A Lesson in Loving You

Chapter 1 — The Glass Wall

The glass display case outside Colégio Anchieta’s administration office was freshly polished, but Maitê Vilanova didn’t need clarity to read the top two lines of the academic honor roll. She had the numbers burned into the back of her eyelids before she even stepped onto the marble floors of the main concourse.

1. Burlamaqui, Inácio – 98.8% 2. Vilanova, Maitê – 98.6%

Zero point two percent.

A fraction of a point standing between her and the Merit Gold Medal. A fraction of a point standing between her and a full out-of-state university scholarship that would finally get her out of Porto Alegre, away from the freezing, unspoken war tearing through her parents’ household. She stood frozen before the bulletin board, her posture rigidly upright, fingers gripping her dark leather planner so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

"If you stare any harder, Vilanova, you’ll melt the glass."

The voice was smooth, deep, and infuriatingly relaxed.

Maitê didn't need to turn around to recognize it, but she did anyway, adjusting her tailored school blazer with deliberate precision. Inácio Burlamaqui was leaning against the row of navy lockers behind her, his posture oozing a careless, natural elegance. His uniform blazer hung loosely unbuttoned over a white shirt with a loosened tie, and his thick, wavy raven hair was artfully untamed. He looked entirely undisturbed by the high-stakes pressure that consumed everyone else in the building, his dark-obsidian eyes glittering with a lazy, provoking warmth.

"It’s an administrative calculation error," Maitê said, her voice a sharp, polished blade. "Professor Silveira hasn't added the oral defense rubrics for the regional economics section."

Inácio took a slow step forward, closing the distance between them with unhurried ease. The faint scent of cedarwood and autumn air settled around them as he stopped just at the edge of her personal space, towering over her with his six-foot-two frame.

"She added them twenty minutes ago, querida," Inácio countered, his lip curling into that signature, maddening smirk. "Yours was impeccably structured. Mine had passion."

"Passion isn't a grading criteria on a standardized academic rubric, Inácio," she shot back, her hazel-green eyes narrowing as she held his gaze without flinching.

"It is when the evaluator isn't completely dead inside," he teased. He leaned down slightly, dropping his voice into a conspiratorial whisper that made the small hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "You look exhausted, Maitê. Have you tried sleeping instead of color-coding your entire existence?"

"I don't need sleep," she replied coldly, stepping directly into his space until the toes of her polished shoes nearly touched his. She tilted her head up, refusing to give an inch. "I need you to lose your focus for thirty seconds so the natural order of this school can restore itself."

Inácio’s smirk broadened, a genuine flash of amusement crossing his sharp features, highlighting the faint, pale scar along his left jawline. "Dream on. I like the view from the top."

Before she could shred his smug composure with another response, the heavy bronze bell chimed through the high-arched concourse, signaling the start of homeroom. Inácio offered a mocking, two-finger salute and turned, strolling down the hallway as half the junior class moved out of his way. Maitê took a slow, deep breath, smoothing down her skirt, forcing her pulse back into a disciplined, controlled rhythm.

Ten minutes later, the air inside Professor Silveira’s advanced humanities classroom was suffocating. Sunlight filtered through the tall, arched windows, illuminating dust motes that hovered over rows of mahogany desks. Maitê sat in the front row, her laptop open, her color-coordinated pens laid out in perfect parallel lines. Inácio sat three rows back near the window, slouched back in his chair, twirling a silver pen between his long fingers.

Professor Luciana Silveira stood at the front of the room, her sharp cat-eye reading glasses resting on the bridge of her nose as she tapped a thick stack of blue syllabus folders against the podium.

"Quiet down," Silveira’s authoritative voice cut through the low chatter. "As senior year begins, so does the project that will define your academic standing at Colégio Anchieta. The Capstone Thesis accounts for forty percent of your final cumulative evaluation. It is evaluated by both internal faculty and an external board of academic directors."

Maitê’s hand tightened around her pen. Forty percent. That was more than enough to obliterate a zero-point-two-percent gap. She had already mapped out three potential research subjects and drafted a formal request to work individually, or at worst, with her best friend, Val.

