AURORA
── ? ──
The invitation appears under my door on Thursday morning, slipped through the gap while I was in the shower.
Heavy cardstock. Embossed lettering in gold. The kind of paper that costs more than my monthly grocery budget back home.
I stare at the words, my wet hair dripping onto the expensive paper and making the ink bleed slightly at the edges.
Mandatory.
Of course it is.
Because everything at this godforsaken place is designed to remind scholarship students exactly where we stand. Making us attend their parties in our cheapest clothes while they parade around in designer gowns and tailored suits is just another way to reinforce the hierarchy.
I crumple the invitation and throw it in the trash.
My phone buzzes. I already know who it is before I look.
Unknown Number: You're attending tomorrow’s gala. Wear something appropriate. Don't embarrass yourself.
I delete the message without responding. Block the number. Again.
He'll just text from a different one tomorrow. He always does.
It's been one day since the incident in his study. That’s two days of showing up before 6 AM to bring him coffee and organize his files and clean his already-spotless desk while he watches me with those glacial, assessing eyes that strip away every defense I try to build.
Two days of forcing myself to stay professional, to keep my face neutral, to pretend that being in the same room as him doesn't make my skin crawl and my pulse race and my hands shake with barely suppressed rage.
Two days of him finding new ways to invade my space.
Standing too close when I hand him documents.
Leaning over my shoulder to "check my work" even though we both know the work is flawless.
Brushing his fingers against mine when I pass him his coffee, the contact so brief I can't call him on it but deliberate enough that we both know exactly what he's doing.
He hasn't touched me like he did that first day. Hasn't pulled me onto his lap or pressed his face against my neck or whispered filthy threats against my skin.
He doesn't need to.
The threat is always there. Hovering. Waiting.
I can feel it in the way he looks at me. In the way his eyes track every movement I make, cataloging, assessing, planning. In the silence that stretches between us when I'm working, heavy with unspoken things that make my stomach twist.
I've been researching. Every spare moment I'm not in class or working for him or picking up shifts at the off-campus diner, I'm digging into Laurent Holdings, trying to find something—anything—I can use against him.
So far, I've found nothing.
Laurent Holdings is clean. Suspiciously clean. Every business dealing documented and legal, every contract airtight, every transaction traceable and legitimate. His family's empire is built on old money turned modern through careful investment and strategic acquisitions, all of it above board.
Which means either they're genuinely clean, or they're very, very good at hiding their dirt.
I'm betting on the latter.
Everyone has secrets. Everyone has something they don't want exposed. I just need to find Evander's before he completely destroys what's left of my life.
My phone buzzes again.
Iris: got the gala invitation
Me: yeah
Iris: we going?
I hesitate. My first instinct is to say no, to refuse on principle, to skip the party and deal with whatever consequences Evander decides to inflict.
But I can't. Not when Liam's safety is the leverage Evander's holding over my head. Not when one wrong move could send my father to prison and my brother into foster care.
Me: yeah. we're going
Iris: fuck
Me: yeah
Iris: at least we'll suffer together
I almost smile. Almost.
Tomorrow comes too quickly.
I don't own anything that qualifies as "formal attire.
" The closest thing I have is a simple navy dress I bought at a thrift store two years ago for my high school graduation—long sleeves, modest neckline, hem that falls to mid-calf.
It's plain. Unremarkable. Exactly the kind of thing that will make me invisible in a room full of designer gowns and expensive jewelry.
Perfect.
I skip makeup. Pull my hair back in a low ponytail. Wear the same worn flats I wear to class because I don't own heels and wouldn't wear them if I did.
When I look in the mirror, I see exactly what I intended: a scholarship student who's here because she has to be, not because she wants to be. Someone who refuses to play their game, who won't dress up and pretend to belong.
Iris knocks on my door at 7:45. She's wearing something similar—a simple black dress, no jewelry, flat shoes. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, and she's not wearing makeup either.
We look at each other and nod. No words needed.
The gala is being held in the Grand Hall—the same cathedral-sized room where they held the mandatory orientation assembly.
