"You always greet houseguests by snapping their wrists, Victoria?" Jason asked.

Victoria ripped her hand away from my arm like she’d touched a live wire. She tucked a blonde strand behind her ear, her face morphing from feral rage into a sweet, glossy pout in under two seconds.

"Jason! Don't be ridiculous," she said, her voice light. "We were just having a sisterly disagreement. You know how family is."

Jason leaned his broad frame against the frame of the doorway. He glanced at the red crescent marks Victoria’s nails had left in my skin, then met my eyes. "Didn't look like much of a conversation."

"I was just leaving," I said, stepping past him into the corridor.

"Vivian, wait," Victoria called out, her voice tight with panic. "Take my tablet. Tell Mom I'll be home for dinner."

I didn't answer.

Jason didn't move an inch to let me by comfortably, forcing me to brush against the rough nylon of his team jacket. Up close, he smelled like cold ice and peppermint. His dark eyes tracked every step I took down the hall.

The next morning, the campus courtyard was packed.

I sat at a stone table near the fountain, reviewing my chemistry syllabus. A shadow fell over the page.

"There you are, sweet sister!"

Victoria dropped onto the bench beside me, throwing an arm around my shoulders. Her designer perfume hit me like a wall. Across the grass, a cluster of hockey players walked toward the athletic hall, with Jason leading the pack.

"Get your arm off me," I muttered, not looking up from my binder.

"Smile for the crowd, gutter rat," she whispered through a locked grin. "Look, Jason's watching."

She squeezed my shoulder harder, raising her voice so it carried across the lawn. "I packed you an extra matcha latte from the café, Vivian! I know how tough your transition from foster care has been. We have to stick together, right?"

Jason stopped on the stone path fifty yards away. His eyes narrowed on Victoria’s arm draped over me. Beside him, two players laughed at something on a phone, but Jason remained completely still, staring right through her performance.

"Nice show," I said, shoving her arm off my neck. "Go find Damon. Maybe he’ll clap for you."

Victoria’s jaw snapped shut. She stood up abruptly, brushing down her pleated skirt. "Watch your tongue."

She turned on her heel and marched straight toward the athletic complex.

Ten minutes later, I walked behind the bleachers toward the science lab. A harsh whisper stopped me in my tracks.

"Ethan, stop being paranoid," Victoria was saying, her voice muffled by the metal risers. "Nothing happened with Jason. He just walked into the wrong room."

"You were shaking, Vic," Ethan’s voice answered, rough and agitated. "And who the hell was that girl?"

"She's nobody! Just the lost Sterling orphan my parents dragged home out of pity," Victoria pleaded, her tone dripping with fake innocence. "Ethan, baby, look at me. You're the only one I want. Don't let her get between us."

A wet sound followed—mouths pressing together, desperate and hurried.

I shook my head and kept walking. Rich kids playing cheap games.

My phone vibrated in my pocket an hour later during lecture.

*Unknown Number: Don't trust a single word she says.*

I stared at the screen.

*Me: Who is this?*

*Unknown Number: Ethan. Victoria’s playing both sides. She's been sleeping with Damon behind my back for months.*

I leaned back against my chair, typing quickly.

*Me: Why are you telling me? Go confront her.*

The response popped up immediately.

*Ethan: Because she's using me to keep up appearances for our families. And because I don't want her anymore. I want you, Vivian.*

A dry laugh escaped my throat, drawing a glare from the professor.

*Me: I'm not a trophy to help you get revenge on your girlfriend, Cole. Delete my number.*

*Ethan: It's not revenge. We’ve met before. Check your messages.*

A photo file loaded onto the screen.

It was an old, faded Polaroid. A little boy with messy brown hair sat on a rusted swing next to a skinny little girl with dark hair and skinned knees. The girl wore a hospital wristband from St. Jude’s Children's Clinic.

*Ethan: Summer 2011. You were in temporary placement in county care while I was visiting my aunt. You bit my hand because I tried to steal your juice box. I recognized your eyes the second you walked into that suite yesterday.*

My fingers locked over the screen. The date matched. The clinic matched.

"Miss Sterling, is your screen more captivating than organic chemistry?" the professor barked.

"No, sir," I said, shoving the phone face down onto the desk.

When evening arrived, the ocean breeze turned freezing. I walked out of the campus library toward the north gates, pulling my denim jacket tight around my ribs.

Headlights cut through the gloom. A heavy black pickup truck slowed to a crawl beside the sidewalk. The passenger window rolled down.

"Get in," Jason said from behind the wheel.

"I can walk," I replied, keeping my pace.

"It’s three miles to your parents' gate and forty degrees outside," he said evenly. "Stop being stubborn."

Before I could answer, another figure stepped out from the shadows of the campus gate.

Ethan Cole stood on the curb, his hands shoved deep into his bomber jacket. He looked right past Jason's truck, fixing his gaze on me.

"Vivian," Ethan called out. "Did you see the picture? We need to talk."

