"Absolutely not," I said, staring at the formal invitation Emily had somehow procured and was now waving in front of my face like a magic wand. "There is no way I'm going to the Annual Westbridge Charity Auction."
"Come on, Lena," Emily wheedled, perched on the edge of my bed like an overly enthusiastic fairy godmother. "It's the social event of the semester. Everyone who's anyone will be there."
"Exactly why I shouldn't go," I pointed out, gesturing to my closet, which contained exactly zero items suitable for what the invitation described as "black-tie optional" attire. "I'm a scholarship student from Ohio, remember? I don't own anything that costs more than fifty dollars, let alone something appropriate for hobnobbing with the children of Fortune 500 CEOs."
Emily's expression softened. "Lena, honey, you can't hide forever. After that photo from the Business School and whatever happened at the library last night—"
"Nothing happened at the library."
"—you're already on everyone's radar. The question is whether you want to control the narrative or let other people write your story for you."
I flopped backward onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. Emily had a point, unfortunately. Ever since my disastrous first day, I'd been the subject of increasingly creative speculation on the Westbridge gossip networks. The latest theory, according to Emily's research, was that I was either a secret heiress, a federal agent investigating financial crimes, or Ryan Hale's long-lost cousin.
If only they knew how close one of those guesses actually was.
"Besides," Emily continued, "I may have already told people you were coming."
I shot upright. "You what?"
"I was talking to Marcus Chen—he's my older brother, MBA program—and he mentioned that Ryan Hale specifically asked if you'd be attending tonight's auction."
My stomach flipped. "Ryan asked about me?"
"Mmm-hmm. According to Marcus, Ryan seemed very interested in whether you'd accepted your invitation."
"I didn't get an invitation."
Emily held up the elegant cardstock she'd been waving around. "You did now. I may have mentioned to the event committee that there was an oversight in their mailing list."
I stared at her. "Emily, these tickets probably cost hundreds of dollars—"
"Already taken care of," she said airily. "Student charity committee gets a certain number of comp tickets for 'promising underclassmen who demonstrate commitment to philanthropic causes.'"
"I've been here for three days. What philanthropic causes could I possibly have demonstrated commitment to?"
"You're about to find out," Emily said with a grin. "The auction benefits the Westbridge Foundation for Educational Opportunity—scholarships for underprivileged students. Tonight, you're going to be their poster child success story."
Great. So not only was I going to a fancy party where I'd be completely out of my element, I was going as the token poor kid who was supposed to make everyone feel good about their charitable donations.
"Emily," I said carefully, "I really don't think this is a good idea. What if someone asks questions I can't answer? What if—"
"What if Ryan Hale realizes you're more interesting than you're pretending to be?" Emily interrupted. "Lena, I've been watching you for three days. You know things. You understand things. The way you talked about business strategy during our study session yesterday, the way you analyzed that economics article I showed you—you're not just some random community college transfer."
My heart started pounding. If Emily could see through my carefully constructed facade, what would a room full of business elites notice?
"I just read a lot," I said weakly.
"Uh-huh." Emily stood up and walked to her closet. "Which is why you're going to this auction, and you're going to show everyone exactly what they're dealing with. But first, we need to solve your wardrobe crisis."
She started pulling dresses from her closet—beautiful, expensive-looking things that probably cost more than my entire monthly budget.
"Emily, I can't borrow your clothes—"
"Why not? We're the same size, and I have way too many formal dresses." She held up a sleek black number that looked like it belonged on a red carpet. "My parents believe that proper attire is an investment in social capital. Their words, not mine."
I fingered the fabric of the dress she was showing me. It was silk, real silk, the kind that whispered expensive when it moved. "This probably costs more than my car."
"Then you'll just have to be extra careful not to spill anything on it," Emily said practically. "Now, what size shoe do you wear?"
Two hours later, I was standing in front of the full-length mirror in our dorm room, barely recognizing myself. Emily had worked some kind of magic with makeup, styling my hair into an elegant updo that made me look older and more sophisticated. The black dress she'd chosen fit perfectly, skimming my curves without being too revealing, striking exactly the right balance between elegant and understated.
