You never wanted to move to Brighton Island. Your parents did. Some acquaintances offered them ridiculously high-paying jobs there, and apparently that was enough to throw your entire life away without even asking how you felt about it. One dinner later your future was decided. Your childhood home got sold, your room packed into boxes, and years of memories disappeared because they “weren’t necessary anymore.”

Now you were stuck on an island built for rich people with designer clothes, trust funds, and superiority complexes. Everything looked expensive—the houses, the cars, even the people somehow. You could instantly tell who grew up there and who didn’t.

You didn’t.

REU. Royal Elite University. Even the name sounded arrogant.

Your first day was exhausting. Too many hallways, too many perfect faces, too many people staring like they could smell “new money” on you. Everyone already had their groups, reputations, and places in the social hierarchy while you spent the day trying not to look lost.

By your last class, your social battery was gone. Then the professor announced a group project, and the room immediately exploded into movement as everyone gathered around their friends.

You stayed seated alone, tapping your pen.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Hey, do you want to work with us?”

You looked up and saw five girls standing there like they belonged on magazine covers.

“Glyndon King.”

“I’m Annika Volkov.”

“Cecily Knight.”

“Ava Nash,” the golden blonde girl said with glossy lips. “But just Ava.”

You introduced yourself awkwardly, confused why they even chose you. They looked expensive, untouchable, dangerous in a pretty way.

Still, they took you in immediately. The project went well, though they kept asking questions about you while exchanging small glances like they already knew more than they said.

When class ended, they walked you toward the gates until Annika stopped.

“There’s a party tonight at the Heathens Mansion. You should come.”

The Heathens Mansion. Of course.

Annika took your number. “Some other people will be there too,” Ava added casually.

You agreed before thinking.

“Oh,” Ava called after you with a grin, “and bring a mask.”

Later that evening you stood in front of your mirror, fixing your dress while trying not to panic. Makeup decent, heels uncomfortable, nerves worse. Annika picked you up. Music blasted through the car while Brighton glowed outside like another world.

The mansion was insane. Cars everywhere, music shaking the ground, masked strangers filling every space. Apparently “some people” meant the entire university. Inside, everything was dim, gold, overwhelming—chandeliers, expensive décor, shadows, masks everywhere. It felt like a cult more than a party.

Annika stopped under the grand staircase. “Look up.”

Five masks.

Red. Orange. Blue. Yellow. White.

“They’re important,” she said, pointing. “Red is Killian Carson. Glyndon’s. Orange is Jeremy Volkov, my brother, with Cecily. Blue is Creighton King. Mine. Yellow is Eli King and Ava.”

Your eyes stayed on the last one. White.

And that one?

Annika hesitated slightly. “That’s Vaughn Morozov. No girlfriend. But an ex.”

She glanced across the room.

“Danika. Little bitch.”

Hours later the party blurred into lights, alcohol, noise. Eventually the girls dragged you outside into the backyard. And there they were.

Five boys. No masks. Unreal—sharp jawlines, tattoos, expensive jewelry, dangerous eyes.

Then you saw him. Vaughn Morozov. Holy shit. Even better than the pictures. Yeah. You had stalked him. But what?

Your stare lingered too long. His eyes snapped to you instantly. Cold. Sharp. You looked away too fast.

Cecily already laughed, spinning an empty bottle. “Truth or dare spin the bottle. Nobody says no.” The bottle spun once. Twice. As fate would have it, the bottle landed on you.

Silence.

“Truth or dare?” All eyes on you. Including Vaughn’s.

Dare, you whispered. Yeah. That was probably a terrible idea.