By the time my name is called, my palms are already damp against the cheap blue folder I bought from the campus bookstore clearance bin.
“Hale, Ruby.”
The program coordinator doesn’t look up when she says it. Her eyes stay glued to the iPad, thumb flicking like I’m a line item instead of a life on fire.
I stand anyway.
The seminar room hums with air conditioning and low, ambitious chatter. Every surface looks expensive: glass walls, polished oak table, plasma screen politely reminding us: HONORS IMPACT PROGRAM — COHORT ORIENTATION.
I can almost hear the zeroes in that font.
My sneakers squeak once on the glossy floor as I walk toward the front. The other students track me in that practiced, academic way—quick appraisal, instant ranking. Thrift-store blazer, overstuffed backpack, hair wrangled into a bun with a pen. They don’t know my family’s mortgage is one missed payment away from foreclosure, but they can smell that I’m not one of them.
I square my shoulders.
Professor Elena Moreno, queen of the Honors Impact Program, lifts her gaze. Her dark eyes are sharp, assessing. “Ruby Hale,” she repeats, and this time there’s the faintest nod of acknowledgment. “Economics. Community finance track.”
“Yes, Professor.” My voice doesn’t shake. Victory.
She gestures to the side of the room, where a row of sleek rolling chairs wait like a jury box. “You’ll be co-leading Team Crestwick in the inter-university showcase. High-profile. High expectations.”
My chest tightens. I know what that means. The scholarship. The one that covers four years’ tuition and comes with a stipend big enough to drag my parents’ house back from the brink. The one shot.
I take the empty chair marked with a white card: TEAM CRESTWICK — CO-LEAD A.
A.
I let myself taste it, just for a second. If there’s a Co-Lead A, there’s a Co-Lead B. There’s someone who shares the workload, the stage, the risk.
And then the coordinator says it.
“Thorn, Caleb.”
The room tilts.
Every head swivels toward the door.
He walks in late, of course. Like time was made to wait for him.
I’ve seen him around campus: sun-streaked brown hair, jawline you could cut glass on, watch that costs more than my family’s car. He’s always laughing with people who look like magazine ads and future senators—crisp shirts, easy privilege. I’ve filed him mentally under Absolutely Not.
He doesn’t look like a spreadsheet of unpaid bills should be gnawing at his insides.
“Sorry,” he says to the room, but not really. The corner of his mouth lifts like he knows he’s forgiven already. “Flight from New York got delayed.”
Of course he flies back from New York on weekends. Of course he does.
He strides to the front, black backpack slung over one shoulder. Even his backpack manages to look expensive.
Professor Moreno’s expression flattens a hair. “Mr. Thorn. Thank you for joining us.”
Some of the students whisper. Thorn. I don’t have to look at the donor wall in the lobby to know the name. It’s etched on half the buildings: Thorn Science Center, Thorn Innovation Hub, Thorn Plaza. Victor Thorn, billionaire industrialist, king of corporate mergers, patron saint of gleaming glass and steel.
And his son is walking toward me.
Please let this be a coincidence.
It isn’t.
“Caleb Thorn, Business and Public Policy,” Moreno says. “You will be co-leading Team Crestwick alongside Ms. Hale.”
Our eyes meet.
His gaze skims over my blazer, my clearance-bin folder, my thrift-store everything. I watch the flicker of recognition when he spots the name card on the chair beside me.
Co-Lead B.
He smiles. Not with his mouth—his mouth stays in that polite, public curve he probably learned in some Thorn-family media training—but with a fractional lift of his brows, like the universe just handed him something mildly amusing.
He drops into the seat next to mine, the leather cushion sighing under his weight. I feel the warmth of him in my peripheral vision.
“Hey,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. His voice is annoyingly smooth. “Guess we’re stuck together.”
“Tragic,” I reply, just as quietly, eyes still on Professor Moreno.
He lets out a single huff of breath that might be a laugh.