"Given the weight of this assignment," Silveira continued, stepping out from behind the podium, "I do not permit self-selection. To ensure absolute academic balance and prevent intellectual echo chambers, I have pre-assigned the pairs based on your cumulative performance profiles."

A collective ripple of anxious murmurs filled the room. Maitê felt a sudden, sharp knot tie itself in her stomach.

Silveira adjusted her glasses, reading directly from her roster. "Valentina Mendonça with Lucas Silva... Bruno Costa with Camila Alves..."

Maitê waited, her chest tightening with every name called.

"Maitê Vilanova." Silveira paused, looking up over her frames, her gaze locking onto Maitê before shifting toward the back row. "You are paired with Inácio Burlamaqui."

The silence that fell over the classroom was instantaneous and absolute.

Maitê stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the hardwood floorboards. "Professor, with all due respect, that presents a clear conflict of interest. We are competing for the exact same honor track and university nomination."

From the back row, Inácio leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head with infuriating grace. The lazy smirk returned to his face, though a sharp, calculating glint flared in his dark eyes. "Don't fight destiny, partner," he called out, his voice smooth and untroubled. "We’re going to be brilliant."

"Silence, Mr. Burlamaqui," Silveira snapped, turning her stern glare back to Maitê. "The pairings are absolute, Miss Vilanova. You two possess the highest analytical scores in the institution, but your methodologies are polar opposites. You will share research, grades, and weekly progress logs. If either of you requests a transfer or refuses to cooperate, both of your honors standings will be immediately revoked, rendering you ineligible for the Merit Gold Medal."

Maitê felt the air leave her lungs. Her eyes snapped toward the back of the room. Inácio was staring back at her, his relaxed posture failing to hide the sudden, intense focus in his gaze.

As the bell rang to dismiss the class, Silveira motioned for the two of them to approach her desk. She handed them a heavy, blue-bound master syllabus, along with a sealed administrative memorandum stamped with a heavy crimson seal—the corporate logo of Burlamaqui Enterprise.

"Review the guidelines together before tomorrow," Silveira said flatly, packing her leather briefcase.

Maitê didn't wait to leave the classroom. She grabbed the folder and marched into the empty adjacent hallway, breaking the paper seal on the memorandum with a sharp snap. Her hazel eyes scanned the formal text, her blood turning to ice as she reached the bottom page.

The partnership wasn't a pedagogical experiment by Professor Silveira.

The document detailed a massive financial grant provided by Dr. Rodolfo Burlamaqui to fund the academy’s new research wing—a grant contingent on a specific clause that tied Inácio to the school's top-performing student to guarantee a joint publication under the Burlamaqui name. The formal request was signed and dated three days ago, carrying Inácio’s personal digital signature alongside his father's.

Maitê whirled around as heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor. Inácio stopped a few feet away, his hands shoved into his pocket, his unbuttoned blazer catching the sunlight.

"You," Maitê breathed, her voice trembling with a terrifying blend of anger and betrayal as she held up the document. "You bought this."

The lazy smirk vanished from Inácio’s face. He looked at the paper, then met her furious gaze with an unblinking, dangerous quietness.

"I requested the partnership, Maitê," he said softly, stepping closer until his shadow completely swallowed her. "I didn't think she'd actually let my father write the check."

"You used your family's money to trap me in a shared grade!" she yelled, slamming the folder against his chest. "You knew I couldn't walk away without losing my scholarship!"

Inácio didn't back down. He caught the folder before it hit the floor, leaning in until his breath brushed her forehead. "I didn't trap you to take your score, Maitê. I did it because you're the only person in this entire useless school who actually makes me work for it."

They stood inches apart in the quiet corridor, their breaths heavy, their long-standing academic hostility morphing into a raw, electric tension that neither could control. Maitê glared into his dark eyes, realizing with a sinking heart that her war for independence was no longer just about grades—she was now tied directly to the one

boy capable of ruining her entire world.