Chapter 2

                                    

                                          
~Maya~
Ugh, Mondays are such a drag, aren't they? My classes dragged on forever, leaving just me and a few stragglers behind. Chemical engineering is no joke, and today's chemistry lab was a killer. 
Standing for hours in my chic heels should be a crime. Sure, they're my signature look, but by the end of the day, my legs are screaming for mercy. 
I sashay over to the cafeteria, craving a caffeine fix, and there I spot Ilya, chatting with some random dude. Naturally, I try to sneak a listen—call it curiosity. But Mr. Sharp Eyes catches me. He whispers something to his buddy, and the said buddy scampers off. So predictable. 
Since I'm caught, I strut over with all the confidence of a runway model. "Your accomplice?" I ask, my voice dripping with disdain. 
Ilya face is blank, devoid of any expression, he looks at me running his eyes up and down on my body and whether I like it or not, his icy gaze light up my body on fire, "He's just a friend," he says, cool as ice. 
I block his path, determined. "Your accomplice, you mean" I retort, rolling my eyes. 
He towers over me, that familiar annoyance flickering in his gaze. "Ms. Sokolov, I don't know what your problem is, but kindly get out of my way." 
I toss my hair, a smirk playing on my lips. "Kind? That's rich," I quip, enjoying the game. 
He's silent, so I press on. "Why are you even here?" 
"I had a class," he dismisses, and I can feel my irritation bubbling up. 
I whip out my phone and call Jeremy. "What, Maya?" he says impatiently. 
"Jeremy, darling, can Ilya take me home?" I ask sweetly, putting it on speaker for Ilya to hear. 
"Yes," Jeremy grunts and hangs up. I flash a triumphant smile at Ilya, who looks like he's sucking on a lemon. 
"I'm not your chauffeur, Ms. Sokolov," Ilya growls, turning to leave. 
"Oh, are you defying your Boss' orders now?" I taunt, watching him bristle. 
He spins around, his glare lethal and so venomous, as if he wants to kill me on the spot and hits me that I almost reel back from the impact of it. But then he schools his face to indifference. "I'll be in the car," he concedes, and off he goes. 
I order my cappuccino—extra foam, obviously—before trailing after him. 
We both step out of the university and I observe him behind. Ilya's like a walking contradiction—tough yet graceful. He stands tall, his stature just shy of imposing, with a lean build that hints at hidden strength beneath the tailored fit of his clothes. His hair, a light blond, is a cascade of gold that catches the sunlight, giving him an almost ethereal glow. It's cut in a style that's both effortless and meticulous, falling just right to frame his face. 
I fall in step next to him, looking at his side profile, his ice blue are piercing, cold and inscrutable, like the heart of a glacier. They're set beneath brows that are expressive despite their controlled arch. His nose is straight, a defining feature that complements his high cheekbones and the sharp cut of his jawline. His lips are a study in contradiction, full yet firm, often pressed into a line around me that reveals his impatience or disapproval. 
The skin on his face is fair, almost porcelain, making the dark ink of the tattoos that peek out from under his shirt sleeves all the more striking. His attire is simple yet elegant; a black shirt that fits him perfectly, accentuating his athletic physique without being showy. The sleeves are rolled up just enough to be casual, but with a precision that suggests intention. 
Overall, Ilya carries himself with a confidence that's understated yet unmistakable. He moves with a grace that belies his robust form, each step measured and deliberate. There's an air of mystery that surrounds him, an enigma that's both inviting and intimidating. 
I sidle up next to him. "So, Ilya, how'd you end up at King U?" I ask, trying to sound casual, I am definitely not lusting over my bodyguard. 
He's not you bodyguard, Maya. He's Jeremy's. And the thought makes me sad. I wish I had found him first, maybe then he would have been mine? 
"Are you always this desperate for attention, or is it just me?" he snaps back, and it stings more than I want to admit. 
I didn't want to start a conversation this time, but I was too ensnared by his beau- ugliness, that I accidentally did. But that's not what hurts me, it's his choice of words, desperate. He called me desperate. Maybe I was acting like one. 
I force a laugh, even if the scars on my face are stretching and stinging, threatening to open up, "Touched a nerve, have I?" I tease, then turn on my heel back to the university. I know it shows that his words affect me, but his opinions don't matter right now. It's the blood that seeping from my scars that are on my face. I need to stop that. 
"Where do you think you're going?" Ilya's voice slices through the air, laced with confusion. I clench my jaw tight, a silent countdown to keep my cool. I pretend to be engrossed in my phone, then spin around with a flourish. "Oh, I've got a last-minute class. You go on, I'll find my own way home," I say, my voice a melody of feigned nonchalance. 
"But you don't have a ride," he points out, ever so observant. 
"That's none of your business, Ilya," I retort with a smile so sweet it could rot teeth. I hope it's cloying enough to give him a toothache. 
With a dramatic flip of my hair, I strut toward the girls' bathroom, ignoring the crimson betrayal dripping from my face, leaving a trail of my hidden agony. 
Suddenly, a hand clasps around my wrist, spinning me so swiftly I nearly lose my balance. But his grip is firm, unyielding. "What is wrong with you?" Ilya demands, his gaze burning with anger. 
I wrench my wrist free, my own fury rising like a tempest. "How dare you lay a finger on me," I hiss, jabbing a pointed finger into his chest, my nails threatening to break skin. 
Ilya's glare shifts from my accusatory finger to meet my eyes, and then, without a word, he turns and walks away. 
I watch his retreating figure until it disappears from view. Only then do I slip into the sanctuary of the bathroom and let the cold water cleanse the wounds not just on my face, but those etched deeper within.