"You look amazing," Emily said, applying a final touch of lipstick. "Like you belong in that world."
The irony was that I did belong in that world. Or at least, I used to. Before my parents died, before Carter Technology was destroyed, I'd attended charity galas and auction events as a matter of course. I knew how to make small talk with donors, how to bid on auction items without looking desperate, how to navigate the complex social hierarchies of the ultra-wealthy.
The question was whether I could do it without revealing that I knew too much.
"Emily," I said, adjusting the dress nervously, "what if I say the wrong thing? What if someone recognizes—"
"Recognizes what? That you're intelligent and well-educated? That you have opinions about art and business and politics?" Emily shook her head. "Lena, I don't know what you're so afraid of people discovering, but whatever it is, hiding isn't going to solve anything."
She was right, of course. I'd come to Westbridge to investigate the families responsible for my parents' deaths. I couldn't do that by cowering in my dorm room.
"Okay," I said, taking a deep breath. "Let's do this."
The Westbridge University Alumni Center had been transformed into something out of a movie. Crystal chandeliers cast sparkles of light across cream-colored walls lined with auction items—paintings, sculptures, luxury vacation packages, and other items that represented more money than most people saw in a lifetime.
Students mingled with faculty, alumni, and what I assumed were wealthy donors, all dressed in the kind of effortless elegance that money could buy. Waiters in crisp uniforms circulated with champagne and canapés that probably cost more per bite than most people's lunch.
"Remember," Emily whispered as we collected our auction paddles from the registration table, "confidence is everything. Act like you belong here."
I nodded, trying to project the kind of cool confidence I'd learned from watching my mother navigate similar events. Isabella Carter had been a master at working a room, making connections, remembering everyone's names and their children's accomplishments.
"Lena Carter," a voice said behind me, and I turned to find myself face-to-face with a woman who looked like she'd stepped out of a corporate boardroom. Blonde hair in a perfect chignon, designer suit that probably cost more than most people's cars, and the kind of smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm Sophie Miller. I don't think we've been properly introduced."
My blood turned to ice. Sophie Miller. Ryan's ex-girlfriend, according to Emily's gossip network intelligence. Daughter of one of the most powerful law firms in the country. And currently looking at me like I was something unpleasant she'd found on the bottom of her shoe.
"Nice to meet you," I said, extending my hand with what I hoped was appropriate confidence.
Sophie's handshake was firm and brief. "You're the transfer student everyone's been talking about. From Ohio, isn't it?"
"That's right."
"How fascinating. You know, I spent a summer interning at a law firm in Cleveland. Lovely state. Very... pastoral." The way she said 'pastoral' made it sound like a disease.
"It has its charms," I said neutrally.
"I'm sure it does." Sophie's smile sharpened. "You know, it's so wonderful that Westbridge is committed to providing opportunities for students from... diverse backgrounds. The scholarship program is truly admirable."
Every word was perfectly polite, but the subtext was clear: you don't belong here, and we both know it.
"Lena!" Emily appeared at my elbow like a guardian angel. "There you are. I was just telling the Dean about your fascinating perspective on international economic policy."
I shot Emily a grateful look. "Sophie, this is my roommate, Emily Chen. Emily, Sophie Miller."
"Oh, we know each other," Emily said with a smile that was considerably warmer than Sophie's. "Our families have been involved in several business ventures together. How's your father's new merger going, Sophie?"
Sophie's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "Very well, thank you."
"That's wonderful. Hostile takeovers can be so complicated, can't they? All those regulatory hurdles and shareholder concerns." Emily's tone was conversational, but I caught the edge beneath it.
"If you'll excuse me," Sophie said coolly, "I should find my seat. The auction will be starting soon."
As she walked away, I turned to Emily with newfound respect. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
"Sophie Miller thinks she owns this place because her family has money and connections," Emily said with a shrug. "But money can't buy class, and connections don't guarantee intelligence."
"You know about her family's business?"
"I know about everyone's family business. It's survival skill number one at Westbridge." Emily glanced around the room. "Speaking of which, your mysterious businessman just walked in."