The truck engine revved sharply. Jason slammed the gear into park and stepped out into the cold night air, his broad shoulders blocking Ethan’s path completely.

"Back off, Cole," Jason said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register.

Ethan sneered, stepping up until their chests almost collided. "Stay out of this, King. This is between me and Vivian. Victoria doesn't own me, and you don't own the campus."

"I don't give a damn about Victoria," Jason said, towering over Ethan. He tapped a finger against Ethan’s collarbone with enough force to make the soccer player rock back on his heels. "Don't treat her as the next pawn in your game. Walk away before I put you on the pavement."

Ethan's fists clenched at his sides. He glanced past Jason's shoulder at me, his jaw pulsing.

"This isn't over," Ethan spat, turning around and vanishing into the fog toward the athletic dorms.

Jason turned back to me, opening the passenger door. "Get in the truck, Vivian. I’m not asking twice."

I climbed inside. The cab was warm, smelling faintly of leather and pine. Neither of us spoke for the first mile.

"You don't need to fight my battles," I said, staring out at the passing streetlights.

"Wasn't a battle," Jason replied, keeping his eyes on the road. "Cole's a coward who likes playing the victim."

"And what are you?"

Jason shifted gears smoothly, his knuckles grazing near my knee. "Someone who hates watching people get cornered."

By midnight, the peace shattered.

My phone exploded with notifications. Fifty messages in two minutes.

I opened the university's anonymous student forum.

Pinned right to the top of the feed was a photo of me standing near Ethan by the campus gates, taken from a distance.

The title read:

*The foster rat strikes. Guess stealing the family name wasn't enough—she’s trying to steal her sister's boyfriend too.*

The comments poured in like sewage.

*She belongs in the trash.*

*Poor Victoria, welcoming her home just to get stabbed in the back.*

*Someone kick her out of this school.*

My bedroom door rattled. My phone buzzed in my hand with a direct message.

*Jason: I saw the forum. Say the word, and I'll make the administrators wipe the board and find who posted it.*

I typed back without hesitation.

*Me: Don't touch it. I don't need a man to prove I'm innocent.*

I tossed the phone onto the duvet, pacing across the polished hardwood floor. If Victoria wanted a war, she was going to get one. I grabbed my laptop, intending to pull the surveillance logs from the student hotel to expose Ethan and Victoria together.

Then, an unknown number sent a media attachment.

A thirty-second video clip.

I hit play.

The camera angle was hidden behind the grand staircase of the Sterling mansion, pointed into the living room.

Victoria was on her knees on the Persian rug, clutching Eleanor’s hands, mascara streaming down her cheeks in ragged tracks. Richard Sterling stood over them, his face dark as thunder.

"She cornered Ethan, Mom," Victoria sobbed, her voice cracking with theatrical agony. "She told him she was going to take everything that belongs to me—him, the family, the money. Vivian wants to destroy our entire family!"

The shouting carried up the curved staircase before I even reached the landing.

"She's doing this on purpose, Mom!" Victoria wailed, her voice cracking with raw theatrical misery. "She wants everyone to think I’m a joke! She wants Ethan to leave me so she can take him too!"

I walked into the grand parlor.

Victoria was curled on the velvet sofa, her head buried in Eleanor’s lap. Eleanor stroked her blonde hair, murmuring soothing words, while Richard stood in front of the marble fireplace, his face carved from granite.

Richard slammed an iPad down onto the glass coffee table. The screen showed the campus forum post of me and Ethan by the north gate.

"Explain this, Vivian," Richard demanded.

"There's nothing to explain," I said, keeping my hands in my jacket pockets. "Ethan stopped me at the gate. I told him to stay away from me."

"Liar!" Victoria shrieked, lifting her tear-stained face. "He told me you've been texting him! You told him you were the real daughter and that I was just an imposter living in your house! You’re humiliating me in front of the entire university!"

"Did you text him, Vivian?" Eleanor asked, her gaze cold and disappointed. "Tell me the truth."

"He got my number," I answered evenly. "I told him to leave me alone."

"You haven't been back in this house for a full month," Richard snapped, cutting through my words like a blade. "Not even four weeks, and you’ve already dragged our name through the campus tabloids. Victoria has spent nineteen years building a spotless reputation, and you tear it down in three days."

"You didn't ask what Ethan said," I pointed out, staring straight at him. "You didn't ask why he approached me. You just assumed Victoria’s fairy tale was the truth."

"Victoria doesn't lie to us," Eleanor said softly, though the chill in her voice was unmistakable. "She is fragile, Vivian. You grew up in the foster system. You’re tough, you know how to fight, but she doesn't. You can't come in here and treat this family like a battlefield."

A bitter, quiet realization settled into my ribs.

Nineteen years of missing biological parents meant nothing. A DNA test was just ink on paper. They didn't want their lost daughter; they wanted a convenient doll who wouldn't disturb the furniture.

"I see," I said.

I turned around and walked toward the stairs.

"Where do you think you're going?" Richard called out.

