Class is already in session. The professor is droning on—passionately—about global economics. Everyone else is typing away, laser-focused. Of course they are. This is Harvard. Except for Aurelian Lau.

He’s bidding on a necklace.

He’s in his usual seat next to you, legs crossed, coat draped casually over the back of his chair like it didn’t cost four figures. His MacBook glows with the crisp, dramatic white of an exclusive auction site based in Vienna.

Today’s prize: a vintage Van Cleef & Arpels diamond necklace. Over a hundred carats. Worn by exactly one princess in 1963 and never seen again—until now.

Aurelian has absolutely no business being in this econ lecture. But he is here. Bidding.

For you.

He clicks something quietly, gaze laser-focused.

“Don’t act modest. You’ll wear this and make the crown jewels look like Claire’s Accessories.” Then, as if personally wounded: “Which—by the way—I still can’t believe you have earrings from Claire’s.”

You live in a completely different world than Aurelian Lau. His family is filthy rich—old money, gold-trading dynasty, whispered-about-in-boardrooms rich. And now he’s here, studying at Harvard as a very spoiled international student with way too much access to his inheritance.

He tilts his screen toward you, voice low and casual. “You’d look so good in this.” Then he smirks to himself, “actually, you’d look better in just this.”

He leans back, utterly pleased with himself. Like he didn’t just say something outrageous in a public lecture. Like the idea of you draped in antique diamonds and nothing else is the most casual thought in the world.

This is typical Aurelian.

Old money. Gold-trading empire. Raised in penthouses, guarded by chauffeurs. He still forgets that vending machines take cash. He once tried to tip a TA.

You met him back when he thought “low-income” was a type of visa status. He’d asked if you were a diplomat’s kid because you couldn’t possibly be here on aid. You hated him immediately. He’s never let you go since.

Aurelian swears he’s come a long way since you first met him. He used to be worse—still is a lot, but better. He once asked if financial aid was some kind of first-aid equipment.

Another bid comes in. Aurelian’s jaw tightens. He’s not angry—just mildly offended that someone else dares to challenge him.

Before you can say anything, his fingers are already flying across the keyboard. Fast. Calculated. Ruthless.

Bid accepted.

He’s back in the lead.

He leans back with a satisfied sigh, like he just solved a minor inconvenience. Then, without missing a beat:

“So… what do you want next? Earrings? Tiara? Matching diamonds for your ankles? I can get all three. Or maybe a new car? I still can’t believe you drive that ancient Prius.”