The wheels of my ancient suitcase made an embarrassing squeaking sound as I dragged it across the pristine marble walkway of Westbridge University. Every squeak seemed to announce to the world: *Poor girl alert! Scholarship student incoming!*
I paused at the entrance gates, craning my neck to take in the sight before me. Holy shit. This place looked less like a university and more like a freaking palace that someone had accidentally dropped in the middle of Massachusetts.
The main building rose before me like something out of a fairy tale—all Gothic spires and carved stone gargoyles that probably cost more than most people's houses. Manicured lawns stretched in every direction, so perfect they looked like someone had trimmed each blade of grass with nail scissors. Students walked past me in designer clothes that I was pretty sure cost more than my entire wardrobe combined.
"You can do this, Lena," I muttered under my breath, adjusting the strap of my worn backpack. "Just blend in, get through the semester, and stick to the plan."
The plan. Right. The plan that had taken me ten years to put together. The plan that would finally give me the justice my family deserved.
I took a deep breath and started walking, trying to look like I belonged here among the children of senators and tech moguls. The truth was, I *did* belong here—probably more than most of these spoiled rich kids ever would. But they didn't know that. Nobody could know that.
As far as anyone at Westbridge University was concerned, I was just Lena Carter, scholarship kid from nowhere, grateful for the chance to study at such a prestigious institution. They had no idea that the name "Carter" used to strike fear into the hearts of business executives across the country. They didn't know that Carter Technology had once been worth billions, or that my parents had built an empire before it all came crashing down in one night of betrayal and bloodshed.
But that was exactly how I wanted it.
The Business School building was supposedly just a "short walk" from the main entrance, according to the cheerful campus tour guide who'd emailed me directions. What she'd failed to mention was that Westbridge University's definition of "short walk" apparently meant "lengthy hike across what feels like half the state of Massachusetts."
By the time I found the imposing glass and steel structure that housed the business program, my suitcase wheels had developed an even more obnoxious squeak, and I was pretty sure I had sweat stains on my carefully chosen "trying to look respectable but not trying too hard" outfit.
The Business School looked like it had been designed by someone who wanted to make absolutely sure everyone knew this was where future masters of the universe came to learn their trade. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the afternoon sun, and everything seemed to gleam with the kind of expensive polish that screamed "we have more money than God."
I pulled out my phone to check the email with my room assignment again. Johnson Hall, Room 247. Easy enough, right?
Wrong.
Apparently, someone had forgotten to mention that the Business School was basically a maze designed by someone with a serious grudge against logical building layout. I wandered through hallways lined with portraits of distinguished alumni—all white men in expensive suits who looked like they'd never had a day of struggle in their entire lives—trying to find anything that looked like a dormitory.
After twenty minutes of increasingly frustrated wandering, I found myself standing in front of an elevator bank with absolutely no idea which floor I was supposed to be on. The directory next to the elevators was about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine.
"Third floor," I decided, figuring I had a one-in-five chance of being right.
The elevator doors opened to reveal a hallway that looked different from the others—more expensive, somehow. The carpet was thicker, the lighting more subtle, and everything had that hushed, reverent quality that rich people seemed to love. Oil paintings hung on the walls instead of the generic inspirational posters I'd seen elsewhere.
This definitely didn't look like student housing.
I pulled out my phone again, trying to figure out where the hell I'd gone wrong, when I heard voices coming from behind a heavy wooden door marked "Conference Room A."
"—understand that this acquisition needs to be handled delicately," a voice was saying. Male, young, but with the kind of authority that suggested he was used to being listened to. "Carter Technology's remaining assets are scattered, but there are still patents and intellectual property worth pursuing."
I froze.
Carter Technology. *My* Carter Technology.
Without really thinking about it, I found myself stepping closer to the door. The voice continued, cold and businesslike.
"The family's been out of the picture for a decade. Most people assume they're dead or disappeared permanently. This should be a straightforward acquisition—buy up the remaining pieces, integrate what's useful, scrap the rest."
My hands clenched into fists. They were talking about my family's company like it was just another business opportunity. Like my parents' life work was nothing more than spare parts to be picked over by vultures.
"However," the voice continued, "there have been some unusual trading patterns in Carter-related stocks recently. Someone's been quietly buying up shares. We need to find out who."
My heart started pounding. Shit. Had they noticed my carefully orchestrated purchases? I'd been so careful, using shell companies and offshore accounts, but maybe—
"Sir?" Another voice, older, deferential. "Should we be concerned about this mystery buyer?"
"Concerned? No." The first voice was dismissive, almost amused. "Curious? Absolutely. Anyone with enough capital to make moves on Carter assets is either very stupid or very dangerous. I intend to find out which."
I needed to get out of here. This was clearly some kind of high-level business meeting, and I definitely shouldn't be eavesdropping. But something about that voice—the casual way he talked about destroying what was left of my family's legacy—made me want to march in there and give him a piece of my mind.
Instead, I took a step back, trying to retreat quietly.
