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I slung my backpack over my shoulder and stared up at the Business and Economics building. Glass. Steel. Boring. Exactly what I needed.
“Okay,” I muttered to myself, adjusting my strap. “In and out. Learn, graduate, get a job with dental.”
My major was my sanctuary. It was the opposite of engines and pit walls and adrenaline. Accounting with a finance concentration. Numbers behaved if you treated them right. They didn't spin out because someone got cocky during a tight turn, and they didn't require a PR team to clean up their messes.
The lobby gleamed. Sleek floors, high ceilings, and art that probably meant something deep about market disruption. Students glided past in designer sneakers and luxury tote bags, all effortless confidence and hair that cost more than my last schools tuition.
I checked the time. Ten minutes before my first class:Principles of Microeconomics. Big intro lecture. Required.
Safe, I told myself. Anonymous.
The lecture hall was already half full when I slipped inside. I chose a seat near the middle and set my notebook down, my pens lined up like tiny soldiers.
Then I looked up.
She was three rows ahead, laughing at something a girl next to her said. Messy dark hair, now tamed into glossy waves. Familiar cheekbones. The same cupid’s bow mouth I’d seen trying to suck the soul out of Dominic Valerio’s face at the pool and—if I had to guess on a wilder note—the one I had to thank for some of the rhythmic headboard sounds my first night.
She looked different in the daylight. More… curated. Instead of the disheveled mess from before, she was now draped in a pleated navy tennis skirt that shouted money and a crisp, cable-knit sweater tossed over her shoulders. Her gold jewelry didn't just shine; it looked heavy, the kind of heirlooms passed down by grandmothers who owned vineyards. She looked like she spent her weekends on a yacht, even if the desperate way she’d clutched her heels the other day suggested otherwise.
As if she sensed my stare, she turned.
Her eyes widened for the smallest fraction of a second. Recognition punched between us, quick and sharp. She probably didn't remember me from the pool—she’d been too busy trying to swallow Dominic’s lower lip to notice the person behind the glass—but she definitely remembered our encounter an hour later.
I’d headed into the main house’s kitchen looking for someone to direct me where to drop off discarded packing boxes when I practically walked into her in the hallway. Dominic was nowhere in sight, and she’d been preening in a gilded mirror, adjusting her robe with the territorial air of someone who thought she was moving in. She’d looked at me then the same way she was looking at me now: like I was a stray hair she needed to flick off her designer sweater. I’d just stepped aside and let her pass, too tired to point out that she’d missed a smudge of mascara.
Now, in the light of the lecture hall, her expression cooled, the carefully perfected version of herself returning instantly. The corners of her mouth curled into something nasty.
Oh. You.
She gave me a slow once-over, her eyes lingering on my scuffed sneakers and the fact that my sweater definitely came from a sale bin and not a private shopper. She didn't just see a stranger; she saw a glitch in the luxury matrix.
She whispered something to her friend, and they both smirked, their eyes flicking back to me like I was a particularly uninteresting lab specimen.
Perfect. A campus full of strangers and I was already on the shit-list of the one who spent a night trying to audition for the role of Mrs. Valerio. I ignored the twist in my gut and focused on my notebook. I wasn't here to play pretend niceties with Dominic’s weekend entertainment. I was here to survive.
I inhaled slowly and forced my gaze to the front of the room. I didn't care. I was here for a degree I’d picked because "following your heart" was just a romantic way of saying "I want to be broke." This university was an opportunity that usually only knocked for people with six-figure inheritances. For me, it had kicked down the door and dragged me through.
Dad was getting his second chance at a legacy; I was getting mine at a life that didn't involve a helmet.
Professor Adler, a man in a fitted blazer with a well-polished bald head, strode to the front and clapped his hands. The low hum of chatter died instantly.
“Good morning. Welcome to Principles of Microeconomics. Yes, there will be math. No, you cannot drop this if you want to graduate on time.”
I flipped open my notebook, a small, genuine sense of peace finally settling over me. This was it. Just me, a clean page, and the predictable rhythm of a lecture.
Adler launched into the basics of incentive theory, the chalk squeaking against the board in a way that felt like a lullaby to my frayed nerves.
“For example, if someone is offered a significant reward, their behavior shifts to maximize that benefit. In a vacuum, human behavior is dictated by what we stand to gain. People will always—”
A hand shot up.
“Yes?” Adler asked, pointing his chalk. “Your name?”
“Sienna Hart,” she said—the brunette from the other day—her voice crisp and carrying, projecting to the back of the room like she was giving an acceptance speech. “And isn’t that a little… simplistic, Professor? People with actual resources don’t operate on the same scarcity model as everyone else. The rules of basic incentive don't apply when you’re already at the top.”
Adler nodded thoughtfully. “True. Wealth can shift priorities. But incentives still matter, Sienna.”
“I disagree,” she said, and I could practically feel her self-importance expanding to fill the room. “Some people don’t need incentives. They’ve already won. They don't have to scramble for scraps like the… scholarship cases who are just happy to be in the room.”
