[Serena’s POV]
* Ten years ago *
The invitation said "Economics Department Mixer" but what it really meant was "networking opportunity for people whose last names appeared on library buildings."
I'd discovered it through a flyer someone left in the study carrels—probably assuming anyone desperate enough to scrounge for information wouldn't have the audacity to actually show up.
Surprise, rich people. Audacity was my middle name. Well, technically it was Marie, but audacity fit better.
I'd blown my entire monthly clothing budget on a dress that could pass for designer if no one looked at the stitching too closely. Or at all. Really, the lighting needed to be dim and everyone needed to be at least three drinks in.
My shoes came from a Brooklyn consignment shop, polished until they gleamed with what I hoped read as "understated elegance" and not "desperate effort."
Maya had watched me practice my talking points in the mirror for two hours straight before threatening bodily harm.
"You're going to be brilliant," she'd insisted. "You're smarter than all of them combined."
"Smart doesn't matter at these things. What matters is belonging."
"Then fake it till you make it, babe. Or until someone calls security."
Comforting. Truly.
The apartment belonged to someone's parents—Upper East Side, prewar building, the kind of place where the doorman probably made more than my mother ever had. I walked past the entrance three times before finally marching in, clutching my invitation like it might spontaneously combust and reveal me as the impostor I absolutely was.
The living room was a sea of cashmere, confidence, and cheekbones that could cut glass. Professors clustered near the bar like exotic birds, surrounded by students who'd known them since birth because their parents served on the same charity boards and summered in the same Hamptons zip codes.
The air smelled like expensive wine and inherited wealth. I smelled like the subway and determination.
I spotted Professor Harrison near the window—my target for the evening. Advisor to the undergraduate economics journal. Getting published there would change everything: scholarships, recommendations, proof that I deserved my spot through merit rather than financial aid paperwork.
Three steps toward him, and I saw them.
Caspian Rothwell, looking offensively perfect in a blazer that probably cost more than my entire academic year, stood at the center of a small crowd. Because of course he did. The man couldn't buy coffee without attracting admirers.
And draped against his side like a designer accessory she'd coordinated with her outfit was Victoria Chase.
Everyone knew Victoria Chase. Legacy admission, family money so old it probably remembered the dinosaurs, face already gracing three off-Broadway productions and approximately nine thousand society page photographs. She was the kind of beautiful that made other women want to apologize for having pores.
She was also, according to whisper networks I'd assembled like a detective solving a crime, Caspian's girlfriend.
Because the universe had a sick sense of humor.
Don't engage, I told myself firmly. You're here for Harrison. Focus. Ignore the walking cologne advertisement and his porcelain girlfriend.
I circled wide, approaching the professor from an angle that wouldn't put me in Caspian's direct eyeline. Harrison was discussing monetary policy with two seniors I vaguely recognized—trust fund types who'd probably land corner offices through family connections regardless of whether they could spell "economics."
"The Taylor Rule has obvious limitations in a post-recession environment," one of them was saying, clearly regurgitating something he'd skimmed that morning while his assistant made his espresso.
I waited for a pause, then stepped forward with my most professional smile. "Professor Harrison? I'm Serena Vale, from your Intermediate Macro section. I had some thoughts on your recent paper about inflation targeting—"
"Excuse me."
The voice came from my left, sweet as antifreeze mixed with honey and just a hint of arsenic.
Victoria Chase materialized beside me with the supernatural timing of someone who'd been waiting for exactly this moment. Her smile was radiant. Her eyes were calculating. Her entire presence screamed wrong neighborhood, sweetheart.
"I'm so sorry, were you part of this conversation?" She tilted her head, all wide-eyed innocence. "I didn't realize the introductory track students had opinions on advanced policy discussions."
The words landed like a knife wrapped in silk. I wasn't in the introductory track—I'd tested out of it freshman year, thank you very much—but correcting her would make me look defensive. Shrill. Exactly like the scholarship student who didn't know her place.
Checkmate in one move. Impressive, really, if you admired sociopathy.
"I was just—"
"Professor Harrison is so generous with his time." Victoria's smile sharpened. "But perhaps we should let the upperclassmen finish first? I think I saw a lovely appetizer table somewhere. The shrimp puffs looked almost edible."
The dismissal was surgical. Delivered with such sweetness that fighting back would make me the villain. The two seniors exchanged glances—amusement, relief, the comfortable recognition of peasants being shown the door.
Harrison looked vaguely uncomfortable but said nothing. Of course not. Victoria's father had probably funded his entire research department.
"Of course." My voice emerged steadier than my pride. "Didn't mean to interrupt."
I retreated toward the kitchen, face burning, my almost-designer dress suddenly feeling like a Halloween costume everyone could see through. My consignment shop heels pinched with every step, personally offended by the marble floors.
The kitchen was blessedly empty—just caterers refreshing trays, too professional to acknowledge my humiliation. I pressed against the counter and focused on breathing like a person who definitely wasn't dying inside.
You knew this would happen, my brain supplied helpfully. What exactly did you expect, a warm welcome and a friendship bracelet?
Voices floated from the hallway. Female, laughing, that particular pitch of women entertaining themselves at someone else's expense.
"Did you see those shoes?" Someone giggled. "I think my housekeeper has the same pair. She wears them to church."
"And that dress." Another voice, higher. "Off the rack is one thing, but at least get it tailored. She looked like a child playing dress-up."
"The try-hard energy is what kills me." This voice I recognized—Chelsea, Victoria's roommate, who'd once asked in seminar if community college was "really as depressing as it sounds." "Scholarship students never get it. You can't buy your way into belonging. It's not about money—it's about knowing. And they just... don't."
Laughter. Clinking glasses. The comfortable cruelty of people who'd never questioned their place in the world.
I stood frozen, cataloguing my failures through their eyes. The shoes. The dress. The desperate energy of someone who didn't understand she'd never belong, no matter how many A's she earned.
From the living room, I heard Caspian laugh. That specific sound I'd memorized against my will—confident, easy, the laugh of someone who'd never doubted he deserved oxygen.
Say something, I thought. Tell them they're wrong.
But why would he? We were rivals, not allies. He probably agreed with every word. Found it entertaining, even—the scholarship girl who thought she could crash their party.
His laugh continued, mixing with other voices, discussing something entirely unrelated to my existence. He wasn't defending me because he hadn't even noticed I needed defending.
That, somehow, hurt worst of all.
I left through the service entrance like the help I apparently was.
The subway platform was nearly empty. I sat on hard plastic and stared at the tracks, still wearing the dress I couldn't afford and the shoes that had betrayed me.
Victoria Chase had destroyed my entire evening with one perfectly aimed sentence. And Caspian—my rival, my obsession, the only person who made me feel truly alive—hadn't noticed at all.
The train arrived. I found a window seat and watched Manhattan blur past.
Scholarship students never understand.
Maybe they were right. Maybe I didn't understand their rules.
But I understood something they didn't: people with nothing to lose were dangerous.
And I had absolutely nothing left to lose.