Chapter 393: The Crown of Thorns

True to his word, Ethan gave Ana Lucía the space she demanded. It was the most difficult discipline he had ever imposed upon himself. Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to explain, to bombard her with messages reiterating his apology, to camp outside her door until she agreed to see him. But he knew, with a sick, certain clarity, that any such action would only prove her right—that he was a force of entitlement, a Blackwell who was used to getting what he wanted. So, he retreated. He attended his classes, he worked on the project alone in his dorm, and he endured the silence, a self-inflicted penance for his sins.

For two days, the world existed in a state of painful, fragile limbo. He was just Ethan, the quiet, brilliant student, but now he was a ghost haunting the edges of his own life, acutely aware of the one person whose presence gave it meaning, and who was now absent. The solution was a quiet agony, but it was the only one he had.

Andrés, however, was festering. His plan was in ruins. Daniela was a broken, unreliable tool, held in check only by his threats. Ethan and Ana Lucía, despite the nuclear revelation of his identity, were still technically a team, their project a testament to their combined genius that now seemed untouchable. The humiliation of the debate, the stolen spotlight, the sheer, galling fact that Ethan Blackwell had dared to pretend to be his equal—it all curdled inside Andrés, transforming from ambition into a pure, unadulterated need for destruction.

If he couldn't beat Ethan fairly, and if his sabotage had failed, he would burn the entire playing field to the ground.

It started subtly. A hushed conversation in the cafeteria that stopped when Ethan walked by. A few curious, lingering stares in the hallway. By the afternoon of the third day, it was a wildfire.

Ethan was walking to his Economics lecture when he felt it—a shift in the atmosphere. It was no longer just glances; it was pointing. It was whispers that were not hushed, but meant to be overheard.

—That's him. I heard it from Sarah, who heard it from Mark in the tech lab.—

—No way. "The" Blackwell? As in Blackwell Industries?—

—He’s been here the whole time? Living in the dorms? Why?—

—Do you think he’s, like, undercover?—

He kept his head down, his shoulders tense, trying to shield himself from the sudden, intense scrutiny. He entered the lecture hall, and a perceptible hush fell over the usual pre-class chatter. Dozens of pairs of eyes followed him to his usual seat. It felt like walking through a field of landmines.

Then, his phone began to vibrate. Not a call, but a relentless, staccato burst of notifications. Group chats he was barely part of, direct messages from people he’d never spoken to.

"Dude, is it true?"

"OMG ETHAN?!"

A meme popped up—a photoshopped picture of his face on the body of a king, sitting on a throne of gold bars, with the caption: "When you're a billionaire but still have to pull all-nighters for Professor Davis."

The solution of giving Ana Lucía her space became a cruel joke. There was no space left for him anywhere. Andrés had taken it all away.

The final blow came from Professor Davis himself. As the class ended, the elderly professor called out, —Mr. Blackwell? A word, please.—

The use of the name was a public confirmation. A fresh wave of whispers rippled through the students filing out. Ethan approached the desk, his face burning.

—I must say, — Professor Davis began, adjusting his glasses, his expression unreadable. —This is a surprise. I had a call from the Dean this morning. It seems your father’s office reached out to ensure we were… ‘accommodating’ your unique needs. I assured him your performance has been exemplary, needs or not.—

Ethan felt the world tilt. His father. Of course. The news had reached him, and his response wasn't to check on his son, but to assert control, to remind the university—and by extension, Ethan—of the power he wielded. The anonymity was not just dead; it was being publicly desecrated.

—Thank you, Professor, — Ethan managed to choke out. —That won't be necessary.—

—I’m sure it won’t, — Davis replied, but his tone had cooled several degrees. The unspoken words hung in the air: "Everything you’ve done is now tainted. Every good grade, every insightful comment, will be seen through the lens of your name."

He fled the lecture hall, but there was no escape. In the cafeteria, people offered to buy his lunch. In the library, students he’d never met asked him for investment advice. A girl from his statistics class, who had never given him a second glance, slipped him her number with a coy smile. He was no longer a person; he was a concept. A lottery ticket. A potential benefactor.

The problem was absolute. Overnight, he had become the center of a universe of rumors, speculation, and blatant opportunism. The quiet, determined identity he had built for himself—"Just Ethan"—had been erased, replaced by the caricature of "The Heir." Every interaction was now filtered through the distorting lens of his wealth. Friendliness felt calculated. Curiosity felt greedy. Even hostility, like the cold stares from Andrés’s friends, felt different—it was no longer a rivalry between students, but the resentment of the peasantry toward the crown prince slumming it in their midst.

He was completely, utterly alone in a crowded room. The space he was giving Ana Lucía had expanded to engulf his entire existence. He was a king wearing a crown of thorns, and every glance, every whisper, drove the spikes deeper, reminding him that the freedom he had fought for was an illusion. He had wanted to be judged for his own mind, and now he would never be sure if he was. The name Blackwell was a shadow that had finally swallowed him whole, and there was no corner of his life left untouched by its cold, immense darkness.