Unravelling

Book 0: North University

by Janisha Boswell

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Welcome to North University!

Scarlett Voss has always been in control, but now her world is unravelling. Her family is in crisis and their fashion empire is on the brink of collapse. The last thing she needs is being paired with Evan Branson - the infuriatingly handsome blond she loves to hate - for a class project.

Evan Branson has enough on his plate, with old wounds resurfacing and a family member he never wanted to see again back in his life.

Teaming up with Scarlett was supposed to be a distraction, but the more time he spends with her, the harder it is ignore the woman beneath the polished exterior. And when she unexpectedly asks for his help, he jumps at the chance to prove he can be the support she's never had.

But as their banter turns into something deeper, the two must decide: protect their hearts or risk everything for a chance at something real?

Tropes:
-She dislikes him, he's obsessed with her
-Academic rivals to lovers
-Family drama
-Forced proximity

Readers are giving Unravelling 5-stars!

'There were so many things to love about this book!! The banter! 😍 Everyone must read this!' 5-star Reader Review

'If you're looking for something cute to get you out of a reading slump, read this - I sped through it so fast!' 5-star Reader Review

'So so good that you'll read it in one sitting. 🌶️✨🥀🗡️ Nothing better than an enemies to lovers story to start your mornings' 5-star Reader Review

'Academic rivalry, family war, a school project, friendships and more - everything is just perfect' 5-star Reader Review

'I adored this story. Black cat and standard poodle vibes...I can't wait for everyone to get their hands on this story!!' 5-star Reader Review

'The snarky back and forth and tension was just incredible. I'm obsessed with these characters!' 5-star Reader Review

Release date: July 2, 2026

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

“I don’t think asking someone their favorite sex position on a first date is a bad idea.”

Sometimes, I need at least two shots before engaging in conversation with my friends. Especially if it’s with Wren and Kennedy, my best friends since high school. They enable each other, and if I wasn’t already having a terrible morning, I’d probably be engaging in their shenanigans too. And because I’ve been having a terrible morning every morning for the last month, I’ve had to get used to the fact that no matter how dismissive I pretend to be, it’s not going to stop either of them from prying.

“Ken, do you know how insane you sound?” I ask, rubbing my temples.

“I don’t think it’s insane,” Wren counters, shrugging as she fiddles with the whiteboard pen in her lap. I give her a pointed look, and she holds up her hands in defense. “I’m just saying, if you’re going to be so picky about who you date, you should get all the bad questions out on the first date.”

“I’m not picky,” I scoff.

“Right . . .” Kennedy rolls her eyes with a dramatic huff, throwing a bundle of brown curls over her shoulder. “Guys just need at least seven figures in their bank account before they can even think about being let into your paradise.”

I can’t help the grin that crawls up my face at their teasing.

No attachments or commitments makes my life a thousand times easier. It helps me avoid the look on someone’s face when they realize I’m nothing like they imagined. Or worse, I’m exactly what they want.

I don’t want to be anybody’s dream girl.

The thought of someone meeting me once and thinking I’m this incredible, outgoing socialite that runs around with Daddy’s credit card and will jump into bed with them just to feel something makes me nauseous.

But when you’re the only daughter of the CEO of a billion-dollar franchise, most people have already made their mind up about you. And, for some, dating someone like me would fit into some messed-up fantasy. Therefore, dating has never been a priority of mine, or something I like to entertain. Other than when I want to get a rise out of the girls by shutting down dates with perfectly eligible bachelors.

I raise my glass of lemonade toward Kennedy in a silent toast. “You might be right about one thing, Ken Doll.”

“Should I tell you another thing I’m right about?” I smile at her, knowing that I’m getting under her skin. “That nickname. It’s not going to happen. So, stop trying to make it happen.”

“Agree to disagree,” I say, shrugging. Wren’s constantly trying to keep the peace between us, so she just shakes her head, dropping her eyes back to her food. “Don’t you have practice today?”

Wren lets out a deep sigh, and I immediately wish I didn’t ask. I’m lucky enough to be best friends with the best figure skater at North University, and this girl has put herself through hell and back by competing every season in the championships. Even after a fall in freshman year, she turned it around last year and finally got the courage back that I missed seeing in my best friend’s eyes. She might not have made it all the way to the championships like she had hoped, but she fell back in love with skating again and finally realized she was doing it for herself, not anyone else.