"To pack."

Ten minutes later, I walked back down into the foyer carrying the exact same worn canvas duffel bag I had brought with me from Boston. My thrift-store jeans. My three flannel shirts. My old sneakers.

The designer dresses Eleanor had bought sat untouched in the walk-in closet, tags still hanging from the silk hems.

Richard stood blocking the heavy mahogany double doors, his arms crossed.

"Put the bag down," he ordered. "You aren't throwing a tantrum under my roof."

"I'm not throwing a tantrum," I replied. "I'm checking out."

"If you walk out that door, Vivian, don't expect this family to wait for you forever," Richard warned, his voice dropping into a harsh, authoritarian rasp. "You have no money. You have no connections. You won't survive a week out there without the Sterling name."

I glanced back at the towering chandelier, the polished marble, and the mountain of unopened gift boxes stacked near the parlor archway.

A laugh slipped out of my mouth.

"What is funny to you?" Richard asked, his eyes flaring.

"Don't worry," I said, meeting his hard glare without flinching. "I never planned on relying on you to feed me."

I shoved past him, pushed the heavy door open, and walked out into the dark.

A torrential downpour hit me the moment I cleared the front gates.

Thunder rattled the hills above the coast. Rain soaked through my denim jacket in seconds, plastering my hair to my neck. I didn't care. I kept walking down the winding canyon road toward the main avenue, where the neon sign of an exclusive private club glowed through the sheets of water.

Headlights swept over the asphalt behind me.

Tires cut through the flooded gutters. A sleek, midnight-black Bentley Continental glided to a halt right alongside the curb, blocking my path.

The tinted rear window rolled down two inches, cutting through the hiss of the storm.

"You're drowning your sneakers," a deep, smooth voice murmured from the shadows inside.

I stopped, wiping rainwater from my eyelashes. "Keep driving."

The door swung open. A tall man stepped out holding a massive black umbrella, completely unbothered by the downpour. He wore a tailored charcoal wool coat over an open-collared white shirt. He wasn't loud or flashy like the college boys. He moved with the quiet, dangerous authority of someone who owned the ground beneath his polished shoes.

Adrian Prescott.

The name ran through every financial paper in the country. Old money. The kind of dynastic wealth that made the Sterlings look like retail managers playing dress-up.

He tilted the umbrella slightly, shielding my face from the driving rain. His steel-gray eyes scanned my soaked clothes and the dripping duffel bag clutched in my fist.

"I saw the evening news," Adrian said, his voice low, steady, and sharp. "The long-lost heiress returns to the throne."

"Old news," I said.

He cocked an eyebrow. "Kicked out?"

"To be exact," I said, lifting my chin, "I walked out."

Adrian studied my face for two beats. A faint, intriguing smirk touched the corner of his lips. Most people in this tax bracket looked at me with pity or disgust; Adrian looked at me like he’d just found an unexploded shell on a pristine golf course.

"A girl with pride," Adrian murmured. "Those are expensive to maintain in a storm."

"I can afford it," I said.

"Clearly," he replied, glancing down at the puddle swallowing my shoes. He stepped back, holding the car door open. "Get in. I have an empty penthouse on Ocean Avenue. Consider it temporary shelter until you figure out which empire you want to burn down first."

"Why would you help me?" I asked, staying rooted to the pavement.

"Because I despise Richard Sterling," Adrian said frankly. "And because watching you defy him might be the only entertaining thing to happen in this city all year. Get in before you catch pneumonia."

I looked at the warm leather interior, then back at the empty road behind me.

"Fine," I said, stepping into the dry warmth of the Bentley.

Down the street, the roar of a modified truck engine tore through the storm.

Jason's black pickup jumped the curb twenty yards away, slamming to a halt against the sidewalk. The driver's door flew open with violent force.

Jason vaulted out into the torrential rain, his athletic jacket open, his hair soaked black. His chest heaved as if he’d sprinted miles to get here.

"Vivian!" Jason roared over the crash of thunder, sprinting toward the curb. "Vivian, wait!"

I froze, turning toward the rear glass.

Adrian shut the door behind me with a solid, heavy thud. He climbed into the driver's seat, shifted into gear, and pressed the accelerator.

"Wait—" I started.

"Too late," Adrian said smoothly, watching the rearview mirror.

Through the rain-streaked rear window, I saw Jason stop dead in the middle of the street. His hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his sides, water streaming down his jaw as he watched the Bentley speed away into the night. His expression was completely fractured, torn between wild rage and gut-wrenching shock.

Fifty feet back, parked under the dripping canopy of an oak tree, another car sat idling.

Inside, Victoria lowered her window just enough to slide her phone through the crack.

The flash caught the Bentley's license plate, Adrian's silhouette behind the wheel, and my face looking out from the back seat.

Victoria pulled the phone inside, her lips curling into a wicked, venomous sneer.

"A billionaire's car at midnight," Victoria whispered, tapping the screen with a manicured nail. "Now, I finally know how to completely ruin her."