Chapter 5 The Legacy She Doesn't Know

Amelia stepped onto the sprawling campus of Blackwood University, her heart pounding beneath the weight of the Blackwood name she now carried by association.

The ancient stone buildings loomed tall and proud against the clear blue sky, their ivy-clad walls whispering secrets of centuries past. Students in expensive jackets and designer backpacks strolled by, laughing and chatting in groups that instantly made Amelia feel like an outsider.

She tugged her cardigan tighter around her slender frame and glanced at the gold crest embroidered on the sleeve of her borrowed jacket - a gift from a kindly classmate who didn't yet know her story.

From the moment she arrived, the air seemed charged with unspoken stories - stories of power, wealth, and a dark family legacy.

At orientation, whispers followed her.

"There's the girl Richard Blackwood took under his wing."

"His sons are practically royalty here."

"Watch out-rumor has it the youngest son is cursed."

Amelia tried to ignore the murmurs, but they lingered like shadows.

Her gaze fell on the center of the courtyard where two young men stood out: Damien Blackwood, tall and impeccably dressed, with a confident smile that commanded attention; and Elias Blackwood, quieter, almost ghostlike, sitting under an oak tree sketching intently in a worn notebook.

The contrast was stark. Damien's presence demanded the room; Elias seemed to want nothing more than to disappear into the leaves.

Amelia's pulse quickened when their eyes briefly met-Damien's sharp and assessing, Elias's deep and unreadable.

She wondered what stories those eyes held.

As weeks passed, Amelia kept her head down, throwing herself into her studies and avoiding unnecessary attention. But she couldn't escape the pull of the Blackwood family's influence-nor the secrets buried beneath their polished surface.

Late one evening, she found herself wandering the library's quiet halls when she stumbled upon Elias.

He was curled up in a shadowed alcove, the faint glow of a desk lamp illuminating his face as he traced symbols and scribbled notes into an ancient tome.

He looked up, surprised but not hostile.

"You're not supposed to be here," he murmured.

Amelia smiled softly. "Neither are you, apparently."

For the first time since she arrived, she felt a flicker of warmth.

"What's your name?" he asked quietly.

"Amelia," she replied.

"Amelia," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "You're different. Not like the others."

"Maybe different is what I need to be."

He nodded slowly, a faint smile curving his lips.

And in that silent exchange, a fragile connection was born-one that would change everything.

Blackwood University's campus was polished and proud-its glass buildings sparkling like ambition, its walkways lined with rich kids draped in designer clothes and dripping in entitlement.

Amelia walked through the courtyard with a quiet strength that couldn't be bought. Her books were second-hand, her shoes scuffed at the edges, but her back was straight, her chin held high. She didn't need money to stand out. Her beauty did that effortlessly-long, graceful legs, flawless bronze skin, a smile that could light a room, and those impossible blue eyes that had a way of unsettling anyone who dared look too long.

Including Demian Blackwood.

He stood near the central fountain with his usual circle of loud, laughing friends and clingy girlfriends-all designer bags, fake laughs, and fierce competition for his attention. The son of Richard Blackwood, heir to the empire, Demian carried his father's name like a crown-and a weapon. Tall, cocky, and devastatingly handsome, he was feared and adored by half the school.

But when Amelia walked by, something shifted in him. Just slightly.

His laughter faded. His eyes locked onto her like they always did-longer than they should, deeper than he meant to. He didn't know how she did it, but one look from her left a strange pull in his chest. Something like heat... and guilt.

She didn't even glance his way. That irritated him.

He straightened, stepped away from the group, and called out with that smug, lazy voice that made everyone nearby stop and listen.

"Hey, Charity Case!" he shouted.

"Going to class, or selling bananas on the side today?"

The group of rich kids burst into laughter. A few phones were already out, recording.

Amelia stopped. Slowly.

She turned around, her expression calm, unreadable-almost amused.

"Still pretending you're funny, Demian?" she said, voice like silk dipped in fire. "I'd clap, but I'm carrying actual knowledge in my hands."

The laughter shifted-now at his expense. Demian's jaw clenched, though his lips curled into a mock grin.

He walked toward her, confident and slow, until there was only a breath between them.

Up close, she could smell his expensive cologne. His eyes flickered-first with pride, then with something deeper. Something like hunger. She was stunning, and she wasn't even trying.

"Careful, Amelia," he whispered low, his voice laced with threat and something else he couldn't admit. "This isn't your level. You might impress a few lowlifes, but in this world, you're just... background."

She stared at him without blinking, her voice cool and steady.

"And yet somehow, the prince of this 'world' can't stop watching the background."

That hit him.

Demian's grin faltered for half a second, his eyes darkening. Then he scoffed and turned, waving his hand like she was dust.

"Keep dreaming, street queen."

But he felt it again-that pull. That tightness in his chest every time she looked at him with those fearless blue eyes.

He hated it.

He hated her-or at least that's what he told himself. Because hating her was easier than admitting the truth:

He wanted her. Badly.

But how could he? How could Demian Blackwood, the pride of Blackwood University, fall for a girl who wore cheap shoes and took notes on recycled paper? What would his friends say? What would his father think?

No. He couldn't want her. So he bullied her.

He mocked her in the halls, made jokes during lectures, embarrassed her during presentations. And yet... every time she held her ground, every time she fired back with that sharp tongue and calm face, it only made his admiration grow stronger-and his frustration burn deeper.

Amelia knew it. She saw it in his eyes-the way they lingered, the flicker of something softer behind the arrogance.

But she didn't care.

Not yet.

Because while he played with pride and power, she was waiting-cool, silent, patient.

Waiting for her moment.

She didn't need revenge.

She needed success.

And when her time came, it wouldn't be loud-it would be undeniable.