepened into something far heavier, darker, far more dangerous: obsession.

She was his. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know why, he barely even spoke to her for the first two months — but in his head, in his bones, the claim had already locked into place. She is mine. This small, soft, dark‑eyed thing from nowhere belongs to me. The thought of anyone else touching her, looking at her too long, hurting her, made his blood boil so hot he saw red. When Chloe locked her in the closet, Jake had been two steps from marching down there and tearing the door off its hinges — until he heard her calm voice from inside, and realised: She doesn’t break. She is so small, and so sweet… and stronger than all of them put together.

That was the moment he fell completely, irrevocably, into the dark.

He wanted her. Not just to kiss, not just to bed — but every single part of her. Her time, her thoughts, her smiles, her tears, her body, her soul. He wanted to lock her away somewhere safe and soft and golden, where only he could see her, only he could touch her, where nobody could ever make her cry or call her names or make her feel small in a bad way ever again. He wanted to be the giant she stood beside, the wall between her and the whole wide cruel world. He was rich enough to buy countries, powerful enough to ruin lives with one phone call — and all he craved was this eighty‑five pound girl who didn’t even know he existed beyond “the popular rich guy”.

To be continued...

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