“No, but I’m meeting Miles at the gym instead,” she says, and she thinks we don’t all notice the little smile that pulls at her lips at the mention of her boyfriend. Her blue eyes meet mine, and she rolls them when she catches me smiling back at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “I just like seeing you happy, Wrenny girl.”

“I love seeing me happy, too,” she replies.

“God knows you deserve it,” Kennedy murmurs, and we all hum in agreement. “Can we get back to the topic of conversation? I really don’t know how you’re expecting me to start dating when none of you will give me any solid advice.”

“We do give you advice,” I groan. “You just don’t like taking it. You can’t go around believing that the universe is in charge of everything, Ken. Not if you want to start dating seriously.”

“Fine.” She sighs, rolling her pretty brown eyes at me. “I need some guidance. Wren just exists, and hot hockey players fall at her feet, and you’re rich, beautiful, and funny. You could get anyone you wanted if you weren’t so allergic to real relationships.”

I snort. “You’re overthinking things, Ken. You don’t need to rush into something if you’re not ready.”

“That’s the problem. I am ready. I’ve been ready. I don’t know if I need to put a sign on my vagina that says, ‘Please fuck me,’ or what, because I’m running out of options.” Wren’s and my drink spit right out of our mouths and onto the coffee table as our laughter takes over us. No matter how much time I spend around this girl, I’ll never get used to her lack of filter. She rolls her eyes, picking up a napkin and dabbing at our droplets on the table.

“I’m sorry, Ken, but that was just ridiculous,” Wren says, shaking with silent laughter. “Seriously, though, the right person will find you. You’ve got enough going on this year with your classes and photography. You don’t need a stupid boy thrown into the mix.”

“I agree. Boys ruin everything,” I grumble. I just turned twenty last week, and I can’t think of anything worse than letting a boy ruin my schedule and my goals. I catch the sadness in Kennedy’s eyes, and I add, “There’s no harm in fooling around with people if you’re just looking for sex. Just be careful who you let into your wonderland.”

“I know,” she says, still a little glumly. “I just wish my sex life existed, and I didn’t have to overhear you both getting boned every night.”

“It was one time,” Wren and I say at the same time, flashing each other a smirk.

“Whatever. I just don’t want to be missing out. These are my prime sex-having years, and I’m getting nada,” Kennedy explains.

I feel for her. I do. But her heart is too good for anyone, and Wren and I have been trying to protect our little angel baby for years. And if anyone hurts her, I’m not too sure I’m ready to go to jail just yet.

Just as I’m about to launch into my ten-minute rant about how amazing and special she is, my phone buzzes on the table, flashing my mom’s contact.

My heart lurches in my throat, but I swallow back the anxiety, turning my phone face-down on the coffee table.

“Okay, now we really need to get back to the topic at hand. This was supposed to be a study session,” I say, tapping my pen against my notebook for extra emphasis, and Wren scrambles from the couch as if she’s just remembered the whole reason we’re having a meeting in our living room.

The apartment that we moved into the summer after freshman year has become our sanctuary. It’s part of a quiet complex not too far from campus, spacious bedrooms, a kitchen/living area of our dreams, and a slightly mangled bookshelf that’s pushed up against the wall behind the couch I’m sitting on. Most of our furniture has been thrifted and upcycled, so nothing really looks put-together, but that’s what I love about it. The coffee table is filled with purple candies and usually some sort of cereal dust that Kennedy trails in here after digging her hand into a cereal box and collapsing on the couch.

It smells like the burn of cookies that Wren stress-baked last night and the burritos we ordered to cheer her up. A lavender diffuser that we all silently agreed on not changing. The faint smell of weed. Fresh laundry. The distinct smell of secondhand book pages that have probably travelled more places than we have. It’s a weird combination and a little off-putting but this place is ours, and it’s perfect.

Wren returns to her position in front of The Whiteboard we’ve wheeled into the living room. Compared to the six-foot board, she’s not that much shorter than it, but she stands a little straighter anyway, pushing her blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Well, we were helping you study, but you definitely weren’t listening,” Wren argues.

I sigh heavily. “I am listening.”

“Really? Then what was the last thing I said?” I open my mouth, about to make a snarky remark about the literal last thing she said, but she pins me with a look. “Before all the sex position talk.”

“Something about numbers . . . ?”

