Prologue

The morning mist clung to Houston University's gothic towers like a shroud, filtering the early sunlight into pale gold streams that barely penetrated the shadows between buildings. Gerald Martinez pulled his worn hoodie tighter around his shoulders as he navigated the cobblestone pathways that crisscrossed the prestigious campus. His sneakers, once white but now a dingy gray from months of wear, made soft scuffing sounds against the ancient stones.

Around him, the university was beginning to wake up. In the distance, he could hear the purr of expensive engines as luxury vehicles deposited their precious cargo at various dormitories and academic buildings. A Ferrari's distinctive growl echoed off the ivy-covered walls, followed by the slam of a car door and the click of designer heels against stone.

Gerald kept his head down, his dark curly hair falling across his forehead like a curtain between him and the world that surrounded him but never truly accepted him. His backpack, a discount store purchase from three years ago, hung from one shoulder, its frayed straps a testament to countless hours spent in libraries and study halls.

Houston University was a place where old money met new money, where family names carried more weight than test scores, and where your zip code mattered more than your GPA. Gerald had earned his place here through a combination of academic excellence and financial aid, but earning a place and belonging were two entirely different things.

As he rounded the corner toward the main academic quad, Gerald's eyes involuntarily sought out the sight that had become both familiar and painful—the daily parade of wealth that marked every morning at Houston University.

Danny Morrison stood beside his midnight blue Lamborghini Huracán, the car's sleek lines catching the morning light like liquid metal. His dark hair was perfectly styled, swept back in a way that looked effortless but probably required expensive products and professional maintenance. The Armani suit he wore fit him like it had been crafted specifically for his lean frame, which it probably had been. On his wrist, a Rolex Submariner caught the light, its platinum case worth more than most people's annual salary.

"You're looking at my baby like she's a piece of art," Danny called out, noticing Gerald's gaze. His voice carried that particular tone of amusement mixed with condescension that came so naturally to those born into privilege.

Gerald paused, unsure whether to respond or simply keep walking. Danny's comment wasn't necessarily hostile, but it wasn't friendly either. It existed in that gray area where the wealthy acknowledged the less fortunate without quite seeing them as equals.

"She's beautiful," Gerald said finally, his voice careful and neutral.

Danny's smile was sharp. "Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars of beautiful. My father gave her to me for my twentieth birthday last month."

The number hung in the air between them like a challenge. Gerald's entire college fund wouldn't cover the tax on that gift, let alone the car itself. He nodded politely and started to move away, but Danny's voice stopped him.

"You're in Professor Hartwell's Advanced Economics class, aren't you? Gerald, right?"

"Yeah." Gerald was surprised that Danny knew his name.

"You always sit in the front row, take those detailed notes." Danny's tone was conversational, but Gerald could sense something else underneath it—curiosity, maybe, or calculation. "My friend Yuri mentioned you aced the midterm. Highest score in the class."

Before Gerald could respond, another voice cut through the morning air.

"Danny! There you are."

Gerald turned to see Yuri Tanaka approaching, his designer messenger bag slung over the shoulder of his Tom Ford jacket. His family had made their fortune in tech, and everything about Yuri screamed new money—from his perfectly whitened teeth to his habit of checking his Apple Watch every few minutes. Where Danny's wealth was old and understated, Yuri's was newer and more ostentatious.

"We're going to be late for Blondie's study group," Yuri said, barely glancing at Gerald. "She's reserved the private room at the library again."

Danny nodded, then looked back at Gerald. "You should join us sometime. Study groups are more effective than going it alone."

The invitation was casual, almost throwaway, but Gerald caught the undertone. It wasn't really an invitation—it was a demonstration of Danny's magnanimity, his ability to extend charity to the less fortunate when it suited him.

"Thanks," Gerald said. "I'll think about it."

As the two rich boys walked away, their conversation drifting back to him on the morning breeze—something about weekend plans in the Hamptons and a new yacht someone's father had purchased—Gerald continued his journey across campus.

The contrast became even more stark as he passed the luxury dormitories where students like Danny and Yuri lived. Sleek cars lined the circular driveways: a white Porsche 911, a black Mercedes G-Wagon, a red Maserati GranTurismo. Each vehicle represented more money than Gerald's family had seen in their lifetime.

His own dormitory, East Hall, stood in the shadow of these palatial residences like a poor relation at a family gathering. The building was functional but plain, housing students on financial aid and international students whose families, while comfortable, couldn't compete with American old money.

Gerald climbed the stairs to the third floor, nodding to Rick Martinez—no relation, despite the shared surname—who served as the floor's Resident Advisor. Rick was a senior, a scholarship student like Gerald, but from California rather than Gerald's own working-class Boston neighborhood.

"Morning, Gerald," Rick said, looking up from the clipboard he'd been studying. "How's the semester treating you?"

"Can't complain," Gerald replied, which was his standard response. Complaining wouldn't change anything, and Rick had enough problems managing a floor full of students who were trying to make it in a world that wasn't designed for them.