Orientation blurs into a montage of slides and program jargon: impact assessment, stakeholder engagement, cross-sector collaboration. I know it all already. I memorized the website the night I got my acceptance email, my heart hammering against my ribs while my mom try-not-to-cry smiled in the doorway and my dad pretended he wasn’t calculating interest rates in his head.
But I can’t focus.
Because every time Moreno mentions the scholarship—“Our top team will receive the Crestwick-Donor Consortium Scholarship, a full-ride merit award”—my brain flashes my brother’s text from last week: they’re talking about selling the house, Rubes.
Because every time she turns, her gaze lands squarely on me and on the boy beside me, like we’re chess pieces she just put on the board.
“We’ve selected co-leads based on complementary strengths,” she says finally. “You’ll be responsible for driving your capstone project from concept to implementation. The committee will evaluate not only your final deliverables, but your leadership, ethics, and collaboration.”
I hear the capital letters in that last word.
Beside me, Caleb shifts. His knee bumps mine briefly before he moves it away. A tiny, involuntary contact, and my body reacts before my ethics can protest—nerves lighting up, awareness sharpened.
No. Absolutely not. We are not doing this.
I raise my hand.
Moreno’s brows lift. “Ms. Hale?”
“If there’s one main scholarship,” I say, keeping my tone even, “but each team has two co-leads, how is the award determined? Do both leaders receive it, or is it… split?”
It’s a fake question. I know the answer. I read the fine print three times.
But I want to hear her say it out loud. I want to watch him hear it.
The room quiets. A few people lean forward.
Moreno folds her hands. “The scholarship is awarded to a single individual,” she says. “From the top-performing team, the committee will select one co-lead based on overall contribution and leadership impact.”
One.
A muscle tenses in my neck.
“So,” I press, “our job, as co-leads, is to collaborate for the sake of the team outcome while simultaneously competing against each other for the only prize that actually matters.”
There’s a ripple of discomfort. Someone near the back lets out a low whistle.
Moreno’s mouth twitches, admiration or annoyance, I can’t tell. “Your job, Ms. Hale, is to do excellent work. The scholarship is a byproduct of that.”
“That’s one way to phrase it,” I say.
I feel, more than see, Caleb turn his head toward me.
“Ms. Hale likes precision,” he says to the professor, tone light. “Let me see if I’ve got the terms straight. We’re being asked to demonstrate our ability to cooperate while undercutting the only other person who shares our incentives.”
He says it like a joke. The room laughs, including Moreno, because his last name buys him that much.
My pulse spikes. Because he isn’t wrong.
Moreno tilts her head. “If you two put half as much energy into the project as you clearly plan to put into semantics, Thorn Industries will have competition on Wall Street in a decade.”
The mention of his family’s company hangs heavy.
Orientation ends with the standard “we’re so proud” speech and a reminder that our first team meeting is in twenty minutes. People stand, stretch, form clumps. The hum of voices swells.
Caleb stays seated.
“So,” he says, turning fully toward me now. Up close, his eyes are a clear, disconcerting hazel—green at the edges, gold near the center. “Co-Lead A.” He glances at my name card, then at his: CO-LEAD B. “Congratulations on your alphabetical advantage.”
I snap my folder shut. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the donor advantage will even it out.”
His brows lift, slow. “We’re opening with class warfare, then.”
“We’re opening with realism.” I slide my bag strap over my shoulder. “You going to tell me you didn’t know your dad’s name is on half this campus?”
A flicker passes through his expression. Then the charming mask drops back into place. “Oh, I know,” he says. “I also know it doesn’t mean Moreno’s going to let me coast. She used the phrase ‘earned, not endowed’ in my interview three times.”
I almost smile. Almost.
“So you did have to answer questions like a normal person,” I say. “Good to know.”
“Brutal questions,” he replies. “She practically bit my head off for saying ‘synergy.’”
That gets me. A tiny huff of air escapes before I can stop it. His mouth curves, like he’s cataloguing the sound.