I followed her gaze and felt my breath catch. Ryan Hale had just entered the room, and he looked like he'd been born wearing a tuxedo. The formal attire somehow made him even more intimidating—all sharp lines and expensive tailoring that emphasized his height and the kind of confidence that came from never doubting you belonged wherever you happened to be.
"He's looking for someone," Emily observed.
She was right. Ryan's eyes were scanning the room with purpose, like he was searching for something specific. When his gaze found mine across the crowded room, he went very still for a moment.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't the cold, calculating smile I'd seen in the conference room or the cautiously friendly expression from the library. This was something else entirely—warm and appreciative and genuinely pleased.
And it was aimed directly at me.
"Oh," Emily said softly. "Oh my."
"What?"
"Lena, honey, that man is looking at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life."
Before I could respond to that observation, the auction began. We found seats at a table near the back—Emily's strategic choice, she explained, because it gave us a good view of the bidding action without putting us too much in the spotlight.
The first few auction items were standard charity auction fare—a week at a luxury resort in the Bahamas, dinner with a celebrity chef, a signed basketball from some famous player whose name I didn't recognize. The bidding was enthusiastic but civilized, with participants raising their paddles in the kind of restrained competition that suggested they were more interested in supporting the cause than actually acquiring the items.
Then the auctioneer announced the next item.
"Lot seventeen," he said, gesturing to an easel where a medium-sized painting was displayed. "An original work by Helena Morrison, titled 'Convergence.' Oil on canvas, 2018. Ms. Morrison, as you know, is one of the most sought-after contemporary artists working today. Her pieces rarely come to auction, making this a truly exceptional opportunity."
I leaned forward, studying the painting with genuine interest. Helena Morrison's work was distinctive—abstract but with an underlying structure that suggested mathematical precision. This particular piece featured swirling blues and greens that seemed to move when you looked at them, creating an almost hypnotic effect.
"The bidding will start at fifty thousand dollars," the auctioneer announced.
I nearly choked on my champagne. Fifty thousand dollars for a single painting?
"Do I hear fifty thousand?"
Ryan's paddle went up immediately.
"Fifty thousand to paddle thirty-seven. Do I hear sixty?"
Another paddle, held by a man in an expensive suit who looked like he collected art the way other people collected stamps.
"Sixty thousand. Do I hear seventy?"
Ryan raised his paddle again, his expression completely calm.
The bidding continued, climbing steadily upward. Seventy-five thousand. Eighty. Ninety. Each bid was met with a counter-bid, and I found myself watching the competition with fascination.
"One hundred thousand dollars," the auctioneer announced. "Do I hear one hundred and ten?"
The older man hesitated, then raised his paddle.
"One hundred and ten thousand. Do I hear one hundred and twenty?"
Ryan didn't hesitate. His paddle went up immediately.
"He really wants that painting," Emily murmured.
I studied the artwork more carefully, trying to understand what made it worth such an incredible amount of money. And then I saw it—the signature detail that made Helena Morrison's work so distinctive.
"It's not about the painting," I said quietly.
"What do you mean?"
"Look at the composition. See how the colors converge in the lower right quadrant? Morrison always hides mathematical sequences in her work. This piece—the color gradients correspond to the Fibonacci sequence."
Emily stared at me. "How do you know that?"
Good question. How did I know that? Because I'd studied Morrison's work extensively after my parents had purchased one of her pieces for their private collection. Because I'd spent hours analyzing the mathematical principles underlying her compositions. Because before my life fell apart, I'd been on track to minor in art history alongside my business degree.
"I read about it somewhere," I said weakly.
"One hundred and fifty thousand dollars," the auctioneer called out. "Do I hear one hundred and sixty?"
The older man shook his head, dropping out of the bidding. Ryan had won.
"Sold to paddle thirty-seven for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
I watched Ryan accept congratulations from the people at his table, but his expression was thoughtful rather than triumphant. Like he'd bought the painting for reasons that had nothing to do with wanting to own it.
"That was an interesting bid," a voice said behind me.
I turned to find an elderly man with kind eyes and an expensive suit standing behind our table. He looked familiar, but I couldn't place him.
