Luca Moretti
I always figured Adrian Ashford would look just like that. Perfect posture. Immaculate suit. That chilly, unreadable face.
But I didn't expect it to be this hard not to stare.
Blackridge Executive Academy reeked of polished stone and old money pressure. Everyone moved like they'd just gotten a summons from the board. I lounged against the railing outside the main hall and watched them all parade in—future CEOs, heirs with teeth, trust-fund prodigies sizing each other up.
And then, out of a glossy black town car, he slipped into view—Adrian Ashford, straight out of a designer's fever dream.
Crisp navy blazer. Silver cufflinks. That icy expression, like he'd never sweated in his life.
God, he was infuriatingly beautiful.
I caught myself smiling, quick and private, before I could stop it.
This was risky, but not for the obvious reasons. I'd seen plenty of gorgeous men. I'd dated them, slept with them, laughed until sunrise with them. I knew what I liked.
But Adrian? He looked like someone who refused to want anything at all.
Which made me want to be the exception.
Of course, I'd done my homework. When my father announced I'd be attending Blackridge with "certain legacy competitors," I knew exactly who he meant.
The Ashfords and the Morettis—our families had been at each other's throats since before I was born. Tech takeovers, shipping wars, endless lawsuits. Three merger attempts, every one more dramatic than the last.
Dad liked to pretend it was all business.
It never was.
Legacy families don't do "just business." They do vendettas, ego, revenge—dressed up in boardroom jargon.
So when Adrian's eyes caught mine across the courtyard, I didn't look away.
Neither did he.
Interesting.
Most people break eye contact if you hold it too long. Not him. His jaw tightened, but he stayed locked in.
I pushed off the railing and walked toward him, slow enough for him to see me coming. Give him a second to brace himself. To decide if he'd greet me like a rival or a king.
"You Ashford?" I asked, easy.
Up close, he was even worse. Sharper. Controlled in a way that felt learned, not lived.
"Yes." One word, crisp as a pressed shirt.
God, I wanted to ruin that composure.
"I'm Luca Moretti."
His eyes flickered—recognition, calculation.
"Looks like we'll be… acquainted this semester."
"Delightful," he said.
If sarcasm were bespoke, he'd have a tailor on speed dial.
I stepped in, closer than I needed to be. Not touching, just close enough to test him. Would he back off?
He didn't.
But something shifted. His breath hitched, almost too subtle to notice. Like he'd inhaled something sharp.
Oh.
That was interesting.
I filed it away.
"Don't worry," I said, light as air. "I'll try not to make your life miserable."
His mouth tightened—not fear, more like annoyance.
Or maybe something else.
I wasn't cocky enough to assume, but I wasn't an idiot either.
We walked into the main hall together—not exactly side by side, not apart. Just close enough for people to wonder.
Orientation felt endless. Speech after speech about excellence and legacy and innovation. I tuned most of it out. What caught my attention was Adrian—how still he sat.
Didn't fidget, didn't whisper, didn't check his phone.
He just watched.
Every person who approached him got the perfect Adrian Ashford—polite, composed, razor-sharp. But when he thought nobody was looking, he let the mask slip. Not much, just enough to look tired.
That caught me off guard.
Kids born into empires aren't supposed to look cornered.
When they announced project groups and I landed at his table, I nearly laughed out loud. Of course. The universe loves a good joke.
We sat across from each other. He didn't smile.
Good.
I wasn't here for easy.
The assignment: mock corporate takeover. Predictable, aggressive, engineered to make us fight for dominance.
I sat back and watched him work up a conservative acquisition plan—precise numbers, all risk managed down to the decimal.
He was good.
Annoyingly good.
I respected it, so I challenged it.
"You're betting on market stability," I said, tapping the blueprint. "Instability's where the real money is."
"It's also where you bleed out," he shot back.
"And vulnerability makes your opponent desperate."
"And desperation leads to mistakes."
We locked eyes.
This stopped being about the assignment, fast.
Everyone else faded into background noise.
I leaned in. "You're afraid of risk."
His gaze sharpened. "No. I measure it."
"You measure it to death."
"And you jump before you look."
"Sometimes," I said, meeting his stare, "the landing surprises you."
There it was again—that almost invisible shift in his breath.
Not anger. Something wound tight, waiting to snap.
Our hands brushed when we reached for the same paper.
He went still—not dramatic, just a half-second too long. Like the touch stung.
I eased back, slow, giving him an out.
"Careful, Ashford," I murmured. "You might start to enjoy this."
His jaw clenched.
God.
If he ever let himself want something, he'd be terrifying if he ever let loose.
The rest of the session blurred by—sharp words, quick glances. Every time I pushed, he pushed right back. No flinching. No backing down.
But he kept his distance. Always just so, like he'd measured the space between us in advance. Careful, deliberate.
He noticed. Of course he did. That wasn't some accident.
By late afternoon, I was wiped out—not from the work, but from the tension. The constant awareness that hummed between us.
I've been out since I was sixteen. My family didn't throw confetti, but they didn't slam the door in my face either. Mom acted like she didn't see it. Dad pretended it didn't matter, as long as I didn't "make headlines." In other words: be gay, just don't embarrass the empire.
Blackridge has its own rules, though. Rumors fly around here faster than anywhere I've been. I've heard them before—at other schools, at company parties when I showed up with a date. Some people grin too hard. Some squeeze your hand until it hurts. Some can't look you in the eye at all.
I can shrug that off. What I can't shake—what always stings, no matter how bulletproof I act—is getting shut out by someone I actually want.
That's the thing. By the end of the day, I wanted Adrian Ashford to look at me like I wasn't his enemy. Not because I needed approval or anything. It's just—I could see the cracks in him, and I wanted to know what would happen if I pressed a little harder.
Back in my dorm room, I collapsed onto my bed and stared up at the ceiling. My phone buzzed. Dad, again:
Remember who you are. Don't get distracted.
I rolled my eyes. Too late for that.
Honestly? Adrian Ashford rattled me. Not because he hated me. Not because our families have been feuding forever. But because when our hands brushed, he flinched like the world had tilted under his feet.
And I think—no, I know—he felt it too.
It's not a question of whether we'll collide again. It's about how much will break when we do.