“Look,” he says more quietly, eyes searching my face. “I get it. My last name makes people… assume. But we’re stuck together for a year. You want to spend it sharpening knives or building something that wins?”
The earnestness in his voice unsettles me more than the charm.
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive,” I say. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of pretending stakes don’t exist.”
His gaze hardens, just a shade. “You think I’m pretending?”
“What are your stakes, Thorn?” I ask. “If you lose, they cut your avocado toast stipend?”
There it is. The line I knew I’d cross because I’m tired and scared and staring at the personification of every rigged system that’s ever chewed on people like my dad.
His jaw—only now, this chapter, for the first time—sets. “You don’t know anything about my family.”
“I know enough,” I say. “I know your father can make one phone call and multiply your opportunities. Mine can’t even get a bank manager to return his.”
He looks like he’s about to say something sharp. Then his gaze drops—to my hand, white-knuckling the blue folder. His eyes snag on the frayed corner, the crumpled bursar’s notice peeking out.
Embarrassment flares hot in my chest.
“Must be nice,” I add, even though I know it’s petty. “Having a safety net.”
For a heartbeat, he’s utterly still.
Then he leans back in his chair, the tension smoothing out of his posture like he’s choosing to let go of something. But his eyes are cooler now.
“Maybe you’re right,” he says lightly. “Maybe I’ll frame the scholarship letter as a fun little decoration for my yacht.”
“There it is,” I murmur. “The brand.”
He stands. He’s taller than I realized sitting down; it forces me to tip my head back a fraction. I hate that I notice the faint smell of clean soap and something expensive, like cedar and citrus.
“Look, Hale.” He slings his bag over his shoulder. “I showed up. I interviewed. I got in. Same as you. Whatever else you think you know about me? That’s your problem.”
He walks away before I can fire back.
The room empties around me. I exhale, feeling like I’ve just run a sprint while standing still.
A text buzzes in my pocket. Naomi.
HOW IS THE IVORY TOWER, MY QUEEN? Have they crowned the rich boy yet or are they pretending merit still matters?
I stare at the screen, then type back:
You have no idea.
The first team meeting is in a smaller glass-walled room down the hall. When I walk in, Caleb is already there, leaning over the table with another guy I recognize from econ: Jordan Black—slick hair, expensive pen, smile that never quite reaches his eyes.
“Ruby.” Jordan beams like we’re old friends. “Or do you prefer ‘Co-Lead A’?”
I take the seat opposite them. “Ruby is fine.”
Jordan slides a glossy folder across the table. “I took the liberty of printing the program brief for everyone,” he says. “Color-coded. We’re in the presence of excellence, after all.” He tips his head toward Caleb.
Of course.
Caleb doesn’t look at me right away. He’s watching Jordan, a faint crease between his brows.
“Jordan’s on another team,” he says, like a clarification. “He just wanted to… welcome us to the arena, I guess.”
“Always happy to greet the competition,” Jordan says. “Especially when it’s this photogenic.” His eyes skim over me in a way that makes my spine stiffen.
“Careful,” I say. “Your smarm is showing.”
Caleb’s mouth twitches.
Jordan laughs like I’ve flirted with him instead of insulted him. “Moreno said you had teeth,” he says. “I like that. Keeps things interesting.”
“Jordan,” Caleb cuts in, voice easy but edged, “don’t you have a team to micromanage?”
Jordan plants his palms on the back of a chair, leaning in. “Just wanted to be the first to say it,” he murmurs, eyes flicking between us. “Only one of you gets out of this with your golden ticket. Try not to kill each other before then. The rest of us want a fair fight.”
His gaze lingers on me a fraction too long. Then he straightens, winks at Caleb, and saunters out.
The air feels different when the door swings shut. Quieter. Thicker.
Caleb exhales slowly, then drops into the chair beside mine. The glass walls throw our reflections back at us—two shapes side by side, the words TEAM CRESTWICK etched in frost on the door behind us.
