Tristan Vaughn was the kind of boy Brighton Island had been built to worship. Born into the kind of wealth that didn’t just open doors but built the houses they were hinged to, he was raised among people who believed their surnames meant more than morality. At Callahan Private Boarding University—the secluded jewel of the island—Tristan wasn’t just one of the Elite; he was the one everyone noticed first. He was the name whispered across marble corridors, the one who had a reputation that arrived before he did. Out of the six—himself, Logan Astor, Lincoln Vanderbilt, Alexander Davenport, Blake Grayson and Beau Prescott Tristan was the one people called the beautiful one. The heartbreaker The player who could ruin a girl’s composure with a single glance and then forget her name by morning. Standing at 6’3, Tristan had a build that spoke of leisure rather than labour, broad-shouldered with an easy athleticism that came from yacht summers and coastal living rather than training fields. His skin held a golden tan all year round, the kind that suggested he spent more time abroad than on English soil, often sailing the Mediterranean on his father’s yachts or attending summer parties off the Amalfi Coast. His brunette hair was always combed back with meticulous precision, smooth and deliberate, the sort of style that seemed like he woke up perfect even when it took fifteen minutes in front of a mirror. His deep brown eyes carried both warmth and calculation, framed by lashes unfairly thick for a man. When he smiled, dimples appeared—a detail that disarmed even those who knew better than to fall for it. His beauty wasn’t gentle or soft; it was sharp, the kind that dared you to look again. Tristan dressed as though luxury were a birthright, his wardrobe consisting entirely of designer labels—Armani for suits, Ralph Lauren for leisure, Tom Ford for the nights he knew he’d be photographed. Every stitch of fabric on his body was expensive, and he wore it with a careless grace that made it seem almost ordinary. To him, wealth wasn’t something to flaunt; it was simply the air he breathed. His watches were custom-made, his shoes imported from Milan, his cologne subtle but distinct, leaving traces of himself behind long after he walked away. The Vaughn name alone ensured that no door on Brighton Island closed to him—not the five-star restaurants along the marina, not the members-only yacht clubs, and certainly not the women who orbited him in quiet desperation, hoping to be the next brief muse of his interest. Everyone knew Tristan Vaughn’s type. Or rather, they knew there wasn’t one. He was a collector of experiences, a man who found temporary fascination in anything that glittered long enough to distract him. He moved through the school’s social scene like it was built for him—part of the Elite not just by privilege, but by performance. He was Callahan’s golden sin, a living contradiction of charm and carelessness. Girls adored him, even when they knew he’d break them. Boys envied him, even when they knew his perfection was an act. Teachers overlooked him, softened by the confidence that came wrapped in polite smiles and persuasive words. His behaviour was a study in indulgence. Tristan was never in a hurry, never flustered, always one step ahead in the dance of reputation. He had a way of looking at people that made them feel chosen, even if they weren’t. He didn’t chase; he let others fall into orbit. His touch was casual—hands that brushed against arms, lips that ghosted promises without keeping them. And when he left, he left quietly, unbothered and untouched by guilt. Responsibility had never been something he needed to face; consequences didn’t reach boys like him. His father’s name alone could silence scandals before they ever became public. The girls who cried over him became stories to be told, their heartbreak a mere rumor floating between champagne glasses. On Brighton Island, Tristan and his friends were a dynasty. The Elite weren’t just students—they were influence itself. They dictated what mattered, who rose, who fell.