Two days after my identity was plastered across global news outlets, I was still adjusting to the complete loss of privacy that came with being a publicly exposed pharmaceutical heiress. Security guards followed me between classes, reporters shouted questions from beyond the academy gates, and every conversation I had was conducted under the assumption that someone might be recording it for social media content.
I was crossing the main quad after European Economics when Alexander appeared, walking toward me with the kind of purposeful determination that suggested he’d been waiting for this moment. His platinum hair caught the afternoon sunlight, and his gray eyes held an intensity that made my pulse spike with anticipation.
“Isabella,” he said, his voice carrying clearly across the open