Kennedy gives my arm a chaste slap as she stage-whispers, “Oh my God. Scarlett Voss has no idea what she’s talking about.”

“Now can you tell how badly I need this study session?” I groan out the words before I press the heels of my palms to my eyes.

Sticking my face into a pile of textbooks and overwhelming myself with stats and business plans is usually the only thing that can calm me down. It soothes my brain in a way nothing else can. But since the middle of last semester, my usual cure has become like something foreign to me.

My friends are clearly concerned by my lack of motivation to study, which is why Wren agreed to host an intervention—or, as she calls it, study session—to help me prepare for my fashion and business module this semester. Kennedy insisted she’d help too, but has been too busy fussing over the right snacks to be of much help.

Neither of them are majoring in business analytics like I am, but Wren’s convinced her skills from her English degree and Kennedy’s skills from communications will help.

“I’m sorry, okay?” I say quietly, lifting my head out of my hands. “Can you go through that last part one more time?”

Wren juts out her bottom lip, dropping the pen into the holder at the bottom of The Whiteboard with a sigh before sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front me.

Okay. I guess we’re giving up.

It’s official. I’m a lost cause.

I drop my head onto the back of the couch with a dramatic thud, hitting my head a couple more times to get the message across that I am absolutely fucked.

Kennedy shuffles closer to my side, dropping her head to my shoulder, her curly afro tickling my neck. I’d be pushing her away if she wasn’t the literal definition of a puppy, so I can’t help but snuggle a little closer into her side.

“Scarlett,” Kennedy says softly. She hesitates and though it’s only for a second, I can tell how badly she doesn’t want to say what she’s going to say next. “Maybe it’s time that you—”

“No, I’m not going to tell my professor or my parents,” I say, swallowing hard. “I’m failing a class, I’m not dying.”

“Don’t they mean the same thing to you?”

I shake my shoulder to bump Kennedy’s head, and she laughs. “Ken, you’re not helping.”

“Fine, then what will help? Scarlett Voss doesn’t quit, remember?”

“I said that when I was, like, thirteen. Why do you still remember that?”

“Because it was iconic,” Kennedy says seriously, and I roll my eyes. “I know it isn’t what you want to hear, but you can’t keep ignoring your parents forever.”

“Oh, I can, and I will,” I grumble.

It’s then that my phone decides to ring again, and this time I throw it across the room, watching it tumble into the kitchen.

I’ve hardly spoken to either of my parents since the semester started two weeks ago, and for a very good reason. No matter how hard I’ve tried to push them away after what happened this summer, it hasn’t stopped them from calling every day.

“They probably don’t even know what you’re mad about,” Wren offers, and I glare at her.

“Whose side are you on?” She holds up her hands in surrender and I fold my arms against my chest, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Besides, they’ve got to know,” I add, a little quieter.

Wren’s mouth tilts to the side. “Well, maybe you should spell it out to them. You know, just in case.”

I think I got that much covered when I stormed out my dad’s office three weeks ago when I thought I’d be receiving a paycheck for all the work I’ve done for the family business over the summer, just to receive a literal pat on the back. A simple thanks for doing all this unpaid work just because was all I got after working my ass off all summer.

I don’t even know why I’m surprised. My parents have always been . . . a lot.

Having high-profile parents hasn’t always worked out in my favor. I used to think it meant they would bail me out of trouble before the press got a whiff of it. Or they’d call in favors from celebrities to attend my birthday parties. But the reality of it is that my business has always become their business, and there’s nothing I can do to escape that.

On paper, they’re perfect—loving, supportive, kind. They just don’t . . . trust me, and I don’t know how I else I can prove to them that I’m worthy of some responsibility.

After my dad inherited Voss Couture back in the late ’70s, our family’s Italian-turned-global fashion brand has been the most important thing in all our lives. Our family represents so much more to me than just a name on a tag, and if my parents ever gave me the chance to design for Voss, I could show them just how much I care about our future as a family and a business.

I know I need to talk to them, but what would I even say?

Hey, family! I know I have given you absolutely no reason to trust me since I turned thirteen, but I would love it if you employed me!

The truth is, if they wanted me to be a part of Voss, I would’ve been already. My older brothers have been working for our family since they were teenagers and none of them has had to see a day of real work since. My eldest brother, Alex, is managing Voss from London, for fuck’s sake. But because I made one bad decision when I was a stupid teenager, my parents are dangling my dream job over my head like a carrot on a stick. And like the desperate youngest daughter I am, I’m falling right into their trap because they know I want it so badly.

