Beautifully Guilty

Chapter One Pretty Things Break Quietly The first lie I told at Ashbourne University was that I belonged there. The second was worse. I told myself Lucien Mercer didn’t notice me. Rain hammered against the library windows as I sat curled in the farthest corner of the fourth floor pretending to study cognitive behavioral theory while my bank account sat at eleven dollars and twenty-two cents. Eleven. Dollars. I stared at the number glowing on my phone screen until my vision blurred. Past due. FINAL NOTICE. I swallowed hard and locked the screen before the panic crawling up my throat could fully settle in. Rent. Tuition balance. Mom’s medication. Three overdue bills. And somehow I still had to survive a university where girls carried handbags worth more than my entire childhood home. A laugh echoed somewhere below the balcony level. Rich kids. Ashbourne was full of them. Children of senators, tech moguls, old-money dynasties, oil heirs. People who wore luxury like oxygen. People who never checked price tags or skipped meals or worked night shifts pretending exhaustion wasn’t physically rearranging their bones. Then there was me. Scholarship student. Campus ghost. Professional survivor. “Elena?” I looked up sharply. Sarah Whitmore stood at the end of my aisle wearing a cream-colored trench coat and heels completely inappropriate for rain. Her blonde hair fell in perfect waves over one shoulder while diamond earrings flashed beneath the library lights. She looked expensive. Everything about Sarah did. “You disappeared after class,” she said, walking toward me. “Again.” “I had work.” “You always have work.” Because unlike you, I enjoy eating. I didn’t say it aloud. Sarah dropped into the chair across from me and slid a glossy black invitation onto my textbook. The Blackwood Gala. My stomach tightened instantly. “No.” “You didn’t even read it.” “I already know my answer.” “Elena.” Sarah leaned forward. “Do you understand how exclusive this is? Half the city’s elite will be there.” “Exactly why I shouldn’t.” “That’s exactly why you should.” I pushed the invitation back toward her. “Sarah, I don’t own a dress for things called galas.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “That’s your concern? Not the terrifyingly rich men who run half the country?” “Those too.” A grin spread across her lips. “You’re cute when you pretend not to be curious.” I was curious. That was the problem. Everyone at Ashbourne knew about Blackwood. Officially, it was a charity event hosted by the city’s wealthiest families. Unofficially? Rumors were darker. Secret business deals. Political manipulation. Affairs. Blackmail. And names whispered quietly when professors weren’t listening. The Blackwood Circle. A private society made up of the country’s most powerful people. Most students thought it was an urban legend. I didn’t. Because last week I saw Professor Holloway nearly beg someone on the phone not to “involve the Mercers again.” Mercer. Even the name carried weight. Old money. Corporate empire. Dangerous influence. And at the center of it all— Lucien Mercer. A shadow crossed the library balcony above us. The atmosphere shifted instantly. You could always tell when powerful people entered a room. Voices lowered. Attention shifted. Air tightened. Sarah noticed it too. “Oh God,” she muttered. I followed her gaze upward. And there he was. Lucien Mercer stood on the second-floor balcony in a charcoal coat with one hand resting against the railing. Tall. Sharp-featured. Beautiful in a way that didn’t feel human sometimes. Like something sculpted specifically to ruin lives. His gaze swept lazily across the library. Girls noticed immediately. Of course they did. Whispers spread like fire. But Lucien looked bored by all of it. Detached. Until his eyes landed on me. My stomach dropped. It wasn’t imagination. He was definitely looking at me. Not casually either. Intently. Like he recognized something. A slow chill moved down my spine. “Jesus,” Sarah whispered. “Why does he keep staring at you?” “I don’t know.” That part was true. Mostly. Three weeks ago, I accidentally spilled coffee on Lucien Mercer outside the economics building. Most people would’ve gotten angry. Lucien had simply stared at me silently while coffee dripped from his thousand-dollar coat. Then he smiled. Not warmly. Not flirtatiously. Just slowly enough to make me uneasy. “You should be more careful, Elena.” The fact that he knew my name terrified me. We’d never spoken before that moment. Since then, I kept catching him watching me. Across lecture halls. Parking lots. Campus events. Always with the same unreadable expression. Like he was solving a puzzle. And somehow I was the missing piece. Sarah nudged me hard under the table. “He’s coming down here.” “What?” My pulse jumped. Lucien disappeared from the balcony level. A few seconds later, footsteps echoed through the staircase nearby. Steady. Unhurried. Controlled. Girls straightened instinctively as he passed. Some people demanded attention loudly. Lucien never had to. He reached our aisle and stopped. Too close. Way too close. Up close, he was worse somehow. Dark eyes. Sharp jawline. Rainwater still clinging lightly to his coat. And that scent— Clean cologne mixed with smoke and winter air. “Whitmore,” he acknowledged calmly. Sarah blinked like she’d won the lottery. “Lucien.” Then his eyes shifted to me. Every muscle in my body tightened. “Elena.” The way he said my name felt private. Dangerously private. I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Mercer.” One corner of his mouth tilted slightly. Definitely not a smile. “You missed Professor Holloway’s seminar yesterday.” My heartbeat stumbled. “How do you know that?” “You ask many questions.” “And you avoid them.” Sarah looked between us like she was watching live explosives. Lucien’s attention never left mine. “You should attend the gala,” he said. I laughed softly in disbelief. “You don’t even know me.” “I know enough.” Something about the answer unsettled me. I crossed my arms. “What exactly do you know?” His eyes lowered briefly. Not to my face. To the scar near my wrist. Tiny. Pale. Usually unnoticed. Except he noticed it immediately. My breath caught. When he looked back up, something colder settled into his expression. “More than you think.” Silence stretched between us. Heavy. Electric. Sarah suddenly stood up awkwardly. “I just remembered—I have somewhere to be.” Traitor. She vanished down the aisle almost immediately. Leaving me alone with him. I glared after her. “Coward.” “She’s smart.” I looked back at Lucien. “And you’re arrogant.” “Usually.” The honesty surprised a laugh out of me. A dangerous mistake. Because something shifted in his eyes the moment I laughed. Something darker. More interested. He stepped closer. Not enough to touch me. Enough to make my pulse climb. “You should stay away from Blackwood,” I said quietly. That got his attention. “Who told you about Blackwood?” “No one.” “Then why mention it?” I held his gaze stubbornly even though instinct screamed not to. “I hear things.” His expression hardened almost invisibly. “Stop listening.” The warning beneath the words was unmistakable. I should’ve backed off. Instead, I said, “Are you threatening me?” “No.” His voice dropped lower. “I’m trying to protect you.” My chest tightened unexpectedly. Protect me from what? Before I could ask, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. Something changed instantly. Not emotion exactly. Calculation. Then he looked back at me. “You’ll come to the gala.” “That wasn’t a question.” “No,” he agreed softly. “It wasn’t.” And then he walked away. Just like that. Leaving the air around me colder than before. I stared after him long after he disappeared. What the hell was wrong with that man? My phone buzzed suddenly against the table, making me jump. Unknown Number. A strange unease crept through me as I opened the message. Attached was a photo. Me. Walking across campus earlier that morning. Taken from far away. My blood ran cold. Below the image was a single sentence. HE KNOWS WHO YOU REALLY ARE. I stopped breathing. No. No no no. Only three people alive knew about my past. My hands shook violently as another message appeared. YOU SHOULD HAVE NEVER COME TO ASHBOURNE. A sharp chill crawled down my spine. Someone was watching me. And somehow— Deep in my gut— I knew this had something to do with Lucien Mercer.