The literature classroom is located in the oldest building at St. Mary's College, where stained-glass windows filter sunlight into vibrant hues, casting them across the oak-paneled desks. I slipped quietly into the classroom and deliberately chose a seat toward the back. The speech at the opening ceremony had already made me stand out enough; now I just wanted to quietly get through this class.
"Quiet, everyone," said the esteemed literature professor, Dr. Lecter, tapping the lectern. "The first project for this semester is to adapt a Shakespearean play and perform it. I have already divided you into groups."
When Professor Lecter announced "William Montague, Victoria Rockefeller, and Emily Carter," a murmur rippled through the classroom. I looked up to meet the professor's meaningful gaze—this grouping was no coincidence.
Victoria rose gracefully, her golden hair shimmering in the sunlight. "Professor, I believe grouping by family would be more efficient." Her sweet voice carried a sharp edge, "After all, people from different backgrounds have... significant differences in their understanding of literature."
My fingers clenched tightly around the pen. This was a noble insult—not a single word was spoken, yet it made your place clear.
"Precisely because of that, grouping is more meaningful, Miss Rockefeller." Professor Lecter pushed his glasses up, "Shakespeare wrote about humanity, not bank accounts."
A suppressed laugh erupted in the classroom. I saw William Montague's lips curl slightly as he stood up, his gray-green eyes fixed on me: "Miss Carter, would you like to join us?"
At that moment, everyone's gaze fell on me like a spotlight. Refusing meant admitting defeat; accepting meant a tough battle. I took a deep breath, picked up my notebook, and walked to the front row.
"What about Romeo and Juliet?" We sat around an oak table, and William opened the script and suggested, "Classic and easy to adapt."
Victoria's slender fingers tapped the table lightly: "Too cliché. I suggest A Midsummer Night's Dream, which suits my... personality better." She glanced at me meaningfully, "Of course, some roles may need to be adjusted."
"I think The Tempest has more depth," I couldn't help but speak up, "Miranda's setting of growing up on a deserted island can be adapted to a modern school setting to explore themes of class and freedom."
"Interesting idea," William's eyes lit up, "Miranda, as the only female character, could showcase—"
"—showcase how an innocent girl is harshly confronted by reality?" Victoria interrupted with a light laugh, "William, don't forget the promise your father made to our two families last year." She lowered her voice but ensured I could hear, "Especially regarding... the arranged marriage."
William's expression turned cold instantly. The air seemed to freeze, and I suddenly felt like an intruder at a private party.
"I'll go get some reference materials." I stood up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly across the floor.
The quiet of the library finally allowed me to breathe normally. I tiptoed to reach the top shelf for *Shakespearean Modern Adaptation Cases*, but suddenly a long hand reached over my head and effortlessly took it down.
"Is this the one you need?" William had appeared behind me, close enough for me to smell the faint scent of cedar on his skin.
I took the book, my fingers accidentally brushing against his, a tingling sensation making me nearly drop it. "Thank you," I whispered, struggling to control the heat in my cheeks. "Aren't you supposed to be discussing with Victoria?"
William leaned against the bookshelf, sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows casting blue and red patches of light on his sharply defined features. "Victoria is just... a family friend." " He paused, "Your interpretation of The Tempest is unique. How did you come up with it?"
"Maybe because I am that 'desert island girl,'" I said half-jokingly, flipping through the pages, "Among you nobles who have been educated in elite schools since childhood, I do feel like I'm from another world."
William fell silent for a moment before suddenly asking, "What's your world like?"
This simple question left me speechless. At St. Mary's, no one—especially those from the four major families—had ever asked about the life of a commoner student.
"Taking the subway to school, working part-time on weekends, worrying about scholarships..." I shrugged, "Nothing special."
"Sounds more interesting than being driven around by bodyguards and attending boring charity dinners," William said softly, his eyes sincere enough to surprise me, "At least you're free."