Kennedy bumps her shoulder into mine, snapping me out of my daydream. “Look, Scar, I really think you should talk to them.” I see her worried expression. “Your grades will suffer if you don’t get out of your head about it.”

“I can’t get out of my head about it,” I groan. “This summer was . . . bad. I can’t let that happen again.”

Kennedy nods slowly. “It was still incredible work experience. You got to do something you loved.”

“I know, but without any recognition for it,” I fire back. I take in a steadying breath, reminding myself that I’ve got to stay calm about this. That’s the only way my parents will ever listen to me. “It’s exhausting doing so much for people that don’t even take me seriously.”

Kennedy huffs, twisting on the couch slightly to drop her feet into my lap. “I wish I had these problems. Being rich sounds so hard.”

Wren snorts and I flash them both a look. “I’m being serious!”

“So am I!” Kennedy laughs, before her expression turns serious again. “Scarlett, you need talk to them. Yell at them, even. Demand what else you need to do to prove that you’re not sixteen again. And then you can get out of this brain fog, crush all your exams, and be the academic weapon that you are.”

“I guess I do need to get my grades back up if I’m not going to be able to work for my parents,” I mumble, poking at Kennedy’s feet in my lap. “I hate when you’re right.”

“Really? I love it.” Kennedy giggles.

Wren clasps her hands together, grinning at the two of us. “Okay, now that you look a little less stressed, can we watch a movie?” she asks, lifting Kennedy’s legs from my lap so she can squeeze herself in between us on the couch. “Trying to teach myself whatever the hell that was, has fried my brain.”

She glares in the general direction of The Whiteboard, and we all burst into uncontrollable laughter.

As much as I hate to admit it, the girls are right. My grades are already suffering because of how out of it I’ve been, and I’m in junior year now, I can’t get off to a bad start. I didn’t even think that was something I was capable of. But trying to talk to my parents about something as important as this isn’t nearly as easy as it sounds.

He’s twenty-seven minutes late.

I’ve started to realize that no matter how much I try to tell myself that I have to accept the things I have no control over, I will still find a reason to be stressed, and panic, and think the sky is falling over every minor inconvenience.

I didn’t ask to be born like this. But when you have a dad like mine, these things start to bug you more and more each time.

I love my dad. I think he’s great. The smartest businessman I know.

But he is never on time.

He could be told the time and date of an event a million times, and he will always find some reason to be late. Like the launch event for the new summer line five years ago where he was an hour late because he took a nap. Or the time he picked me up from the airport three hours after my flight landed because he got caught up talking to an old friend.

Or, my personal favorite, when he almost missed my high-school graduation because he spent the night getting drunk with his business partners.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he missed my birth.

To everyone else, he’s charming Calahan Branson, the single dad who’s managed it all. To me, he’s the guy who can’t take two seconds out of his time to text his son to say he’s going to be late to the lunch we have at the same time every two weeks.

As a result of this, I’ve always made it my priority to be on time. Well, that and to avoid the crippling anxiety I feel about being late.

I adjust the sleeves of my suit when I see my dad in the corner of my eye, greeting everyone on his way in. Even still, I can’t help but admire him. His tailored suit and polished shoes scream success, and my own outfit mirrors his. We share the same blond hair, even though his is starting to gray a little. The same cheekbones and facial structure. The only thing that proves that my dad didn’t create me in a lab are the lined dimples I inherited from my mom.

Before my dad can even say hello, I lift my gaze to meet his, folding my arms against my chest. “You’re late.”

He grins. “Evan—”

“By twenty-seven minutes.” I check my watch as he slides off his blazer and hangs it over the chair beside him before sitting down. He’s still grinning. “How do you even manage it? Every time without fail. Your office is quite literally inside this building. Wear a watch. You sell millions of them.”

He’s laughing now, and it’s getting harder to be serious. I’m a little annoyed, but I’m not that pissed. I enjoy the back and forth too much. The slight panic in his face when he thinks I’m going to get up and leave.

He takes a gulp of the tea that’s probably cold by now, smiling all the same as he leans back in his chair. “You know, everyone else just goes with it when I’m late, but here I have my own son counting down the minutes.”

