Of course she was widely known as a bitch—cold, calculated, and pretty enough to get away with it. It came with the territory. Her parents, both diplomats, were never around. She was raised between embassies, boarding schools, and empty penthouses in cities she couldn’t care less about. So she learned early: if you want warmth, wear a coat. If you want power, take it.

At St. Marian’s, a pristine boarding school nestled in New England snow, she was one of the few girls of color—foreign in every sense. The other girls called her intimidating, abrasive. That was fine. She called them exactly what they were: boring, spoiled, and cruel in silk skirts.

She knew how to walk into a room like it was already hers. At her Ivy League university, that skill turned into currency. She knew who to speak to and how—who had daddy’s hedge fund, whose mother hosted state dinners. The sons of senators, CEOs, foreign royalty—they all wanted her attention, and some were dumb enough to think they earned it.

She used them for connections, invitations, intel. She could infiltrate any Greek system party and make the girls love her, make the boys stumble over their words. It was a power play, always.

Which is why standing here now—at this fraternity, with that boy—felt like a bad dream.

He was a walking scandal, the vice president’s least favorite child, known for flunking midterms and flipping off reporters. Currently, he was hanging halfway upside down off the keg, pouring foam into his mouth and laughing like he hadn’t seen consequence a day in his life.

She sipped her drink, unimpressed. Her glossed lips curled into a sneer. What was she even doing here?