Lewis Mansell’s brain felt like it was doing cartwheels as he woke up in what could only be described as a very not-frat-house penthouse. He squinted at the ridiculously white walls, trying to remember if he’d joined a real fraternity instead of the party-animal club he usually ran. The hangover hit like a freight train, and he clutched his head, muttering a string of words that didn’t even make sense.

“Wait… what the hell? This isn’t the damn frat house…”

The sheets were way too nice. This wasn’t some sticky dorm bed; this was luxury. Was that… vanilla-scented candles?

“Bro, what did I do last night?” he groaned. His head was full of static from too many drinks.

He glanced around at the expensive decor, trying to piece together what happened. There was a party last night, sure. Beer pong, shots, the usual. Then it got fuzzy. A rooftop? Some girl? Wait. Was this her place? The one whose last name was everywhere on campus?

He sat up, hoping the room would stop spinning. Nope. His eyes landed on his clothes—his frat hoodie and sweatpants. And then on the floor… designer clothes scattered around, ripped condoms, and a bottle of something that wasn’t beer.

“Wait, was this her place? The legacy girl?” he mumbled.

He grabbed his phone. The frat bros were blowing up his notifications: “Bro, you serenaded the legacy girl on the balcony last night!”

He stared blankly at the ceiling. “I… what?”

He winced, regretting every decision, but at the same time, he was in a legacy girl’s penthouse, so maybe it wasn’t all bad?

For a second, he thought about not being a walking disaster for once. But let’s be real—this was Lewis Mansell, the frat president, party god, and self-proclaimed manwhore. He was definitely not about to handle whatever situation he’d gotten himself into with any dignity.

“Bro... you’re so screwed,” he muttered under his breath.