“Someone has to make you take accountability.”

Dad laughs deeply, taking up a cookie and chewing while he talks. “You’ve always been like this. Even when you were a kid.”

“What? Punctual?”

“No, strict with me,” he says, and I roll my eyes. “I’m your dad, Evan. Let me be the strict one.”

“I don’t think you could if you tried,” I reply, almost laughing at the idea.

Dad opens his laptop and his smile drops slightly. He relaxes just enough that I can tell we’re slipping into work territory. I pull out my own laptop and my reading glasses, checking over what I’ve been working on over the weekend.

We slip easily into a conversation about Branson&Co—our family’s high-end fashion brand. B&Co has been around for so long that I can’t imagine a world in which we didn’t exist. Our clothing is everywhere, not just advertised all over the world, but also on the backs of some of the most powerful individuals in the world. We’re a ‘standout brand’ in the fashion world, according to a popular article that was published last month, and getting to see how everything works behind the scenes is quite surreal.

People say don’t mix family and business, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Being able to get hands-on experience with one of the biggest fashion brands in the world in my junior year of college is a huge feat. I’m lucky to be a part of something so big, something so important to my family and my future.

We finish comparing notes on the sales numbers and finalizing details for the launch this week, before my dad moves on to something else. I organize some of my notes for my business classes this semester, carving out time to study and prepare my application for the internship I’ve been waiting for since I got into North University.

After a while of working in comfortable silence, my dad closes his laptop. I can feel his gaze on me without looking up, and I know he’s waiting for me to finish typing before he talks. I eventually close my laptop, meeting his eyes.

“I wanted to talk to you about something.”

The serious tone in his voice catches me slightly off guard. We’ve always had a pretty light relationship. We’ve had hard talks and conversations we wish we didn’t have to have, but they’ve always been necessary and come with some kind of warning. Whatever this is is . . . new. Unexpected.

I try to steer it into slightly safer waters. As safe as they can be, I guess.

I take off my glasses, using the cloth from my pocket to clean them. “If this is about Mom, I’d rather—”

“It’s not,” he says sternly and some of the tension in my chest eases. “But are things . . . okay?”

I clear my throat, nodding as I slide my glasses back on. “She’s been texting a little more, but that’s nothing new. I’m too busy to entertain whatever’s going on this time.”

“You’re too busy for your mother’s unconditional love?”

“Right now? Yes.”

My dad’s eyes soften. “She’s trying, Evan.”

“Yeah, it’s a little too late for that,” I mumble. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

I can tell my dad wants to say more, probably make more excuses for her, but he knows I don’t want to hear it. We go over this every time we have lunch, and I’m not in the mood for it this time.

My mom has never been a big part of my life. She left when I was a kid, and I’ve never really seen her as a mom. More like a distant aunt that you see during the holidays. She and my dad were never compatible as a couple, and definitely not as parents. Right when I needed her the most, someone to actually validate and acknowledge my feelings, she left.

After that, Dad and I took care of each other. We grew up together in that way. He was still pretty young, balancing the business, his own father passing and then he had me to deal with. I wasn’t an easy kid to raise, but Dad did his best. More than my mom ever has in the last twenty years.

Dad blinks himself back to the moment, clearing his throat. “This next quarter for B&Co is going to be crucial, and busy. Busier than it has been in years. Though we know our plans for the future of B&Co, it might push us out of the race with our competition.”

I nod quietly.

This isn’t exactly shocking news. B&Co have been relying on a sort of old-money, mid-century style of clothing that might not fit much into the modern world. Luxury brands are down at the minute, and B&Co are falling right into that trap. Even loyal customers aren’t spending their money on our luxury items; too worried about other expenses as inflation increases. We’re still fairly big with elite niche communities, but we’re not hitting targets as our competitors are, with the younger and modern market. There’s still a lot of work for us to do on that front. Work I’m willing to put in to help us get back on track.

I open my laptop immediately. “Do you want to go over a different strategy? I’m sure I can—”

“No, I’ll handle it.” My dad closes my laptop, shaking his head. “I’ll handle all of it.”

I pause, my gaze roaming from his hand on the top of my computer to his dark-green eyes. “What do you mean?”

He takes in a deep breath, running a shaky hand through his hair. My heart beats loud in my chest, thrashing against my ribs in an uncomfortable rhythm.

“I’m worried about you,” he s. . .