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Ardencrest University is a shark tank, and I am the smallest fish in the water.

I learned that lesson on my first day, when a Legacy girl in a crimson uniform tailored to perfection looked me up and down and smiled like she'd just found something rotting on the bottom of her designer shoe. The Elites here don't just ignore scholarship students—they systematically erase us. We're Ghosts. Invisible. Less than nothing.

And I'm fine with that.

Invisibility kept me alive when I was a child trapped in a house with parents who saw me as a mistake they wished they could undo. Invisibility kept me breathing through the years of bruises and locked closets and whispered threats. Invisibility is my survival strategy, perfected through blood and terror and the kind of trauma that never really leaves your bones.

So I keep my head down. I wear clothes that don't draw attention—muted colors, nothing tight, nothing that could be mistaken for an invitation. I don't wear makeup. I don't wear heels. I don't play their games, and I sure as hell don't give them ammunition.

I am a ghost in their kingdom, and ghosts don't get noticed.

Ghosts don't get hurt.

The library is my sanctuary.

It's one of the few places on campus where the rigid social hierarchy softens, if only because the Elites find studying beneath them. They pay people to write their papers, to take their exams, to do the work while they focus on maintaining their carefully curated images.

I slip through the towering mahogany doors and let the familiar scent of old books and polished wood settle over me like a blanket. The grand library at Ardencrest is obscenely beautiful—vaulted ceilings, ornate chandeliers, rows of leather-bound volumes that probably cost more than my entire year's tuition. It feels like stepping into another century, another world.

A world where I can almost forget the cruelty waiting outside.

I head toward my usual spot in the back corner, a small alcove tucked between the philosophy and poetry sections where no one ever bothers me. But when I round the corner, someone is already there.

Landon Ashford.

He's sitting in my chair, long legs stretched out, a book open on his lap. He looks up when I approach, and the smile that spreads across his face is warm enough to melt through the ice I keep wrapped around my ribs.

"There you are," he says, like he's been waiting for me. Like my presence just made his entire day.

"That's my spot," I say, but there's no heat in it. There never is with Landon.

"I know." He stands smoothly, gesturing to the chair with a slight bow that's just theatrical enough to make me smile. "Which is why I saved it for you."

I shake my head, but I'm fighting a grin as I drop my bag onto the table. "You have an entire penthouse and access to private study rooms. Why are you in the library?"

"Because you're in the library."

It should sound possessive. Overbearing. Like the kind of thing the other Princes would say before they backed a girl into a corner and made her regret existing.

But from Landon, it just sounds... sweet.

He's always been like this with me. Soft. Warm. Protective in a way that feels safe instead of suffocating. While the rest of Ardencrest treats me like I'm invisible, Landon sees me. He pulls out my chair. He brings me tea from the campus café without me asking—always the honey lavender blend I love, always the perfect temperature. He walks me to my dorm when it's late, and he never once makes me feel like I owe him for it.

Landon Ashford is the untouchable heir to a political dynasty, a Legacy Elite with a family crest embroidered on his uniform and a last name that opens every door in this country.

And somehow, impossibly, he's my best friend.

"How was your morning?" he asks, settling into the chair across from me.

"Survived another round of being invisible," I say lightly, pulling out my textbooks. "You?"

"Board meeting with my father. He spent two hours explaining why my current trajectory is 'acceptable but not exceptional.'" Landon's tone is casual, but I catch the slight tension in his jaw.

I frown. "That's horrible."

"That's Frederick Ashford." He waves a hand dismissively, but I know it bothers him more than he lets on. Landon's relationship with his father is... complicated. Everything in Landon's life has to be perfect—perfect grades, perfect reputation, perfect image. He's the Golden Prince, and the crown is heavy.

"You're more than acceptable," I say firmly. "You're—"

"Careful, Sunflower. Keep complimenting me like that and people will think you actually like me."

The nickname makes my chest warm. He started calling me that a few months ago, and I never asked why. Maybe because I always try to find the light, even in the darkest corners. Maybe because he thinks I'm fragile, something that needs constant sunshine to survive.

I don't correct him.

"People already think we're weird," I point out. "A Legacy Elite and a Ghost Tier scholarship student being friends? We're basically a scandal."

"Let them talk." Landon leans back, utterly unbothered. "Their opinions are worth less than the air they waste speaking them."

I laugh quietly, shaking my head. This is what I love about him—he exists in the same brutal world I do, but somehow, he makes it feel less suffocating. When I'm with Landon, I don't have to be invisible. I can just be me.

We study in comfortable silence for a while, the kind of quiet that only exists between people who've moved past the need to fill every second with words. Occasionally, he'll slide a cup of tea across the table—when did he even get that?—or point out a passage in my textbook with a soft, "This might help with your essay."

