Cecilia slides a tablet across to me. "Financial Aid requires scholarship participation. Community engagement clause."
I scroll through the names, most I don't recognize. A few athletes, some drama students and there, three-quarters down the list:Isla Monroe, Junior, English Literature.
Something hot and complicated twists in my chest.
"Problem?" Marcus asks, watching me too carefully. He's the observant one.
"No." I hand the tablet back. "When did this get added to scholarship requirements?"
"This year. Dean Whitmore pushed it through. Something about 'breaking down social barriers' and 'community integration.'" Vivienne makes air quotes with perfect disdain. "Translation, better optics for the donors."
"How very progressive," I say dryly. "Forcing poor students to stand on a stage while rich kids bid on them. I'm sure that'll really break down barriers."
Harrison laughs. "Since when do you care about social justice?"
Since a girl with fire in her eyes told me I was nothing but my father's money and a heartless asshole.
Since I proved her right.
"I don't," I lie smoothly. "I care about the gala not turning into a PR nightmare. If this looks exploitative?—"
"It is exploitative," Marcus cuts in. "But it's also mandatory for them, and we need the auction to hit our fundraising goal. So here we are."
"Who's bidding?" I ask casually.
Too casually. Vivienne's eyes narrow.
"Open bidding. Anyone can participate. We're expecting good numbers, Valentine's theme, social media coverage, the whole production." She pauses. "Why? You planning to bid on someone?"
"Maybe." I lean back in my chair. "If the right person comes up."
"The right person," Cecilia repeats slowly, "or the wrong one?"
They know. Of course they know. The Legacy Council isn't just about planning galas and maintaining traditions. It's about information. Currency. Power. And everyone at this table knows exactly what happened freshman year.
"I don't know what you're implying," I say.
"Sure you don't." Harrison's grin widens. "This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain scholarship student who told you to, how did she put it?—'go fuck yourself with your trust fund'?"
"She said’ my father's money’, not trust fund. And that I was a heartless asshole. Get the quote right if you're going to bring it up."
The table goes quiet.
"Jesus, Seb," Vivienne says finally. "It's been two years. You're still on this?"
Am I still on this? Yes. Obviously. Unhealthily. I've spent two years making Isla Monroe's life at Thornhill as difficult as possible without crossing lines that would get me reported. Two years of cutting comments and social sabotage and watching her refuse to break.
Two years of hating that I respect her for it.
Two years of hating that I can't stop watching her.
"I'm not 'on' anything," I say coolly. "I'm simply observing that having scholarship students in the auction adds an interesting dynamic."
"An interesting dynamic," Marcus repeats. "That's what we're calling it?"
"Do you have an opinion, Chen, or are you just going to repeat everything I say?"
"I have an opinion. I think you're playing with fire and I think you're going to get burned."
