After the tense visit from my parents, I decide to take a break from thinking about the weekend’s business dinner—or my father’s plans for my future, for that matter. The more I think about it, the more frustrated I get, so I focus on something I actually can control: finding my classrooms. I grab my phone, pulling up the campus map and my schedule as I head out the door. Grace isn’t around, and Henry’s off doing whatever Henry does when he’s not with me—probably schmoozing or charming someone into giving him free coffee. The campus is quieter today, with fewer students wandering the pathways. I feel a little more at ease as I approach the academic buildings, a sense of purpose grounding me. **International Relations.** It’s different from the typical business or economics path I was on, but it’s a field that fascinates me. There’s something about global politics, diplomacy, and understanding how countries navigate power that feels important and meaningful. And it was a better compromise with my father. As I approach the first building on my list, I take a deep breath. _Mason Hall_, a towering stone structure that looks like it was built centuries ago, looms ahead. I step inside, scanning the signs for the right room. “Room 302,” I mutter to myself, following the staircase up to the third floor. When I reach the classroom, the door is propped open, and a group of students are gathered inside, talking loudly. I hesitate at the doorway, not sure if I should interrupt. But before I can decide, one of them notices me. “Hey! You lost?” a voice calls out, and I turn to see a guy with sandy blond hair leaning against the wall, smirking at me. He’s tall, impeccably dressed in what I can only describe as expensive but effortlessly casual. A couple of other students turn to look at me, their gazes curious. “Uh, no. Just checking out where my classes are,” I say, stepping inside, trying to act like I belong. The guy grins, crossing his arms. “You must be new. I haven’t seen you around before.” “I just transferred to International Relations,” I explain, hoping that’s enough to justify why I’m here. A girl with sleek black hair, who’s lounging in one of the desks, looks me up and down before smiling. “Prescott, right? Lillian Prescott?” I blink, caught off guard. “Yeah, that’s me.” The girl exchanges a glance with the blond guy, her smile widening. “Figures. Prescott, ==Riverton==, Hawthorne… the usual suspects.” “Usual suspects?” I ask, tilting my head. “Old money,” the guy says with a chuckle. “We all know the families that matter around here. You’ll fit right in.” I suppress the urge to roll my eyes at the assumption that I’d fit in just because of my last name. But I play along, nodding. “Right.” The blond guy pushes off the wall and walks over to me, extending a hand. “I’m _James Ashcroft_. This is _Sophia ==Devereaux==_,” he says, gesturing to the girl with the sleek black hair. “And that’s _Ethan ==Kensington==_,” he adds, nodding toward a tall guy sitting at a desk in the back, tapping away on his phone. I shake his hand, feeling a little out of place but trying not to show it. “Nice to meet you.” Sophia leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “You should come to our party this weekend. It’ll be… educational. All the right people will be there.” I hesitate. Parties at ==Riverton== usually mean a lot of pretentious rich kids, and I’ve never been one for the scene. But something about the way Sophia says “the right people” makes me curious. Besides, I could use a distraction from my parents and the looming business dinner. “Maybe,” I say with a shrug, not wanting to commit just yet. James grins, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Oh, come on, Prescott. You can’t say no to an invitation like that.” I smile tightly. “I’ll think about it.” “Good enough,” Sophia says, standing up and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “We’ll see you there.” Before I can respond, the group starts to gather their things, clearly done with whatever conversation they were having before I walked in. James gives me a casual nod as they leave, and I’m left standing in the classroom, a little dazed. _Did I just get invited to my first party?_ I shake my head, unsure what just happened. Part of me doesn’t want to go. But another part of me—the part that’s been dying to shake off the stress of everything—thinks it might be fun. Or at the very least, interesting. I pull out my phone and text Grace. **Lillian**: _Got invited to a party this weekend. You in?_ Her reply comes almost immediately. **Grace**: _You know I’m always down for a party. Whose is it?_ **Lillian**: _Ashcroft, ==Devereaux==, ==Kensington==._ **Grace**: _Oh, ==this’ll== be good. Meet me at my room later. We’ll get ready together._ I smile, feeling a little more relaxed. Grace is exactly the kind of person I need by my side at one of these things. She doesn’t care about the rules or the social hierarchy here, which makes her the perfect antidote to all the pretentiousness I’m sure to face. I check the time and decide to find the rest of my classrooms before heading back to the dorm. As I walk through the halls of Mason Hall, I can’t help but wonder how this year is going to unfold. With the weight of my family’s expectations, my new major, and the people I’m bound to meet, it feels like a balancing act I’m not sure I’m ready for. But there’s no turning back now. Later that evening, I make my way to Grace’s dorm, knocking on the door. She swings it open with a grin, already halfway through applying eyeliner. Her room is a little more lived-in than mine, with sketches and art supplies scattered across her desk and posters of famous buildings covering the walls. “Come on in,” she says, waving me inside. I laugh, kicking off my shoes and flopping onto her bed. “I’m pretty sure I’ll have to outshine at least three heirs to billion-dollar fortunes just to be noticed.” Grace chuckles, rummaging through her closet. “Don’t worry. We’ll make you look fabulous.” She pulls out a sleek, short, dark green dress and holds it up. “This one?” I sit up, inspecting the dress. “Perfect. You’re a lifesaver.” We spend the next hour getting ready, swapping stories about classes and our mutual disdain for the constant pressure of being connected to powerful families. Grace’s mother is a big deal in the architecture world, though Grace keeps most of the details about her family pretty vague. But we’re alike in that sense—we both come from privilege, but neither of us really wants to be defined by it. As we finish up, Grace’s phone buzzes, and she glances at the screen. “Henry’s on his way,” she says, grabbing her jacket. “You ready?” I take a final look in the mirror, smoothing down the green dress. It’s a little shorter than I normally wear, but it feels right for tonight. “Let’s do this.” We meet Henry outside the dorms, and he whistles when he sees us. “Look at you two. ==Riverton’s== finest.” I roll my eyes, but I can’t help but smile. “Don’t get used to it.” Henry grins, falling into step beside us as we walk toward the party. “I heard about this crowd. James Ashcroft, Sophia ==Devereaux==… basically, ==Riverton== royalty.” “Should be interesting,” Grace adds, her voice light but with a hint of sarcasm. The night air is crisp as we make our way across campus, and I can already hear the faint thrum of music coming from one of the large townhouses near the edge of ==Riverton’s== elite housing district. As we approach, I spot luxury cars parked out front, and a small group of people lingering near the door, all dressed to impress. “This is it,” I say under my breath, feeling a little jittery. Henry nudges me. “Relax. It’s just a party. Worst-case scenario, we grab a drink and leave early.” Grace flashes me a smile. “We’ve got this.” As we step through the door into the lavishly decorated townhouse, I feel the weight of the evening settle over me. The room is filled with ==Riverton’s== elite—heirs, legacy students, and a sea of perfectly styled hair and expensive clothes. And, whether I like it or not, I’m one of them.