Breathe with me cole

*Chapter 1: April 11th* Andrea was laughing. Liam had just stolen her biology notes and was holding them above his head in the middle of the school field, knowing she could never reach. The sun was too bright for October. "Liam Dela Cruz! Give it back, you i***t!" She jumped, her brown hair flying everywhere. He was pale, but he was always pale. That was his normal. He grinned. That wide, crooked grin that made her stomach flip since they were 14. That was the last time she ever saw him grin like that. His hand trembled. The notes fell to the grass. Then his knees buckled. "Liam?" He didn't answer. He just collapsed sideways. His eyes rolled back. His nose started bleeding - fast, dark red blood on the green grass, staining his white school shirt. The world went silent except for her scream. "Somebody help! SOMEBODY HELP HIM!" The hospital smelled like bleach and cold air conditioning. Too cold. Seth, her older brother, held her hand so tight his knuckles were white. He was 18 but he looked like a boy then. Their father hadn't arrived yet. The doctors used words she didn't understand at 16. Acute myeloid leukemia. Aggressive. Late stage. Symptoms had been there for months - the bruises, the tiredness, the paleness - but they all thought it was just stress from exams. She had thought leukemia was something only old people got. Liam died three days later. On April 11th at 3:14am. In a white room where she was still holding his cold hand. His mother was sobbing on the floor. Andrea didn't cry. She couldn't. At the funeral, nobody knew what to say to the 16-year-old girl who lost her first love. Her father, Ronaldo Silverio, stood behind her in a black suit. The biggest mafia in the country, the man people crossed the road to avoid, and even he couldn't scare death away. People whispered when he passed. Bodyguards everywhere. But Andrea just stared at the grave as they lowered the casket. Her Andrea Silverio necklace felt heavy around her neck. After that, she stopped being Andrea Silverio. Three weeks after the burial, she walked into her father's office. Her eyes were empty. "I want to leave the country," she told him. "I want to go where nobody knows his name is Silverio. No guards, no drivers, no respect because of you. I want to be normal." Ronaldo looked at his only daughter for a long time. His principessa. His heart. "No one will know," he finally said, his voice low. "You will be Andrea Cole. But you will always be my daughter. And my men will always be near, even if you don't see them." Six years later. No one at Westwood University knew Andrea Cole was actually Andrea Silverio. No one knew her father owned half the city they came from, or that her brother Seth was being groomed to take over. She wore simple jeans, old sneakers, her hair in a messy ponytail. She lived in a small apartment off-campus with her best friend Ashley, worked part-time at the library, and made sure she never used her father's money in public. Seth called her every day. "You good, little one?" She was okay. She had learned to be okay. Until every April. Yesterday was April 11th. The sixth anniversary. She had taken the bus to the old cemetery on the other side of town, sat by Liam Dela Cruz's grave for two hours in the rain, and left fresh white lilies. The gravekeeper knew her now. She hadn't cried this year. That scared her more than crying ever did. Ashley said it meant she was healing. Andrea thought it meant she was forgetting his face. Now it was morning. First day of final year at Westwood. She was late, holding two coffees - one black for Ashley, one vanilla latte for herself - rushing through the crowded main hall. Her backpack was half-open, her mind was still at that grave. She didn't see him. He didn't see her. She turned the corner near Lecture Hall B and slammed directly into a wall of muscle and expensive cologne. The impact knocked the wind out of her. The hot coffee flew out of her hand - straight into his face. Down his perfect jawline, down his white designer shirt that probably cost more than her rent. The entire hallway went silent. Like someone had pressed mute. The boy in front of her was slowly wiping coffee from his face with two fingers. His friends behind him looked horrified. Girls gasped. He was beautiful in a cruel way. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes like ice, and a face that belonged on a magazine. Ashley, who had just caught up, grabbed Andrea's arm and whispered in pure panic, "Andrea... oh my God... that's Marcus Ashton Drake. The Marcus family." Marcus looked down at her. His eyes were cold and furious. He looked at his ruined shirt, then at her. "Do you," he said, his voice quiet and dangerous, "have any idea how much my skincare routine costs?"