The elevator creaked, shuddering like it might give out entirely before reaching the twentieth floor. Elena Cruz tightened her grip on her tote bag, praying the ancient machinery wouldn't decide this morning—of all mornings—to fall apart.
She had exactly twelve minutes to get to class, and judging by the worn-out buttons and the coffee spill seeping through the seams of her canvas bag, she was losing the battle for both time and dignity.
"Come on," she whispered to the flickering ceiling light, as if the building might show her mercy.
The elevator dinged at last. She bolted out, weaving through the crowded hallway of Columbia Law with the kind of speed only desperation could produce. Her heels clicked like gunshots against the marble floor.
"Cruz!"
She turned just as Professor Mandel caught her by the elbow.
"I was just about to email you," he said, adjusting his glasses. "You're representing the school at today's legal panel."
"I—what?" Elena's brain stalled.
"It's been rescheduled to this afternoon. I need you in the auditorium by three. Formal attire. You'll be debating a guest—one of our alumni."
"I have two shifts today—"
"Cancel them," he said without apology. "This is the opportunity law students dream about. And frankly, Elena, you're the only one in this class who can hold her own under pressure."
Before she could argue, he was gone—swept back into a sea of suited students.
Formal attire. A panel. Cancel both jobs.
Rent was due in ten days.
Her stomach sank, but she didn't have the luxury of turning this down. Not if she wanted to keep her scholarship.
Not if she wanted to prove—once again—that she belonged here.
---
Elena managed to squeeze herself into a seat at the back of her morning lecture just as Professor Klein began. Her pulse was still racing, her thoughts already skipping ahead to 3 PM.
A legal panel. Formal attire. A guest alumni.
She pulled out her notebook, flipped to a clean page, and scrawled a quiet panic list in the margins:
Panel @ 3 PM
Cancel café shift
Text Gloria to swap night shift
What the hell is formal attire when you own ONE blazer?
She sighed, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Gloria, her roommate, might have something—though Gloria leaned toward sequins and cleavage, neither of which screamed "respectable future attorney."
The rest of the class passed in a fog. Elena's mind was elsewhere, replaying every possible worst-case scenario. Would she be asked about case law in front of a crowd? Cross-examined by a smug professor? What kind of alumni came back to law panels?
She didn't have time to be nervous. She had time to survive.
By 2:15, she was power-walking through campus in her one good blazer, the hem of her black pencil skirt safety-pinned where the stitching had given out last month. Her heels were scuffed. Her blouse—white, slightly sheer—had been ironed with a flat iron that morning while Gloria sang off-key in the shower.
"Fake it till you make it," she muttered, passing a group of students with gleaming briefcases and teeth far too perfect to be fully paid for.
The auditorium was larger than she expected. Circular, tiered seating. A panel table set on a raised stage, five name tags spaced across it. Cameras. Microphones. Press?
No one mentioned cameras.
She moved toward the back, hoping to find Professor Mandel, but a woman in all-black intercepted her.
"Elena Cruz?"
"Yes."
"You'll be seated next to Mr. Vale. Here's your nameplate." She handed it over without further explanation and disappeared again.
Elena looked down at the folded card in her hand:
ELENA CRUZ – 2L, Columbia Law
Next to hers, an empty placard read: Damien Vale – CEO, Vale Technologies
Vale.
The name tugged at something faint and distant. Wasn't Vale Technologies one of the firms that just donated ten million to the business school?
"Of course," she murmured. "A billionaire."
Perfect.
She sat, forced her knees to stop bouncing, and pulled out a notepad. Calm, competent, unbothered. She didn't even glance toward the camera crews or the rows of high-ranking faculty members trickling in.
The auditorium buzzed to life around her.
And then—
Silence, like a switch.
He entered from the left, dressed in black. A three-piece suit so sharply tailored it made every other man on stage look like they'd bought theirs off the rack. His hair was dark and slicked back, his jaw freshly shaved, his presence immediate.
He moved like the world shifted around him instead of the other way around.
Damien Vale didn't just enter a room—he consumed it.
He nodded politely to the moderator, then sat beside her without so much as a glance in her direction.
Elena pretended not to care.
But his cologne—smoky, clean, expensive—sank under her skin like a whisper.
"Ms. Cruz," he said suddenly, voice deep and smooth as aged scotch. "I hear you've made quite an impression at this school."
She turned her head, calmly. "And I hear you've made quite a fortune off your patents."
A corner of his mouth twitched—amused? Annoyed? It was hard to tell.
"I'm curious," he said, folding his hands. "Do you believe morality still has a place in law?"
"I believe it never left," she answered, turning fully to face him. "Some just choose to ignore it when power becomes convenient."
That got his attention.
His gaze sharpened, pinning her in place. Dark eyes, unreadable, with something biting beneath the surface.
The moderator stepped up before he could reply. "Welcome, everyone, to this year's Legal Leadership Panel…"
The rest of the opening remarks blurred. Elena kept her focus narrowed. On the crowd. The microphones. Her hands, perfectly still on the desk.
Her opponent, however, didn't look away from her once.
---
By the twenty-minute mark, the debate had begun.
One by one, students and alumni were asked ethical questions on business law, legal responsibility in tech industries, and the growing complications of AI and privacy.
When it was Elena's turn, she spoke with clarity. With fire.
"We can't build systems that trade liberty for profit and call them progress. It's still theft—just with a cleaner logo."
The audience murmured. Several faculty heads nodded. Even the moderator looked impressed.
When it came to Damien Vale's rebuttal, he leaned forward, clasped his hands, and said, "Idealism is beautiful in theory. But it's rarely a luxury afforded in practice. There is no morality in the free market—only leverage."
That's when she struck.
"Then I suppose the law's role," she said, "is to remind the powerful that leverage does not equal absolution."
The audience went quiet again.
Damien's jaw ticked.
But this time, he smiled.
It was slow. Calculated. And almost amused.
"I look forward to seeing where you end up, Ms. Cruz," he said, voice low. "If you manage not to burn out on righteousness first."
She smiled, razor sharp. "And I look forward to seeing what you do when money no longer buys you silence."
---
After the panel, she escaped before anyone could corner her for congratulations. The adrenaline high was giving way to exhaustion, and she had a shift to cover.
By the time she got home that evening, her feet were aching, and Gloria was already asleep. Elena peeled off her blazer, dropped onto her bed fully clothed, and stared at the ceiling.
A billionaire. A debate. A few hours pretending to belong in his world.
It didn't matter.
She still had $182.41 in her checking account and three overdue bills.
Whatever Damien Vale thought of her performance, he'd forget her by tomorrow.
She was certain of it.
---
But she was wrong.
Because the next morning, a sleek, unmarked black car pulled up in front of her part-time job.
A man in a charcoal suit stepped out, approached the counter, and slid a business card across the table.
"Ms. Elena Cruz?" he asked.
She blinked. "Who's asking?"
"I represent Mr. Damien Vale. He'd like to schedule a private meeting. This afternoon."
Elena stared.
"Why?"
The man smiled, polite but firm. "He's offering you a contract."