Chapter 2
Sebastian
The Legacy House sits on the oldest part of Thornhill's campus, a three-story stone mansion that's housed the children of founding families for over a century. My great-great-grandfather lived in the east bedroom. My father lived in the same room. Now it's mine.
Legacy. It's not just a word here. It's a binding contract written in old money and older expectations.
I stand at the floor-to-ceiling window in my bedroom, watching students cross the quad below. From up here, they look like pieces on a chessboard. Pawns, mostly. A few knights. The occasional rook.
And somewhere out there, probably heading to her next shift, is the one piece that won't stay in her assigned square.
Isla Monroe.
My phone buzzes. A text in the Legacy Council group chat from Harrison: Meeting in 20. Gala final planning.
I don't respond. They'll wait for me. They always do.
I grab my coat, Italian wool, custom-fitted and head downstairs. The Legacy House is quiet this morning. Most of the residents are still sleeping off last night's party. I stepped out after an hour. Watching trust fund kids pretend their lives are hard gets old fast.
The Council meets in the Thornhill Room named after my family, naturally in the administrative building. When I arrive, they're already seated around the antique table. Five students from founding families, each carrying the weight of names that built this university.
Harrison Blackwood, old railroad money, currently dating his way through the sophomore class.
Cecilia Ashworth, Connecticut Ashworths, could buy a small country if she wanted.
Marcus Chen, tech dynasty, actually brilliant unlike the rest of us.
Vivienne Cross, banking empire, sharp enough to run it someday.
And me. Sebastian Thornhill. The name on half the buildings.
"Nice of you to join us," Vivienne says, not looking up from her tablet.
"You'd start without me?" I take my seat at the head of the table. Not because I chose it. Because it's expected.
"Never." Harrison grins. "We were just discussing the auction list. It's... interesting this year."
Cecilia slides a tablet across to me. "Financial Aid requires scholarship participation. Community engagement clause."
I scroll through the names, most I don't recognize. A few athletes, some drama students and there, three-quarters down the list: Isla Monroe, Junior, English Literature.
Something hot and complicated twists in my chest.
"Problem?" Marcus asks, watching me too carefully. He's the observant one.
"No." I hand the tablet back. "When did this get added to scholarship requirements?"
"This year. Dean Whitmore pushed it through. Something about 'breaking down social barriers' and 'community integration.'" Vivienne makes air quotes with perfect disdain. "Translation, better optics for the donors."
"How very progressive," I say dryly. "Forcing poor students to stand on a stage while rich kids bid on them. I'm sure that'll really break down barriers."
Harrison laughs. "Since when do you care about social justice?"
Since a girl with fire in her eyes told me I was nothing but my father's money and a heartless asshole.
Since I proved her right.
"I don't," I lie smoothly. "I care about the gala not turning into a PR nightmare. If this looks exploitative—"
"It is exploitative," Marcus cuts in. "But it's also mandatory for them, and we need the auction to hit our fundraising goal. So here we are."
"Who's bidding?" I ask casually.
Too casually. Vivienne's eyes narrow.
"Open bidding. Anyone can participate. We're expecting good numbers, Valentine's theme, social media coverage, the whole production." She pauses. "Why? You planning to bid on someone?"
"Maybe." I lean back in my chair. "If the right person comes up."
"The right person," Cecilia repeats slowly, "or the wrong one?"
They know. Of course they know. The Legacy Council isn't just about planning galas and maintaining traditions. It's about information. Currency. Power. And everyone at this table knows exactly what happened freshman year.
"I don't know what you're implying," I say.
"Sure you don't." Harrison's grin widens. "This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain scholarship student who told you to, how did she put it?—'go fuck yourself with your trust fund'?"
"She said’ my father's money’, not trust fund. And that I was a heartless asshole. Get the quote right if you're going to bring it up."
The table goes quiet.
"Jesus, Seb," Vivienne says finally. "It's been two years. You're still on this?"
Am I still on this? Yes. Obviously. Unhealthily. I've spent two years making Isla Monroe's life at Thornhill as difficult as possible without crossing lines that would get me reported. Two years of cutting comments and social sabotage and watching her refuse to break.
Two years of hating that I respect her for it.
Two years of hating that I can't stop watching her.
