DEGREES OF BETRAYAL

The scream came right before the crash a girl's iced coffee exploding across the marble floor, splattering her cream designer skirt and dripping down a pair of heels that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Gasps rippled through the hall. "Oh my God she spilled coffee on Serena!" "Who let her in here looking like that?" My grip tightened around the handle of my battered suitcase as hundreds of eyes swung toward me. Perfect. Ten minutes into my first day at Kensington University, and I was already being publicly executed. "I'm sorry," I said, dropping to my knees to clean up the mess with shaking hands. A laugh cut through the crowd sharp and ugly, the kind rich people save for reminding you exactly how little you matter. "She's the scholarship student," a girl whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Seriously?" someone else scoffed. "Kensington's taking charity cases now?" Heat crawled up my neck, but humiliation stopped hurting a long time ago. Hunger hurts worse. Hospital bills hurt worse. Watching your little brother fight for breath while debt collectors pound on your door hurts worse than anything a roomful of spoiled billionaires could throw at me over my secondhand shoes. Still, I hated the way their eyes crawled over me, like I was dirt someone had dragged into their perfect kingdom. Because Kensington didn't look like a university. It looked like a palace built for the children of gods crystal chandeliers blazing beneath towering ceilings, students in luxury brands drifting through the halls with the kind of arrogance you can only afford when the world already belongs to you. Maybe it did. People like them always seemed to own everything. "Move." The word sliced through the noise like a blade, and the entrance hall went silent. Students stepped aside in a wave. I looked up and forgot how to breathe. He stood directly in front of me: tall, impossibly composed, in a perfectly tailored black blazer embroidered with Kensington's silver crest. Dark hair framed a face sharp enough to cut glass, and cold gray eyes studied me with open irritation. No not irritation. Calculation. Like he was already deciding whether I was worth destroying. Julian Vance. I knew his name before I'd even set foot on campus. Everyone did. Billionaire heir. Campus king. The kind of monster professors feared more than the university board itself. Rumors about him spread across social media like ghost stories a student expelled for insulting him, a professor who suddenly resigned after failing him, girls who walked out of conversations with him in tears. Standing in front of him now, I understood why. There was something deeply wrong about the way Julian Vance looked at people, like he could see every weakness hiding under their skin. "You're blocking the hallway," he said flatly. The arrogance in his voice snapped something loose in me.maybe, or pride, or just the simple fact that I was done watching powerful men act like the world belonged to them by default. I rose slowly, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "What next?" I asked. "You own oxygen too?" A horrified gasp swept through the crowd. Someone near the back muttered, "She's dead," like speaking to Julian Vance that way came with a sentence. For a second, nobody moved. Then, unexpectedly, Julian smiled not warm, not kind, but the kind of smile a predator gives before deciding not to kill you yet. "Interesting," he murmured, and something uneasy curled in my stomach. Behind him, Serena crossed her arms. "She ruined my skirt!" Julian didn't even glance at her. His attention stayed fixed on me. "You're new," he said. It wasn't a question. "Yes." "You should've picked another university." There was a strange certainty in his voice that unsettled me more than the insult should have. I frowned. "And why exactly would I let a stranger decide where I belong?" His gaze darkened. "Because Kensington destroys people." The hallway went quiet again, and something cold slid down my spine. He didn't sound arrogant. He sounded serious. Before I could respond, Serena stepped forward, disgust twisting her face. "She doesn't belong here," she snapped. "Look at her. She practically screams poor." Laughter rippled through the crowd again, and my stomach tightened. Poor. Like it was something filthy. Like surviving hardship made me less human than them. They had no idea what this scholarship cost me that my little brother was lying in a hospital bed hooked to machines we could barely afford. Kensington wasn't some glamorous dream. It was survival, and I'd crawl through hell before I let anyone take it from me. I lifted my chin. "Funny," I said evenly. "For people born with everything, you all seem incredibly threatened by one broke girl." Several students exchanged shocked looks. Serena's face flushed with fury. But Julian just looked amused, and somehow that frightened me more than anything else. He stepped closer too close. The expensive scent of his cologne wrapped around me, his shadow swallowing the space between us. "You really don't know where you are," he said quietly, and the intensity in his voice made my pulse stumble. I swallowed hard but didn't back away. "And you really think I scare easily?" Something dangerous flickered behind his eyes. For a second I thought he might actually touch me. Instead, his gaze dropped to the silver necklace at my throat and everything about him changed. The amusement vanished. His expression went still, too still, like someone had driven a knife between his ribs. My fingers curled around the necklace instinctively. It was the only thing my mother left me before she died, and Julian was staring at it like he recognized it. Impossible. "We need to go," Serena said impatiently. He ignored her completely, his eyes lifting slowly back to mine. "What's your name?" The question felt heavier than it should have. "Ava." The second the name left my mouth, something dark flashed across his face not anger, not shock. Guilt. Real guilt. My heartbeat faltered. Before I could ask what was wrong, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and all the color drained from his face. Tension rolled off him in waves. When he looked back at me, the coldness in his expression was gone, replaced by something that looked almost like alarm. "You need to leave Kensington," he said quietly. "Excuse me?" "If you're smart," he continued, his voice low enough that only I could hear, "you'll leave before the Vances notice you." The Vances. Not me. Them. My chest tightened. "What does that mean?" He took another step closer, close enough that his next words brushed against my skin like a warning. "You were never supposed to come here." Then he turned and walked away, the crowd parting and trailing after him like shadows obeying their king. Only once he'd disappeared did the noise in the hallway finally return but my pulse still hadn't settled. Something about that conversation felt horribly wrong, like Julian Vance knew something about me he shouldn't. My phone buzzed violently in my pocket. Frowning, I pulled it out. Unknown Number. A chill crept down my spine as I opened the message. LEAVE KENSINGTON BEFORE THE VANCES BURY YOU LIKE THEY BURIED YOUR MOTHER. My blood turned to ice. My mother died twelve years ago. Nobody at Kensington should h ave known her name. Then another message appeared. Especially Julian Vance.