The friend group was exactly where Elias always stationed them—prime real estate near the courtyard arches, where afternoon light caught their polished shoes and made them look like a magazine spread. Four of them, all sharp jawlines and easy laughter, their blazers draped with the careless confidence of boys who'd never had to try. Elias in the center, silver cross catching the sun, one hand in his pocket, laughing at something one of his friends said.
Marceline watched from the corridor's edge for three full seconds. Catalogued the lineup. Alexander Chen—old money, his family in real estate, known for the speed of his Porsche and the rotation of girlfriends he cycled through like seasonal tires. Julian Martinez—teeth too white, smile too wide, his father some senator or diplomat or something equally useless. Marcus Webb—captain of the swim team, brain smoother than his chest, kept around for the aesthetic. And Elias. The center. The one who held the frame together.
She stepped out of the shadow and walked toward them. Her boots echoed against the marble. Not loud. Just present. The kind of sound that made people look up without knowing why.
Julian noticed her first. His smile flickered—recognition, then confusion, then the reflexive politeness rich boys wore when they didn't know what box to put someone in. "Can we help you?"
She didn't look at him. Her eyes stayed on Elias. "I need to talk to you."
The group went still. It was subtle—the way conversations pause when someone unexpected enters, the way postures shift toward protective. Marcus glanced at Elias. Alexander raised an eyebrow. Julian opened his mouth, closed it.
Elias's gaze moved over her like he was reading a headline. Cool. Unhurried. A beat of silence stretched between them, elastic and charged. "Now?"
"Now."
He held her stare for a moment longer, then shrugged—a small, controlled motion—and turned to his friends. "Give me a minute."
Julian looked like he wanted to protest. Alexander just nodded, already pulling out his phone. Marcus shrugged. The group parted, and Elias stepped past them, gesturing for Marceline to follow with a tilt of his head that was almost polite.
She followed him through the courtyard, past the fountain where freshmen were pretending to study, past the senior bench where someone was definitely vaping behind a textbook. He didn't look back. Just walked, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, like he had nowhere better to be and all the time in the world to get there.
He stopped at the edge of the old science wing—the one they'd closed after the mold issue last year, doors locked, windows dark. A blind spot in the school's sightlines. He leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and waited.
Marceline stopped a few feet from him. Close enough that the air between them felt claimed, not casual. She could smell his cologne—something clean, expensive, undercut by the faint metallic edge of nicotine.
"You have a weird way of finding me in abandoned spaces," he said. His tone was light, almost amused. His eyes weren't.
"I want to be your plus one to the Charity Gala this Saturday."
Something flickered across his face. Surprise, quickly masked. He tilted his head, the silver cross swinging. "Charity Gala? Out of school? The one held at the Ashford Hotel?" A pause. "What game are you playing, Vance?"
She adjusted her glasses. Pushed them up the bridge of her nose—a gesture she'd perfected, one that made her look thoughtful rather than nervous. "No game. I need access."
"To what? Champagne and small talk?"
"To the people who attend. The conversations that happen in corners. The deals that get made when everyone's three glasses in and thinks no one's watching." She let the words settle. "Your parents will be there. Your father sits on the board of three foundations. Half the city's elite will be in that room. That's not a party—that's a hunting ground."
Elias's jaw tightened. Barely. She caught it. "You want to use my family's event to dig up dirt on my family's associates."
"I want access. What I do with it is my business."
A laugh. Short, flat, nothing warm about it. "You think I'd let you anywhere near that? You think I trust you?"
"No." She stepped closer. One step, then another. Close enough to see the slight unevenness of his pupils—one just a shade larger than the other. "But I think you'll say yes anyway."
His jaw tightened. The silver cross caught light as he shifted, rolling his shoulders back—barely perceptible, but she caught it. That tell. The one he didn't know she'd catalogued.
"You're threatening me." Not a question. His voice had dropped, stripped of the pleasant veneer he wore in hallways. This was the voice from the abandoned wing. The real one.