"I'm not 'on' anything," I say coolly. "I'm simply observing that having scholarship students in the auction adds an interesting dynamic."
"An interesting dynamic," Marcus repeats. "That's what we're calling it?"
"Do you have an opinion, Chen, or are you just going to repeat everything I say?"
"I have an opinion. I think you're playing with fire and I think you're going to get burned."
"Noted. Can we move on?"
We spend the next hour on logistics. Venue, catering, publicity. The auction format, each participant gets a brief introduction, then bidding starts. Winning bidders get a "date package.” Five dates over the two weeks leading to Valentine's Day, each documented on social media for publicity.
Five dates. Two weeks. Cameras and witnesses the entire time.
If I win Isla Monroe, I'll have two weeks to make her as miserable as she's makes me, or the thought that's been living in the back of my mind since I saw her name on that list, two weeks to prove to her, to myself, that I'm not what she thinks I am.
Two weeks where she can't walk away or avoid me.
The meeting ends. Everyone files out except Marcus, who lingers.
"Don't," I say before he can start.
"Don't what? Don't tell you this is a terrible idea? Don't remind you that she hates you for very good reasons?" He crosses his arms. "What's the endgame here, Seb?"
"There is no endgame. I'm attending a charity auction."
"You're plotting revenge on a girl who rejected you two years ago."
"She didn't just reject me. She humiliated me."
"Because she thought you were mocking her. Because your reputation preceded you." Marcus leans against the table. "You want to know what I think?"
"Not particularly."
"I think you've been obsessed with Isla Monroe since the day she called you out. I think you're angry because she's the only person on this campus who doesn't give a shit about your name and I think you're about to do something phenomenally stupid."
I meet his eyes, Marcus and I have been friends since elementary school, back when our families decided their dynasty heirs should be close. He's one of the few people who sees past the Thornhill name to the person underneath.
Which is precisely why his opinion is dangerous.
"Thank you for that psychological assessment," I say. "Are you done?"
"No. One more thing." He pushes off the table. "If you win her and you hurt her, really hurt her, you're going to have to live with that and I don't think you're as much of an asshole as you pretend to be."
He leaves before I can respond.
I sit alone in the Thornhill Room, surrounded by portraits of my ancestors. Serious men in old-fashioned clothes, all of them looking vaguely disappointed. The weight of expectation.
My phone buzzes. A text from my father: Board meeting next month. You're expected to attend. Time to start learning the business.
The business. Thornhill Industries. Real estate, investments, legacy upon legacy upon legacy. My future mapped out since before I was born.
I don't respond to that either.
Instead, I open my laptop and pull up a document I haven't looked at in weeks. A collection of poems I've been writing since high school. Pretentious, probably. Self-indulgent, definitely, but they're mine in a way nothing else in my life is.
The most recent one is dated three days ago, after I saw Isla in the library at midnight, exhausted and beautiful and so fucking stubborn.
She builds walls from pride and poverty Each shift another brick Each slight another layer I throw stones because I can't climb them Because she'd never let me through the gate
I close the laptop quickly, like someone might see.
My father would be horrified if he knew I wrote poetry. "Thornhills build empires, not verses," he told me once when he found my notebook in high school. I've been careful since then.
Careful to hide the parts of me that don't fit the mold.
Careful to be exactly what everyone expects, charming, cold, untouchable.
Careful to prove Isla Monroe right about me.
The auction is in six days.
I spend the next week in a strange state of anticipation, I refuse to examine too closely. Classes blur together. Legacy Council obligations. My father's increasingly insistent calls about "taking my place in the family business."
And through it all, I'm aware of Isla in a way that's becoming problematic.
I see her in the library Thursday night, shelving books with mechanical efficiency. She doesn't see me. I watch from behind a bookshelf like a stalker, and I'm aware how pathetic that is, but I can't seem to stop.
Friday, she's in our seminar. We're discussing Wuthering Heights, and Professor Hendrix asks about destructive love. Isla argues that Heathcliff's obsession destroys him. I argue that it makes him who he is, that some people are defined by their wounds.
She gives me a look that could cut glass.
"Not everything is about pain, Thornhill," she says. "Some of us are trying to heal."
The class moves on, but those words stick with me.
Some of us are trying to heal.
What am I trying to do?