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The mandatory Elite orientation assembly is held in the grand hall—a cathedral-sized room with vaulted ceilings, stained glass windows, and rows of polished wooden benches that look like church pews.

It's beautiful in the way a mausoleum is beautiful.

Cold. Impressive. Built to remind you how small you are.

I'm sitting in the back row with Iris, as far from the front as we can get without actually leaving the building. Around us, scholarship students fill the remaining seats—Ghost Tier, as I've heard people call us. Not to our faces. Never to our faces. But we know.

The Elite are seated at the front. Blazers pressed, posture perfect, expressions ranging from bored to vaguely amused. Like this assembly is a formality they're tolerating rather than something they actually need to attend.

I scan the front rows, looking for him.

It doesn't take long.

Evander Laurent is sitting three rows from the stage, center seat. Dark blazer, white shirt, tie perfectly knotted. His posture is relaxed—one arm draped over the back of the bench, legs crossed at the ankle—but there's something about the way he's sitting that feels deliberate. Controlled.

Like even his stillness is a calculated choice.

Tristan Virelle is beside him, leaning back with his arms crossed, eyes half-closed like he's barely paying attention. Lucius Whitcroft is on Evander's other side, whispering something to a blonde girl next to him who keeps laughing too loud. Landon Ashford is one row ahead, sitting alone, hands folded neatly in his lap, looking like he's genuinely interested in whatever the dean is about to say.

I look away before any of them notice me staring.

"This is bullshit," Iris mutters beside me. "Why the fuck do we have to be here?"

"Because they want to remind us where we stand," I say quietly.

"Yeah. At the bottom."

I don't disagree.

The dean steps up to the podium—a tall, silver-haired man in an expensive suit—and the room goes silent immediately. Not because anyone respects him. Because that's what you do when someone with power speaks.

You shut up and listen.

"Good morning," he begins, voice smooth and practiced. "Welcome to Ardencrest University. For those of you new to our institution, let me be the first to say: you are now part of a legacy that spans centuries. A tradition of excellence, leadership, and distinction."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

He goes on for another ten minutes, talking about the university's history, its values, its commitment to "fostering the leaders of tomorrow." Every word sounds rehearsed. Every sentence carefully crafted to sound inspiring without actually saying anything meaningful.

And then he gets to the part that matters.

"As many of you know, Ardencrest operates on a tiered system designed to reflect the diverse backgrounds of our student body. The Elite Tier represents our legacy families and scholarship-funded leaders. The Inner Circle represents our high-achieving students from established families. And the Scholarship Tier—our Ghost Tier—represents those who have earned their place here through academic merit alone."

The way he says it makes it sound noble.

Like we should be grateful.

"Each tier has its own responsibilities, privileges, and expectations. Elite Tier students are expected to uphold the university's image and legacy. Inner Circle students are expected to support and collaborate with the Elite. And Ghost Tier students..."

He pauses.

Looks directly at the back rows.

At us.

"...are expected to remember that your place here is a gift. An opportunity. One that can be revoked if you fail to meet the standards we have set."

My jaw tightens.

Iris's hand finds mine under the bench. Squeezes once.

I squeeze back.

The dean continues, outlining the rules. Scholarship students are not permitted in certain campus buildings after 8 PM. We cannot use the Elite dining hall. We cannot park in the main lot, even if we have cars—which none of us do. We are encouraged to "maintain a respectful distance" from Elite students unless directly engaged.

Translation: know your place and stay there.

By the time he's finished, my hands are clenched so tight my nails are digging into my palms.

"Thank you for your attention," the dean says, smiling like he's just delivered good news. "Dismissed."

The room erupts into noise as people stand, gather their things, start filing toward the exits.

I don't move.

Iris nudges me. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

I nod. Stand. Sling my bag over my shoulder.

And that's when I feel it.

The weight of someone's gaze.

I turn.

And he's looking right at me.

Evander Laurent.

Still seated. Still perfectly composed. But his eyes are locked on mine, sharp and focused, like I'm the only person in the room.

My stomach twists.

I force myself to look away. Follow Iris out of the hall, into the crowded corridor beyond.

But I can still feel it.

That gaze.

Following me.

The rest of the day is a blur of classes and navigation. Figuring out where everything is. Trying not to get lost in the maze of stone hallways and arched doorways. Avoiding eye contact with anyone wearing a blazer.

But no matter where I go, I feel him.

Watching.

I see him in the library, sitting at a table near the window, laptop open. He doesn't look up when I walk past. But I know he knows I'm there.

I see him in the courtyard, leaning against the fountain with Tristan and Lucius, talking quietly. His eyes flick to me for half a second before he looks away.

I see him leaving the main academic building as I'm walking in. We pass within five feet of each other. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't acknowledge me.

But the air between us feels charged. Heavy.

Like there's something waiting to happen.

By the time the day ends, I'm exhausted.

Not from the classes. From the constant awareness. The feeling of being observed. Tracked.

Hunted.

I head back to my dorm, drop my bag on the bed, and sit down heavily.

My phone buzzes.

Liam: how was your day

I stare at the message for a long moment.

How was my day?

Isolating. Humiliating. Suffocating.