"I'm negotiating." She adjusted her glasses, pushing them up the bridge of her nose. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" He took a step forward. Now they were close enough that she could smell him—cedar and something sharper, the ghost of nicotine clinging to his collar. "Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you're holding a photo hostage and demanding I take you somewhere I don't want you to be."
"I don't want to be there either." She held his gaze. Cool. Steady. "But I need to be."
The silence stretched. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed. Footsteps approached, then faded in the opposite direction. Neither of them moved.
"You're a nobody." He said it flatly, without cruelty—just fact. "You show up at the Ashford Family Foundation Charity Gala, people will ask questions. My parents will ask questions."
"Then tell them I'm your date."
Elias laughed. A short, hollow sound that didn't reach his cool-toned eyes. "My date. Right. And what exactly do you think happens at these things? It's not a school dance with punch and streamers. There are cameras. Reporters. My father's business partners."
"I know what a gala is." Marceline adjusted her glasses, the wire frames catching the dim light filtering through the grime-caked window. "I've done my research."
"Research." He said it like the word tasted wrong. "You've researched the Ashford Family Foundation Charity Gala. Of course you have." He ran a hand through his silvery-white hair, the silver cross earring catching the light. "Let me guess. You want access to the guest list. The donation records. Maybe snap a few photos of daddy's friends with their mistresses."
"Mistresses. Embezzlement. Off-the-record donations with strings attached." She ticked them off on her fingers, each one landing like a small grenade. "All of it. But I'm not here for your father's scandals, Elias. I'm here to learn."
"Learn." He let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. "You want to use me as a hall pass into a world you've been circling with that little notebook of yours. That's what this is."
"Is that a problem?"
He turned away from her, fingers pressing against the bridge of his nose. The posture was controlled — measured — but she caught it. The slight tremor in his hand. The way his shoulders drew up just a fraction. His tells were subtle, but she'd been cataloguing them since the photo.
He dropped his hand. Turned back to face her. The mask was back in place—pleasant, polite, the boy next door with nothing to hide. But his eyes were flat. "I already have a date. I'm not taking you."
Marceline didn't blink. "Josephina Dumont. Brown hair, brown eyes, perpetually bored expression. Honors Literature, sits two rows behind you. She's your plus one for the past nine events in a row. She's one of your friend's sisters. You don't like her. Neither does she like you. You only take her because she's arm candy and your parents approve of her smile."
His head snapped toward her. He blinked. Once. Twice. The composure cracked—just a hairline fracture, visible only because she knew where to look. "Are you crazy?"
"I won't be any trouble. You won't even know I'm there." She kept her voice even. Measured. The same tone she used when interviewing sources who didn't know they were being interviewed. "I'll stand in a corner. I'll observe. I'll be invisible."
"You're unbelievable." He ran his hand through his hair, the silver cross catching the dim light. His jaw worked—she could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin. "Fine."
The word landed like a stone. She felt something loosen in her chest.
"Alright." He said it louder, like he was convincing himself. "Dress in something nice. I'll send you whatever information you need—time, location, guest list, whatever. And we'll go together. But for god's sake, don't do anything stupid."
He was already stepping past her. Shoulders tight. Hands shoved in his pockets. He didn't look back.
Marceline let him go. Watched the straight line of his back disappear around the corner, the echo of his footsteps fading into the hum of the school's ventilation system.
She rolled her eyes. But she was smiling.
She knew every single thing about every single person in this building. Every secret. Every shame. Every carefully constructed lie. And it was finally paying off.
Because fuck—she really needed to step out into the real world. Out of this fishbowl of trust funds and reputations. Out of the library. Out of the shadows.
And her one-way ticket was a hot, handsome golden boy who wanted nothing to do with her.
A win.
She adjusted her glasses, pushed them up the bridge of her nose, and turned toward the main building. She had a dress code to research. And a gala to prepare for.