But tonight it's been transformed. Chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceiling cast warm golden light across the space.
Round tables covered in white linen fill the floor, each one set with expensive china and crystal glasses.
A string quartet plays classical music from a raised platform in the corner.
It looks like something out of a movie. Beautiful. Elegant. Completely fake.
The Elite are already here, clustered in groups near the bar and scattered across the tables.
The girls are wearing gowns that probably cost more than my entire year's tuition—silk and satin in jewel tones, plunging necklines, exposed backs, designer heels that add six inches to their height.
The guys are in tailored suits and ties, perfectly styled hair, expensive watches catching the light.
They look like they were born for this. Like they belong here.
We don't.
Iris and I make our way to one of the back tables—as far from the center of attention as we can get. Skye and Hazel are already there, both wearing similarly simple dresses, both looking as uncomfortable as we feel.
"This is hell," Skye mutters as we sit down. "Actual, literal hell."
"Could be worse," Hazel says quietly.
"How?"
"They could make us give speeches."
Skye groans and drops her head onto the table.
I don't say anything. Just scan the room, looking for him.
I find him almost immediately.
Evander is standing near the bar with Tristan and Landon, wearing an all-black suit that fits him like it was tailored specifically for his body—which it probably was.
His hair is styled but still slightly messy, like he ran his hands through it once and left it. No tie. Top button of his shirt undone.
He looks... devastating.
I hate that I notice. Hate that my eyes are drawn to him even when I'm actively trying not to look.
Hate that some traitorous part of my brain is cataloging the way the suit hugs his shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the way he holds himself with that casual confidence that comes from never doubting you're the most powerful person in any room.
He's talking to Landon, but his eyes are scanning the crowd. Looking for something.
Looking for me.
Our eyes meet across the room.
The distance between us might as well not exist. I can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing, pressing down on me, holding me in place.
His expression doesn't change. But I see his jaw tighten slightly. See the way his hand clenches around his glass.
He's angry.
Good.
I'm the first to look away, turning my attention back to my friends and pretending I didn't just feel my pulse spike from a single look across a crowded room.
"He's staring at you," Iris murmurs beside me.
"I know."
"Has been since we walked in."
"I know."
"Aurora—"
"I don't want to talk about it."
She goes quiet. Respects the boundary I just drew.
The evening drags on. Dinner is served—multiple courses of food I can't identify, prepared by chefs who probably went to culinary school in Paris. I pick at it, moving things around my plate without really eating.
Around us, the Elite are getting progressively drunker. Louder. The classical music has been replaced by something with a heavier beat, and some of them have started dancing—grinding against each other in ways that would get them kicked out of any normal school event.
"This is obscene," Hazel whispers, her cheeks flushed as she watches an Elite couple practically having sex on the dance floor.
"This is Ardencrest," Skye corrects. "No rules for rich people."
I'm about to respond when I feel it.
That prickle on the back of my neck. The awareness that someone is approaching.
I turn.
And Lucius Whitcroft is standing right there, green eyes bright with mischief, a drink in each hand and a smile that's pure trouble.
"Ladies," he says, his voice smooth and warm. "You all look absolutely miserable. I thought I'd come rescue you."
Iris looks at him with flat suspicion. "We don't need rescuing."
"Are you sure?" He gestures to the dance floor with one of the drinks. "Because you're sitting here like you're at a funeral while everyone else is having the time of their lives. That seems like a situation that requires intervention."
"We're fine," I say.
His eyes lock onto mine. And something shifts in his expression—still playful, still charming, but with an edge underneath that makes my stomach twist.
"Aurora Lane," he says, like he's tasting my name. "The girl who made Evander Laurent lose his composure in the courtyard. I've been wanting to meet you properly."
He holds out one of the drinks. "Champagne. Don't worry, I didn't poison it. That would be terribly boring."
I don't take it. "I don't drink."
"Smart girl." He sets the glass on the table anyway. "But you should know that sitting here like a wallflower is only going to make you more of a target. The Elite can smell fear."
"I'm not afraid."
"No," he agrees, tilting his head as he studies me. "You're not. That's what makes you interesting."