"Excuse me?" I said.
"The Morrison piece. Your young man paid quite a premium for it."
"He's not my—" I started, then stopped. There was no point in explaining my complicated non-relationship with Ryan Hale to a stranger.
"Helena Morrison's work is quite fascinating," the man continued. "The mathematical underpinnings, the way she incorporates complex sequences into seemingly abstract compositions. Very few people recognize the sophistication of her technique."
Something in his tone suggested this wasn't casual conversation. "You know her work well?"
"I should hope so. I'm her dealer." He extended his hand. "Charles Whitman. I represent several contemporary artists, including Ms. Morrison."
I shook his hand, trying to place where I'd heard the name Charles Whitman before. "It's a beautiful piece."
"Indeed. Though I confess I'm curious about something. From where I was standing, it looked like you recognized the Fibonacci element in the composition. That's quite sophisticated for—" He paused delicately.
"For a scholarship student from Ohio?" I supplied.
"I was going to say for someone so young. Art appreciation usually develops over time, with exposure and education."
There was a question in his statement, but before I could figure out how to answer it, Emily touched my arm.
"Lena, the auction's ending. People are starting to mingle."
I looked around and realized she was right. The formal bidding was over, and the evening was transitioning into the cocktail party phase. People were standing, moving around, engaging in the kind of networking that was probably the real purpose of events like this.
"It was nice meeting you, Mr. Whitman," I said.
"The pleasure was mine," he said. "Perhaps we'll have a chance to speak again. I have a feeling you'd have interesting perspectives on contemporary art."
As he walked away, I noticed he headed directly toward Ryan, who was standing near the auction display talking to a group of older men in expensive suits.
"Okay," Emily said, "that was weird."
"What was weird?"
"The way he was looking at you. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle." Emily paused. "Also, the way you talked about that painting. Lena, how did you really know about the Fibonacci sequence thing?"
Before I could answer, I felt someone approaching from behind. I turned to find Ryan standing there, looking even more devastating up close in his perfectly tailored tuxedo.
"Lena," he said, and his voice was warm in a way that made something flutter in my chest. "You look beautiful tonight."
"Thank you," I managed. "Congratulations on your acquisition. The Morrison piece is lovely."
Something flickered in his eyes. "You know Morrison's work?"
Shit. I'd done it again—revealed knowledge I shouldn't possess.
"I've read about her," I said carefully. "The mathematical elements in her compositions are fascinating."
"Most people don't notice those details."
"Most people aren't looking for them."
Ryan stepped closer, and I caught a hint of his cologne—something expensive and subtle that made me want to lean in closer. "What made you look for them?"
The question felt loaded with meaning I couldn't decipher. "I like puzzles," I said finally.
"So do I." His smile was enigmatic. "Perhaps you'd like to see the painting up close? I'm having it delivered to my apartment tomorrow."
"Your apartment?"
"Off-campus housing. I prefer privacy to dorm life." He paused. "You could bring Emily if that would make you more comfortable."
It was a reasonable offer, perfectly appropriate. So why did it feel like I was being invited into something far more complicated than an art viewing?
"I'll think about it," I said.
"I hope you will." Ryan glanced around the room, then back at me. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lena. I have a feeling we'll be seeing more of each other."
As he walked away, I realized that Sophie Miller had been watching our entire interaction from across the room. And the expression on her perfectly made-up face suggested she was not at all happy about what she'd witnessed.
"Well," Emily said, fanning herself dramatically, "that was intense."
"It was just polite conversation."
"Honey, if that was just polite conversation, I'm the Queen of England." Emily shook her head. "That man is interested in you. Seriously interested."
I wanted to argue, but the way Ryan had looked at me, the warmth in his voice when he'd complimented my appearance, the careful way he'd phrased his invitation—it all suggested Emily might be right.
Which was either the best thing that could happen to my mission at Westbridge, or the most dangerous.
As we gathered our things to leave, I caught one last glimpse of Ryan across the room. He was talking to Charles Whitman, the art dealer, and both men were looking in my direction.
Something told me that my carefully constructed anonymity was about to become a lot more complicated.