KHAELON’S POV

I couldn’t get her name out of my head.

Moretti.

The moment Emilia Cruz said it out loud in the cafeteria, it was like someone jammed a knife between my ribs and twisted.

It wasn’t just a name. Not to me. Not after everything.

I sat in my office in the Dravik University administration wing, the walls cold and quiet, the hum of the central air the only sound. I should’ve been reviewing the weekly training schedule for the hockey team or the list of sponsors for next month. Instead, all I could think about was the girl with wide brown eyes, shaky hands, and a name that made my blood boil.

It didn’t make sense. I’d never really liked a woman before. Sure, I’d had my share of attention from girls chasing the Dravik name, the varsity jacket, the money, but none of them caught my attention like she did today. She hadn’t tried to impress me. She hadn’t flirted. She just sat there, looking like she didn’t belong, and somehow made me want to know why.

I liked her.

I actually liked her.

And then I heard her name.

Moretti.

The same name in the police reports from years ago. The same name in the case file locked in the bottom drawer of my desk at home. The same people who took everything from me in one reckless night.

My jaw locked as images flashed—my parents’ car twisted and mangled, the rain-slick road glistening under flashing sirens, the taste of copper from biting my tongue until it bled.

They never made it to the hospital.

The Morettis hit them head-on, drunk and speeding. No survivors in either car except me. I was sixteen, left to claw my way through life alone. My aunts took me in physically, but emotionally I was on my own. Every night I fell asleep staring at the ceiling, wondering why fate had decided to let me live instead of them.

That accident didn’t just kill my parents. It gutted my entire world. No more late-night hockey talks with Dad. No more Mom’s cinnamon rolls on Saturday mornings. Just silence. Loneliness. And a gnawing emptiness that no amount of success could fill.

If Vida Elene Moretti had even a drop of their blood…

My phone buzzed.

“Mr. Dravik?” My assistant, Mr. Johnson, came through the line. “I have the documents you requested on Ms. Vida Elene Moretti. Shall I bring them in?”

“Now,” I said, my tone sharper than intended.

Minutes later, the door clicked open. Johnson walked in, immaculate as always, black suit, polished shoes, not a strand of hair out of place. He set a folder on my desk.

“This is everything we could pull from admissions and public records,” he said, then stepped back.

I flipped it open. The first page was her admissions profile, scholarship details, academic record, high school GPA. Impressive, but irrelevant. I kept flipping, birth certificate, guardianship records, death certificates for her parents—

And then I froze.

Father: Elias Moretti.

Mother: Sophia Moretti.

The names slammed into me like a freight train.

I knew them. They weren’t just connected to the accident. They were the accident. The ones who hit my parents’ car. The ones who died without ever facing what they’d done, leaving me to carry their crime like a scar branded into my life.

My hands clenched around the folder, paper crinkling.

“Fuck,” I breathed.

Johnson didn’t flinch. “You were right, sir?”

“Yeah,” I said, voice low. “I was right.”

In an instant, the flicker of interest I’d felt for her turned to something else. Something darker. Anger. Resentment. Revenge.

She might be sweet. She might have those soft, guarded eyes and that hesitant smile. She might be the first girl I’d noticed for who she was, not for what she wanted from me.

None of that mattered.

Because she was a Moretti.

And Morettis had already taken everything from me once. They weren’t walking into my life again without consequences.

I stared at the documents like they were a death sentence. My chest felt tight, but I let it burn.

She was going to pay.

Not with money—she didn’t have any.

She’d pay the same way I had. By losing everything. By being stripped down until there was nothing left but emptiness. By knowing what it felt like to stand in a room full of people and feel like a ghost.

The same way I’d felt every day since the accident.

I shut the folder. “Get ready for my revenge, Ms. Moretti,” I murmured.

The door opened again without a knock. Ford stepped inside, my best friend since high school, teammate, the only person I trusted enough to keep around when I didn’t want anyone else there.

“You called?” he asked, tossing his duffel onto the couch.

“You remember what I told you about the accident? The Morettis?”

Ford’s easygoing expression hardened. “Yeah. What about them?”

“She’s their daughter.”

His brows pulled together. “The girl in the cafeteria?”

I nodded.

Ford whistled low. “Shit. You sure?”

“Positive. Johnson pulled her file. Same parents. Same names in the police report.”

He scanned the page, mouth flattening. “That’s rough, man. But… she was just a kid when that happened.”

“So was I,” I said flatly. “Doesn’t change the fact that because of them, I grew up alone. Doesn’t change the fact that I buried my parents before I was old enough to even process it. Doesn’t change the fact that every good thing in my life since then has been built on top of a grave.”

Ford met my eyes. “What exactly are you planning?”

“I’m going to make her life here hell. She’ll regret stepping foot in this university. Every day will be a reminder of what her family did to mine.”

He tilted his head. “You’re sure? Once you start, there’s no going back. And from what I saw in that cafeteria… you like her, whether you admit it or not.”

“That was before I knew who she was.”

Ford studied me, then nodded. “Alright. Just be ready for it to get messy.”

Messy didn’t scare me. Losing did. And I’d already lost once. This time, I’d be the one taking.

When they left, I was alone with the file again.

I missed my parents. God, I missed them more than anything. The laughter we used to share still echoed in the back of my mind. The silence they left still filled every room.

I’d promised them justice. Maybe justice wasn’t possible anymore, but revenge? That, I could do.

I picked up the folder again, my eyes tracing her name.

Vida Elene Moretti.

I pushed away from the desk. Enough staring at her name on paper. If I was going to do this, I needed to see her again, not the girl in the cafeteria, not a name on a birth certificate. I needed to see the Moretti in her.

Word was already going around campus. Johnson had told me: Literature and Comparative Ethics. I knew where that department was, the old east wing, where the hallways still smelled of dust and paper.

The walk was short, but each step wound the tension in my chest tighter. My hands stayed in my jacket pockets, fingers curling and uncurling. I didn’t rehearse what I’d say. This wasn’t about words.

When I reached the corridor, I heard voices through the slightly ajar classroom door. Hers was one of them, soft, careful, the kind that didn’t like drawing attention. Someone was talking over it now.

I stepped inside far enough to see them. She stood by the window, clutching a worn book. The same woman from the cafeteria stood beside her, and across from them were the same two girls from earlier, posture dripping with mockery, every laugh sharp enough to cut.

Her shoulders were drawn in, chin lowered, not out of guilt, but habit. Her fingers gripped the book white-knuckled, like she was holding herself together.

One of the girls leaned forward in fake sweetness. “So, how’s life as the charity case?”

The other snickered. “Yeah, must be nice knowing the only reason you’re here is because the school feels sorry for you.”

She stayed silent. Just took it, like she was used to it.

It made something twist in me. Not sympathy, I wouldn’t call it that. But something.

I stepped fully into the doorway. My voice carried before anyone saw me. “Interesting choice of words,” I said coldly. “Especially from people who wouldn’t last five minutes without Daddy’s credit card keeping them afloat.”

The room went dead silent.

The two girls turned, color draining when they saw me. One stammered, “M-Mr. Dravik, we were just—”

“No. Let her. She should know her place,” I said, eyes locked on hers.