That's when my stupid suitcase wheel caught on something.
The crash was spectacular. My suitcase tipped over, spilling clothes across the hallway, while I stumbled backward and crashed directly into the conference room door. The heavy wood swung open under my weight, and I found myself tumbling into the room like some kind of demented circus act.
"What the hell—"
I looked up from the floor, surrounded by scattered belongings, to find myself staring at the most intimidating conference room I'd ever seen. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the campus. A massive table dominated the center of the room, surrounded by chairs that probably cost more than my car.
And sitting at the head of that table, looking like he'd stepped out of a magazine spread titled "Young Billionaires Who Could Ruin Your Life Without Breaking a Sweat," was the source of that cold, authoritative voice.
He was younger than I'd expected—maybe early twenties—but everything else about him screamed power and privilege. Dark hair perfectly styled, sharp blue eyes that seemed to take in every detail, and a tailored suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. He was handsome in that effortless way that rich boys always seemed to manage, like good genetics were just another luxury his family had been able to afford.
But it was his expression that really caught my attention. He looked at me like I was some kind of fascinating specimen that had just crawled out from under a rock—not angry, exactly, but coldly curious about what kind of creature would dare interrupt his important business meeting.
"I'm sorry," I started, scrambling to my feet and trying to gather my scattered belongings. "I was looking for the dorms and I got lost, and I didn't mean to—"
"Security breach," he said calmly, and I realized he wasn't talking to me. An older man in an expensive suit—probably his assistant or something—was already reaching for his phone.
"Wait," I said, standing up and trying to look as non-threatening as possible. "I'm not a security breach. I'm a student. I just transferred here and I'm trying to find my room."
Those blue eyes fixed on me with laser focus. "Name."
It wasn't a request.
"Lena Carter," I said, then immediately wanted to kick myself. I'd been planning to use a fake name, but his intense stare had somehow made me forget my own carefully constructed lies.
Something flickered across his face—so brief I almost missed it. Recognition? Surprise? But when he spoke, his voice remained perfectly controlled.
"Carter," he repeated, like he was testing how the name sounded. "And you're a transfer student."
"Scholarship student," I corrected, figuring I might as well stick with the cover story. "I'm supposed to be living in Johnson Hall, but apparently I have the navigation skills of a blind bat."
One corner of his mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smile. "Johnson Hall is in the opposite direction. You managed to find your way into the executive conference wing of the Business School."
"Executive conference wing," I repeated. "Right. Because of course that's where I'd end up."
I finished shoving my clothes back into my suitcase, acutely aware that he was watching my every move. When I straightened up, he was still staring at me with that unnervingly intense focus.
"You said your name was Carter," he said casually, leaning back in his chair like we were having a perfectly normal conversation instead of the weirdest meet-cute in the history of higher education.
"That's right." I kept my voice steady, even though my heart was racing. Did he suspect something? How could he? I'd been so careful.
"Interesting coincidence," he mused. "We were just discussing Carter Technology."
My blood turned to ice, but I forced myself to look confused rather than panicked. "Carter Technology? Never heard of it. Is that like a local company or something?"
He studied my face for a long moment, and I had the unsettling feeling that he was reading me like an open book. "Something like that," he said finally.
"Well," I said, backing toward the door with my rescued suitcase, "I should probably go find my actual destination before I accidentally stumble into the Pentagon or something."
"Logan," he said to his assistant without taking his eyes off me, "escort Miss Carter to Johnson Hall."
"That's really not necessary," I started, but the older man was already standing.
"I insist," the young man said, and there was something in his tone that suggested he wasn't used to people arguing with him. "Westbridge can be overwhelming for new students. We wouldn't want you to get lost again."
The way he said "lost" made it sound like he thought my presence here had been anything but accidental.
"Thanks," I managed. "That's... very kind of you."
"I'm Ryan," he said as I reached the door. "Ryan Hale."
*Hale.* The name hit me like a physical blow, but I managed to keep my expression neutral. Hale Corporation. One of the biggest business empires in the country, and definitely on my list of companies that had profited from my family's downfall.
"Nice to meet you, Ryan," I said, proud of how normal my voice sounded.
"I'm sure we'll see each other around campus," he said, and something about the way he said it sounded less like a casual comment and more like a promise.
Or a threat.
I followed Logan out of the conference room, my mind racing. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Of all the people I could have literally crashed into on my first day, it had to be a Hale. Someone from one of the exact families I was here to investigate.
But as we walked toward the elevator, I couldn't shake the feeling that the encounter had been just as significant for him as it had been for me. The way he'd repeated my name, the questions about Carter Technology, that look of recognition when I'd told him who I was.
Ryan Hale knew something. The question was: how much?
And more importantly: what was he planning to do about it?
As the elevator doors closed behind us, I caught a glimpse of him through the conference room doorway. He was still sitting at that massive table, but now he was staring out the window with a thoughtful expression.
Something told me this wasn't the last time our paths would cross at Westbridge University.
I just hoped I'd be ready for whatever came next.