Gerald's room was small but clean, shared with Clinton Torres, his roommate and closest friend at Houston University. Clinton came from a middle-class family in Texas—not poor like Gerald, but not wealthy enough to run with the university's elite crowd either. He was studying pre-med, driven by a desire to make something of himself that Gerald recognized and respected.

"You're up early," Clinton said from his desk, where he was reviewing anatomy notes. His textbooks were used, purchased from graduating seniors or found online at discount prices, their pages marked with previous owners' highlights and annotations.

"Couldn't sleep," Gerald said, dropping his backpack by his narrow bed. "Too much on my mind."

Clinton looked up, his dark eyes concerned. "The Xavier situation?"

Gerald's jaw tightened at the mention of his ex-girlfriend's name. Xavier Chen had been his girlfriend for eight months—eight months during which Gerald had thought he'd found someone who saw past the designer labels and family trust funds to the person underneath. He'd been wrong.

"She's with Marcus Whitfield now," Gerald said, trying to keep his voice neutral. "Saw them together at the campus coffee shop yesterday."

Marcus Whitfield—heir to a pharmaceutical fortune, member of three exclusive campus societies, and owner of a yellow Lamborghini Aventador that he parked directly in front of the student union every day like a territorial marker.

"I'm sorry, man," Clinton said, and Gerald could hear the genuine sympathy in his voice. "I know you cared about her."

Gerald sat heavily on his bed, the cheap mattress creaking under his weight. "She said she wanted to 'explore other options.' Turns out those options came with a seven-figure trust fund."

Xavier had been beautiful in that understated way that wealth cultivated—her long black hair always perfectly styled, her skin flawless, her clothes expensive but never flashy. She carried a Hermès bag that probably cost more than Gerald's entire wardrobe, wore shoes that clicked with authority against marble floors, and had a laugh that sounded like silver bells.

For a brief moment, Gerald had allowed himself to believe that love could bridge the gap between their worlds. He'd been naive.

"You're better off without her," Clinton said, but his words felt hollow. They both knew that in the ecosystem of Houston University, losing someone like Xavier was more than just a romantic disappointment—it was social exile.

A knock at the door interrupted Gerald's brooding. He opened it to find Naomi Blackwell standing in the hallway, looking distinctly out of place in East Hall. Everything about her radiated wealth and power—from her perfectly tailored blazer to the way she carried herself with the confidence of someone who had never been told "no" in her entire life.

Naomi was the heiress to Blackwell Industries, a conglomerate with interests in everything from real estate to renewable energy. Her family's name graced buildings across three continents, and her trust fund could probably buy and sell small countries. She was also, inexplicably, one of Gerald's closest friends.

"Gerald," she said, her voice warm despite the early hour. "I was hoping to catch you before your first class."

"Naomi." Gerald stepped aside to let her in, acutely aware of how his small, shabby room must look to someone accustomed to luxury. "What brings you to the poor side of campus?"

She smiled at his sarcasm, settling gracefully into Clinton's desk chair like she owned it. "I wanted to talk to you about something. Alice mentioned you might be interested in joining our study group."

Alice Pemberton—Naomi's best friend and the unofficial beauty goddess of Houston University. Gerald had harbored a secret crush on Alice for months, though he'd never admitted it to anyone, not even Clinton. Alice came from a political family, old money that had been shaping American policy for generations. She was beautiful, intelligent, and completely out of Gerald's league.

"Alice mentioned me?" Gerald tried to keep the surprise out of his voice.

"She did. She said you had some interesting perspectives in Professor Chen's Political Science seminar." Naomi's green eyes studied Gerald's face carefully. "She thinks you'd add something valuable to our discussions."

Gerald glanced at Clinton, who was pretending to study but obviously listening to every word. The offer was tempting—a chance to spend time with Alice, to be part of the inner circle that seemed to effortlessly navigate Houston University's social complexities.

But he also knew the risks. These weren't his people. They lived in a world of private jets and yacht clubs, of family connections and inherited wealth. What place could someone like him have in that world?

"I'll think about it," Gerald said finally.

Naomi stood, smoothing down her skirt. "The group meets Thursday evenings in the Whitman Library's private study rooms. Seven o'clock." She paused at the door. "Gerald? Don't overthink this. Sometimes the best opportunities come when we least expect them."

After she left, Clinton looked up from his textbooks. "You're going to go, aren't you?"

Gerald stared at the door where Naomi had been standing. "I don't know. Maybe."

But even as he said it, he knew he was lying. The pull of Alice's attention, of Naomi's friendship, of the possibility of belonging somewhere in this stratified world—it was too strong to resist.

Outside his window, he could see students making their way to morning classes. Designer bags swayed from manicured hands, expensive cars purred to life in parking lots, and the invisible barriers that divided Houston University's social classes remained as solid as ever.

Gerald Martinez was about to discover just how much those barriers could bend—and what it would cost him to try to cross them.