Clash of Worlds

"You think this is going to be easy?" Dr. Choi's thunderous voice broke the fragile silence.

"You believe you can just waltz into that university and make a name for yourself? You think the world is going to just hand you success because you're a Choi?"

Owen's jaw clenched. With a little influence of alcohol, he mustered the courage to tell his dad about his plan for university.

And as expected, Dr. Choi did not give him his blessing.

"I'm not here to challenge you, dad. I'm here to prove that I can make it on my own, without living in your shadow. I'm tired of being the 'doctor's son' and I'm done pretending as the perfect child."

Dr. Choi's eyes narrowed, clouded with apparent disappointment. "Tired of being the doctor's son, is it? Lest it slipped from your thick skull, I built everything you have, everything you are. Without me, you are nothing! And you think you can throw it all away just to spite me?"

Owen screamed, his voice filled with pent-up frustration. "It's not about spite. It's about independence. I want to succeed based on my own skills and efforts, not because I'm your son. Your name has always been a leash around my neck."

Dr. Choi's face reddened but he stood silent. He knew that his son's mind was resolute, so he dismissively said, "When you fail, don't ever think of coming back."

"I'm not afraid of failing. It is better than being a perpetual disappointment in your eyes," Owen replied.

The distant noise from rushing students woke him up from his daydream. He stood before the intricate gate of the school, which he would call home for the next six years. 

The confrontation with his dad echoed in his head fueling his ardent desire to make a name for himself.

"Just wait! I'll make you regret everything you said," he thought as he took a deep breath. 

Owen Choi arrived at Khal Gibson International University with emotions swirling inside him.

The prestigious institution in the UK, a realm of ancient stones and storied halls, was a far cry from his bustling hometown in Seoul.

The campus was a mix of grand Gothic and contemporary buildings standing tall side by side and accentuated by meticulously manicured gardens, each building steeped in history.

Every corner of the majestic structures seemed to whisper tales of privilege and legacy, showcasing a long tradition, prestige, and excellence.

Owen, with his styled dark hair and a bespoke suit, exuded a quiet confidence. His chiseled features and intense, deep-set eyes gave him a serious, almost brooding demeanor.

Yet, beneath that serious exterior was a man with an unquenchable thirst to prove himself.

His first day at Khal Gibson was a trial by fire. The intricate web of British etiquette and social nuances that seemed to permeate the elite student body overwhelmed him so much that he took a quick breather in the palatial library. 

Attempting to navigate the vast room filled with old leather-bound books and towering shelves, he was preoccupied with finding a specific novel written in Old English. His focus was intense, his lips pressed in one thin line as he weaved through the rows.

In his determination, he didn't notice the approaching figure ahead of him until it was too late. His shoulder collided with hers, sending a cascade of books tumbling to the floor.

Owen's face flushed with embarrassment. He was a striking figure, but at this moment, all his cool charm seemed to evaporate. "Sorry!" he stammered, his deep voice betraying his nervousness. "I didn't see you."

Maridon's reaction was immediate and sharp. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Are you blind or just dumb?! Which is it?!" 

Owen stood tall and quiet. "What the hell is wrong with this woman!" he cursed in his mind. With equal fire, his eyes met hers. Their mutual irritation was palpable.

"You've got some nerve!" she muttered, her seemingly sweet smile glazed with malice. "Bet you're new here, tough one." 

Owen remained quiet which angered her even more.

"Watch where you're going next time!" she snapped, her voice dripping with scorn. 

Owen's face turned scarlet, the initial shock giving way to a smoldering anger of his own. "Look. I'm really sorry, okay? I really didn't see you approaching," he muttered, his voice edged with frustration. 

Maridon interrupted sharply, raising an eyebrow. "Clearly, you're more interested in making a mess than showing any semblance of respect."

Owen bristled, his forehead furrowed.

"Respect? I'm the one picking up the pieces while you stand there like a—"

"Like a what?" she cut in. "Like someone who doesn't have time for your clumsy antics?"

Owen's hands tightened into fists. "You know what? You're right. I don't have time for your tantrums," he shot back, his voice rising. "Maybe if you weren't so stuck-up, you'd realize that people make mistakes! If it's even a mistake!"

Maridon's eyes narrowed, her gaze a storm of contempt. "Stuck-up? Is that your best shot? Perhaps you should take a good look in the mirror before you start throwing insults. You're the one who can't even manage to walk properly! Embecile!" 

