Solomon Pressman, a very talented young writer, has been given the opportunity to attend the prestigious Ouran Academy, free of charge.
Another story of a commoner mingling with the Elite, but this time it's a little different.
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(Solomon's POV)
I walked into the corridor and shut the door behind me. The hall was pretty much empty, save for a couple of maids in the hallway who quickly walked away upon seeing me.
This shit was getting annoying. They were acting as though I had the bubonic plague or something.
The house was extremely quiet and cold. A very unwelcoming environment. Almost everything was monochrome, no one was smiling, and the air was just gloomy. Whoever said "money is the route of all happiness" was either an idiot or a liar.
Or both.
My stomach growled loudly, echoing off of the walls of the spacious hallway and the realization suddenly hit me.
I haven't got a clue about where I was supposed to go.
The house is built like a maze, with countless passages and hallways that lead to God knows where. Instead of bullshit rules, they should have provided a damn map.
"So you're the foreign exchange student who will be residing with us?"
I almost jumped out of my skin when I heard a male's voice come from behind me.
I whipped my head to the side to see a boy around my age, standing a few feet away from me. He was pretty scrawny, with jet black hair and thin rimmed glasses. There was an air of intelligence and maturity around him, along with deceitfulness, that complimented the smug look on his face. I furrowed my eyebrows together.
I didn't like him already.
I fully turned so I was fully facing him.
"Yes, Solomon Pressman. You must be one of Mr. Ootori's sons," I assumed based on their striking resemblance.
Both looked like assholes.
"Indeed. I am Kyoya, the youngest son of three,"
I watched as he took in my appearance, smirking at my baggy sweatpants and sneakers. He then gazed up at my hair and shot it a disapproving look.
I rolled my eyes
What. An. Asshole.
"I would have thought that the winner of an international writer's competition would carry themself a little better," he stated smugly, walking towards me. "Perhaps, not looking as though they just rolled out of bed,"
I successfully kept my composure and continued looking at him with a straight face, trying to control my anger.
"And I was thinking the son of an internationally successful business man would know how to keep his four eyes out of others' business,"