In that moment, I saw another side of William Montague—a soul trapped in a golden cage.
When we returned to the classroom, Victoria was flipping through my notebook. Her fingers, painted with nude nail polish, traced over my messy notes, her lips curled into a faint smile.
"Studying 'how to apply for scholarships'?" she asked without looking up, "or 'the commoner's survival guide'?"
I hurried forward to retrieve the notebook: "These are private notes."
"Sorry, it fell on the ground," Victoria blinked innocently, turning to William, "Father texted saying Mr. Montague is very concerned about the progress of our project."
William's expression became inscrutable: "We will complete the adaptation of 'The Tempest.' Emily's ideas are the most creative."
Victoria's red lips tightened into a thin line. At that moment, I realized clearly: I had inadvertently stepped into a dangerous battlefield.
After school, a light rain began to fall. I pulled my coat tighter and ran toward the bus stop, but suddenly three girls blocked my path—Victoria's "friends."
"I hear you're getting close to Mr. Montague?" The brunette girl leading them approached with a fake smile, "Be careful, scholarship student. St. Mary's doesn't like trouble-making students."
"Move aside." I tried to go around them but was pushed to the wet ground. My notebook fell into a puddle, and the ink spread out like black flowers.
"Pick it up." A cold voice came from behind me. William Montague stood there, rain sliding down his contours, his gaze sharper than I had ever seen.
"William, we were just—" the brunette stammered.
"I said, pick it up." He spoke slowly, emphasizing each word.
The girls hurriedly picked up the notebook and handed it to me, then fled quickly. William knelt down, pulled out a handkerchief, and gently wiped the water stains off the notebook. The gesture was so natural, yet it sent a shiver down my spine—the heir of the Montague family, kneeling in the rain to wipe a notebook for a commoner girl?
"Thank you," I took the notebook, noticing the cover was ruined, "but you didn't have to. I'm used to this 'welcome ritual'."
"You shouldn't be used to it," William stood up, took off his coat, and held it over my head to shield me from the rain, "I'll walk you home."
"No need, I'll take the bus—"
"Consider it compensation for today's group discussion." He insisted, "And... I want to see what 'your world' looks like."
The city in the rain resembled a soft-focus movie scene. William insisted on carrying my backpack, curiously observing the convenience stores by the roadside, the crowded milk tea shops filled with students, and the hurried crowd at the subway entrance.
"You've never taken the subway before?" I asked in disbelief.
"I always have a driver for transportation," William said, a bit embarrassed. "My father thinks public transportation is 'unsafe.'"
I couldn't help but laugh: "Welcome to the real world, Mr. Montague."
We walked in the rain for twenty minutes, and William asked questions the whole way: Is working tiring? What's it like living in an apartment building? Are public schools really as chaotic as they are in the movies? His curiosity wasn't condescending pity; it was like a child finally allowed to touch the real world.
When we reached the bottom of my building, William looked up at the ordinary five-story apartment building, his expression indescribable. "Thank you for sharing today," he said softly. "See you tomorrow, Emily."
Watching his departing figure, I touched my chest—something had quietly changed there.
Meanwhile, in the study of the Rockefeller estate, Victoria's father, Richard Rockefeller, was having a low conversation with a white-haired old man.
"William Montague is getting too close to the commoners again," Richard frowned at the message on his phone, "Victoria is very worried."
The white-haired old man—Old Rockefeller—sat by the fireplace, the firelight dancing in his sharp blue eyes: "The Montagues are always like this. Twenty years ago it was the butler's daughter, now it's this... girl from the Carter family."
"This time is different," Richard lowered his voice, "The Montague heir getting too close to a scholarship student will affect our plans."
Old Rockefeller sneered, "The solution is simple. Investigate that girl's background and find her weaknesses." He took a sip of whiskey, "The Montague family owes us, and they must repay us through marriage. This time, I won't let history repeat itself."
Outside the window, the rain fell harder.