"Embecile?!" Owen's patience snapped. "At least I'm not the one making a scene over a few books. Grow up!"

"Grow up? Do I look like some kid to you?!" Maridon muttered.

She kicked a few more books, sending them skittering across the floor, and spat, "Oh, I see. Just throw everything around and then pretend you're the victim. How noble!"

Owen took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure, but the fire in his eyes remained. "And I suppose you're the epitome of grace and manners?" 

Her lips curled into a bitter smile. 

Owen's jaw tightened, and he whispered under his breath, "Infantile."

Maridon's eyes flashed with fury, her composure cracking. "What did you just call me?"

"Nothing," Owen said quickly, but the damage was done.

The room was thick with animosity, now a battleground of anger and pride.

"You've got some guts," she smirked. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

Owen's gaze was unflinching, matching her intensity. "I think you're making a mountain out of a molehill. But if you want to keep this going, I'm more than ready."

He put the last book back on the shelf when Maridon, already drowned in anger, stepped even closer, her voice a dangerous whisper. "You think you can just insult me and get away with it?" 

He looked at her with nonchalance and whispered back, "I called you infantile, so what?"

And just that, he left her to burn in her rage. She was speechless. 

In stark contrast to Owen's serious demeanor was Marie Donnabelle Leigh, the university's resident heiress and social butterfly.

Maridon, with her platinum-blonde hair cascading in effortless waves and her wardrobe full of designer gowns, was the embodiment of carefree elegance. 

The Leighs were a third-generation dynasty, owners of a real estate company added to a chain of luxury hotels and resorts. To her, the world was a stage, and the only concern she seemed to have was choosing which haute couture gown to wear at the next charity ball or gala.

She was used to be feared and obeyed, and no one has ever dared to treat her like a piece of trash. Her ego just couldn't accept it. 

"William, are you busy? Could you look into someone for me," she asked her older cousin sweetly, her voice blended with a casual interest and subtle urgency.

Later that night, Maridon spotted Owen eating alone at the far end of the dining hall. The hum of students chattering happily filled the room, evoking a vibrant energy, contrary to the sullen mood surrounding him. 

Maridon sauntered over to Owen's table, her steps exaggerated and purposeful. The noise of the dining hall seemed to fade into a dull roar as she approached, her eyes locked on him with a determined glint and an evil grin.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked with insincerity and sarcasm.

Owen glanced up from his plate, barely concealing his irritation. "I'd prefer you didn't."

Maridon's smile widened, clearly unbothered by his response. She plopped down across from him without waiting for an invitation. "Oh, come on. It's not like you're doing anything exciting."

Owen let out a sigh and pushed his food around his plate, trying to ignore her. 

Maridon leaned in, resting her chin on her hand with exaggerated curiosity.

"Eating alone, huh? Sounds pretty dramatic. "Seems like you could use a little excitement. Also, we weren't properly introduced," she said, her tone mocking. 

Owen glared at her, his patience wearing thin. "If you're here to be obnoxious, you're succeeding and I don't need you to get me excited. "

Maridon's smile faltered, but she quickly recovered. "Oh, whoa. Can't handle a bit of company?"

"Not from someone who only shows up to make trouble," Owen shot back without even glancing at her.

Maridon's eyes narrowed slightly, but she maintained her teasing demeanor. "No wonder your dad never liked you!"

Greatly irritated, Owen slammed his hand on the table, spilling some of the water from his cup. 

"Problems with temper, huh? Did I scathe your pride?" Maridon teased, smiling from ear to ear. Her arms were crossed while her brow was arched. 

With his hands curled into fists, Owen stood up and cast her a scornful glance before walking away. The brief confrontation left a sour taste in his mouth.

"Got no balls, yeah?" she screamed, catching everyone's attention.

The clamor of utensils and chatter fell to a hush as her words lingered, sharp and unforgiving.

Owen felt the weight of a thousand stares, each one a searing brand against his skin. Whispers snaked through the room.

Some gazed with malicious delight, while others bore a pitiless curiosity that gnawed at him. His heart pounded, a tumult of humiliation and fury swirling within. Every beat felt like a betrayal, each breath a struggle against the suffocating tide of shame that threatened to pull him under. 

Maridon walked past him wearing a triumphant smile.