Me: good. how was yours

Liam: good. mrs c made cookies

Me: save me one

Liam: okay

Liam: love you

Me: love you too

I set the phone down and press my palms against my eyes.

I need money.

Liam's school fees are due in three weeks. I've been saving for months, but it's not enough. Not even close. I was counting on getting a campus job to cover the rest.

I grab my laptop, pull up the university's employment portal, and start filling out applications.

Library assistant. Dining hall staff. Administrative support. I apply for everything.

By the time I'm done, it's almost 9 PM.

I close the laptop, lie back on the bed, and stare at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, I'll go to the financial aid office. Talk to someone in person. Make sure they know I'm serious.

I can do this.

I have to.

The financial aid office is tucked into the basement of the administration building—a narrow hallway with flickering fluorescent lights and peeling linoleum floors. The kind of place that makes it very clear where the university's priorities lie.

Not here.

I find the right door—STUDENT EMPLOYMENT SERVICES—and push it open.

The woman behind the desk doesn't look up. She's typing on an ancient desktop computer, fingers moving quickly over the keys, eyes fixed on the screen.

I wait.

She keeps typing.

I clear my throat. "Excuse me."

She glances up. Her expression is flat. Uninterested. "Name."

"Aurora Lane."

She turns back to the computer. Types something. Waits.

Frowns.

"There's a problem with your profile," she says.

My stomach sinks. "What kind of problem?"

"It's locked."

"Locked?"

"Yes." She doesn't elaborate.

"What does that mean?"

"It means you can't apply for campus employment."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. The system doesn't say." She looks at me like this conversation is already over. "You'll need to contact IT."

"Can you contact them for me?"

"No."

I stare at her. "No?"

"No. I don't have access to unlock profiles. That's an IT issue."

My jaw tightens. "Where's the IT office?"

"Third floor. Main building. But they're closed today."

"When do they open?"

"Monday."

It's Wednesday.

I take a slow breath. "So I just have to wait."

"Yes."

"And in the meantime, I can't apply for jobs."

"Correct."

"Even though all the jobs are posted as available."

She gives me a look that says she's done with this conversation. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

No. There isn't.

Because this isn't a technical issue.

This is deliberate.

I know exactly who locked my profile.

I turn and walk out of the office without another word.

My hands are shaking.

Not from fear. From anger.

I make it halfway down the hallway before I have to stop. Lean against the wall. Press my palms flat against the cold stone and breathe.

He didn't just notice me.

He's hunting me.

Cutting off all my exits so I have nowhere else to run.

I don't know how he did it. Don't know how he got access to the employment system. But I know it was him.

Evander Laurent.

The Crown Prince.

The untouchable.

I push off the wall and keep walking.

Out of the building. Across the courtyard. Past students in their perfect uniforms, laughing and talking like they don't have a care in the world.

I stop in the center of the courtyard and look up.

The penthouse suites are at the top of the tallest building on campus—sleek, modern, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook everything. I've heard about them. Elite Tier only. Reserved for legacy students whose families donate enough to buy their children private kingdoms.

And I know he's up there.

Watching.

I can feel it.

The same way I've felt it all day.

That suffocating presence in the back of my mind, crawling under my skin, making it impossible to forget that I'm being observed. Cataloged. Controlled.

I stare at those windows—dark and reflective, giving nothing away—and I feel something cold and sharp settle in my chest.

Fuck this.

Fuck him.

I didn't survive my father's fists and my mother's death and four years of working myself to the bone just to be some rich asshole's plaything.

I whisper it. Quiet enough that no one else can hear.

But loud enough that I hear it.

"You want a war, Laurent?"

I take a breath.

"Bring it."

And then I turn and walk away.

Back to my dorm. Back to my small, cold room with its bare walls and narrow window.

I sit down at my desk. Pull out my phone.

There has to be another way.

Off-campus jobs. Freelance work. Something.

I'm not going to let him win.

I'm not going to let him trap me.

And if he thinks I'm going to break just because he locked a fucking employment profile?

He doesn't know me at all.

I open my laptop. Start searching.

And I don't stop until I find something.

A listing for a weekend position at a diner twenty minutes off campus. Early morning shifts. Cash tips. No background check required.

It's not much.

But it's something.

I send the application.

And then I sit back and wait.

My phone buzzes.

Iris: you ok

I hesitate.

Then I type back.

Me: yeah. just tired

Iris: liar

I almost smile.

Me: ill tell you later. promise

Iris: you better

I set the phone down.

Outside, the sky is turning dark. The campus lights flicker on, casting long shadows across the stone.

And somewhere up there, in his perfect penthouse with his perfect view, Evander Laurent is probably watching.

Probably thinking he's won.

But he hasn't.

Not yet.

I stand. Walk to the window. Look out over the courtyard.

And I make myself a promise.

He wants to play games?

Fine.

But he's going to learn very quickly that I don't play by anyone's rules but my own.

And I sure as hell don't lose.

I close the curtains.

Sit back down at my desk.

And I get to work.

Because if there's one thing I've learned in my life, it's this:

You don't survive by hoping someone will save you.

You survive by saving yourself.

And that's exactly what I'm going to do.