“Subtle guy,” I say.
“He’s worse when there are cameras,” Caleb replies. “Don’t let him get in your head.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
He turns slightly. “You don’t have to be.”
It’s such a strange thing to hear from him that I look at him fully. The hazel in his eyes looks darker here, under the fluorescent lights.
“What are your stakes, then?” I ask, quieter than before. “No yacht jokes. Just… why are you here?”
He’s silent long enough that I think he’ll deflect.
Then he says, “My father told me if I don’t lead this team to the top, I can forget having a say in Thorn Industries. His words, not mine.” He lets out a humorless breath. “Apparently, proving I can win something that doesn’t have our name engraved on it is the minimum threshold for being taken seriously.”
The admission hits harder than I expect.
“So if you lose…” I prompt.
“I become the ornamental son instead of the successor,” he says. “Some people would kill for that arrangement. I’d rather not be a decorative plant at my own family company.”
There’s a joke in there, but his knuckles are pale where his hand rests on the table.
Something in my chest shifts, uneasy.
“I didn’t ask for your sympathy,” he adds quickly. “You asked for my stakes. Those are them.”
“Sounds like your safety net has conditions,” I say softly.
He gives me a sideways look. “So. We both can’t afford to lose.”
“No,” I say. “We can’t.”
Silence stretches. The hum of the air conditioner fills it.
“This program wants us to act like teammates while designing us as rivals,” I say eventually. “It’s perverse.”
“Maybe that’s the test,” he replies. “Can we do the impossible anyway?”
“Define ‘we,’” I say.
“Us,” he answers, and the word hangs there between us, fragile and electric.
My heartbeat stutters.
“Don’t romanticize this,” I mutter. “It’s game theory. Iterated prisoner’s dilemma with asymmetrical power distribution.”
His mouth curves. “You make that sound almost sexy, Hale.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Stop.”
“Can’t help it,” he says lightly. “I flirt with everything I’m afraid of.”
The honesty of it knocks the air out of me for a second.
I look at him, really look, and for the first time I see past the name and the watch and the easy grin to the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against the table.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe we’re both afraid—for different reasons, on different floors of the same burning building.
“Here’s my proposal,” he says, dragging his laptop closer. “We treat this like a hostile merger with a joint venture clause.”
“You really can’t stop speaking in capitalism metaphors, can you?”
“It’s my love language.”
I roll my eyes, but my mouth betrays me with the barest hint of a smile.
“We work,” he continues. “We share information. We build the best damn project this program has ever seen. And if the committee decides to crown one of us over the other at the end?” He shrugs, but there’s steel under it. “Then we deal with it when we get there.”
“And if one of us… sabotages?” I ask.
He meets my gaze steadily. “Then we both lose. Moreno’s not stupid. Neither is the rest of the cohort. You burn me, you burn us.”
Us, again.
My mind runs simulations at high speed. Cooperation with a side of mutual assured destruction. Not ideal. But maybe the least awful option.
“Fine,” I say finally. “Truce. For now.”
His shoulders loosen, just a little. “I’ll take ‘for now.’”
I extend my hand.
He looks at it like it’s a puzzle, then reaches out.
His palm is warm. Our fingers close around each other’s in a grip that’s firmer than polite strangers, not quite as hard as enemies.
A jolt runs up my arm, unwelcome and undeniable.
“Don’t make me regret this, Thorn,” I say.
He holds my gaze, and for once there’s no smirk, no performance—just that steady, unreadable warmth pretending to be distance.
“You won’t,” he says. “Unless I do.”
I don’t know yet which one scares me more.
Outside the glass, students drift past, oblivious.
Inside, hand still tingling from his, I open my laptop and the project brief, acutely aware that the boy sitting inches away might be the one person who can help me save everything—and the one person who can take it all away.
And for the first time since walking into orientation, I realize I’m not entirely sure which outcome I’m more afraid of.
