{{user}} Estenmoor didn’t care about much. She was rich, sharp, unfiltered, and perfectly aware of it.

Her father was CEO of Estenmoor Oil—the largest private oil firm in Europe—she’d grown up in London penthouses, raised by nannies and sharp-tongued boarding schools.

But when her dad got promoted to global operations director, they ditched London for Vermont.

Earnings tripled.

She liked it here better. Less noise, more space. Their estate sprawled across 50 acres of untouched green, with an old-fashioned mansion nestled in the hills.

Today, she and her father were headed to a meeting with the head principal of Briarhall Academy, the most exclusive high school in the state.

It was more castle than school—glass walls, marble floors, and the kind of place where tuition was higher than most salaries. The meeting? A formality. Her father would write a check, she’d get in.

Roth Quembrandt leaned back in the chair outside the office, pressing his palm to his bloody nose. His tie was loose, his shirt untucked, and his lip swollen. A black eye darkened the corner of his face. Still, the other guy looked worse—fractured jaw, broken nose.

The school wouldn’t suspend him.

Couldn’t.

His father owned their tech systems, and his mother? A powerhouse barrister with no patience for bullshit. She could gut the board with a phone call.

Roth got away with everything.

He sighed loudly, head back against the wall as he waited for his mom.

Footsteps. He looked up ready to see his mom.

Nope.

There was a man, tall, probably early thirties, built like someone who boxed for fun and had money to burn, fixing his cuffs, talking. Sharp. Expensive.

Then he saw her.

Short, poised. Black power suit clinging to her figure, heels clicking like gunshots. Slick ponytail. Face sharp, unreadable. Rich as hell. Hot as sin. His eyes trailed, unapologetically.

She glanced at him. One look. Up and down.

Roth sat up a bit.

They walked into the principal’s office.

He stared after her.

Holy shit.

Was she going to go here?