The mixer swells louder as more bodies spill onto the sand.
And then the energy shifts.
High-pitched laughter. Perfume cloud. Coordinated outfits.
Great more sorority girls have just arrived via their own private party bus.
A whole wave of them.
Stanford has a few elite houses, but the one strutting down the beach like they own it?
Kappa Epsilon.
Legacy rich. Ivy-bound parents. Hedge fund fathers and Beverly Hills mothers who call their daughters “investments.”
And their president?
Blonde. Sculpted. Diamond studs flashing in the firelight.
I know her type instantly.
She clocks Tristan before her heels even hit the sand. He’s a gravitational anomaly.
She moves toward him with surgical precision.
Touches his arm like she’s checking quality.
Laughs too loudly at something he says.
Her fingers slide up his bicep slowly — not subtle.
He doesn’t push her away.
Doesn’t lean into it either.
Just stands there, letting it happen.
Another girl steps closer.
Then another.
They orbit him like he’s already theirs.
My stomach tightens.
Sharp. Unexpected.
It’s ridiculous.
I don’t want him.
I don’t trust him.
I don’t need him.
So why does the sight of Kappa Epsilon royalty running her hands over his arms feel like a blade sliding under my ribs?
Kane follows my gaze.