It's easy. Natural.

Safe.

My shift at the off-campus bookstore starts at five, and Landon insists on walking me there even though it's raining.

"You don't have to do this," I tell him for the third time as we huddle under his umbrella.

"I'm aware," he says mildly, adjusting the umbrella so I'm completely covered while half his shoulder gets soaked. "But I'm doing it anyway."

"You're going to ruin your suit."

"I have others."

Of course he does. Landon probably has a closet the size of my entire dorm room filled with custom-tailored suits that cost more than a semester's tuition.

When we reach the bookstore—a small, cozy shop tucked between a coffee house and a vintage record store—I turn to say goodbye, but he's already holding the door open for me.

"Landon—"

"I'll wait until your shift starts," he says simply. "Make sure everything's okay."

I should tell him it's unnecessary. That I've been working here for months without incident. But the truth is, I like having him here. I like the way his presence makes the world feel a little less hostile.

So I just nod and step inside.

The shift starts off quiet.

Mrs. Chen, the owner, is in the back doing inventory, leaving me to man the register. I organize the shelves, help a few customers, and try not to think about the essay due Monday that I haven't started yet.

The rain picks up outside, drumming against the windows in a steady rhythm that's almost soothing.

Then the bell above the door chimes.

A man walks in—older, maybe mid-forties, with a heavy jacket and eyes that linger too long. I've seen him before. He comes in sometimes, always loitering, always watching.

I force a polite smile. "Can I help you find something?"

"Just browsing," he says, but he doesn't move toward the shelves.

He moves toward me.

My stomach drops.

I take a small step back, keeping the register between us. "Let me know if you need anything."

He doesn't stop. He keeps coming, closing the distance, until he's right there—too close, invading the space I need to breathe.

"You're always here alone," he says, and his smile is wrong. All wrong.

"Mrs. Chen is in the back," I say quickly, hating how small my voice sounds.

"Didn't see her."

My pulse is racing now, my childhood PTSD roaring to life. I know this feeling—the trapped sensation, the helplessness, the way your body freezes even when your brain is screaming at you to run.

He leans in, one hand bracing against the counter, effectively boxing me in.

"You're a pretty little thing, aren't you?"

I can't move. I can't speak. My throat locks up, and all I can do is stand there like the terrified child I used to be, waiting for the blow to land.

The bell chimes again.

Soft. Almost delicate.

And then Landon is there.

He's dressed in a pristine white suit—when did he change?—and he looks like something out of a dream. Perfect. Untouchable. Beautiful.

He doesn't run. He doesn't shout. He just moves with that calm, controlled grace that makes him seem like he's gliding instead of walking.

He steps between me and the man, his body a wall of protection.

"Excuse me," Landon says, his voice polite. Pleasant. "I think you're in the wrong place."

The man sneers. "I'm just talking to the girl—"

"No." Landon's tone doesn't change, but something in the air shifts. "You're leaving."

"Who the fuck do you think—"

Landon leans in, close enough that I can't hear what he whispers.

But I see the man's reaction.

His face drains of color. Actual, visible color, until he looks like he's seen a ghost. His hands start shaking, and he stumbles backward, nearly tripping over his own feet.

"I—I didn't mean—"

"Out."

The man runs.

Actually runs, slamming through the door and disappearing into the freezing rain.

I'm still frozen behind the register when Landon turns back to me. His expression shifts instantly—from cold and terrifying to soft and concerned.

"Hazel." He reaches for me carefully, like I'm something fragile. "Are you okay?"

I nod, even though I'm shaking.

"Come on," he says gently. "Your shift is over."

"But—"

"Mrs. Chen won't mind. I'll handle it."

And he does. He slips into the back, has a quiet conversation with Mrs. Chen that I can't hear, and returns with my coat and bag. He bundles me into his car—a sleek, black luxury sedan that probably costs more than my life—and turns the heat up without me asking.

We drive in silence for a while, the rain battering against the windshield.

Finally, I find my voice. "What did you say to him?"

Landon doesn't look at me. He keeps his eyes on the road, one hand relaxed on the steering wheel. "Nothing important."

"Landon—"

He reaches over and brushes his thumb against my cheek, so gentle it makes my chest ache.

"The world is full of weeds, Sunflower," he says softly. "You just have to know exactly where to grip them to rip them out by the root."

His smile is warm. Safe.

"Don't look at the dirt. Just look at me."

And I do.

I look at him, and I feel the fear drain away, replaced by profound relief. My sweet, protective best friend just saved me. He made the bad thing go away, and now I'm safe.

I have no idea—absolutely no idea—that the man who cornered me is already marked for death.

That Landon Ashford doesn't just protect.

He exterminates.

And he'll do it with the same gentle smile he's wearing right now.