PIPER –
The black town car purred to a stop in front of Thornfield Academy's wrought iron gates, and Piper Abbott pressed her face to the tinted window. "Oh. My. Goodness. Omar—look at this place."
Her voice carried that perfect champagne fizz she'd been polishing since seventh grade—sweet enough to make strangers smile, sharp enough to make other girls hate her on sight.
The gates curled like black lace beyond the window. Thornfield rose out of the fading light with spires older than some countries, gargoyles posed mid-whisper, walls tangled in storybook ivy. The stained-glass windows glinted crimson and gold across stone, and bronze horses reared on the gate pillars like they were daring you to come closer.
The September sky bruised velvet between summer's last sigh and autumn's first threat. The air smelled of rain-wet stone, melted candle wax, and something richer underneath: money so old it had fossilized.
Omar Carter's hand tightened around hers, his thumb brushing the silver ring he'd slipped on her finger last Christmas. "Only the best for my girl," he murmured, voice still carrying soft Kentucky edges from when the world was smaller and Thornfield was just a glossy brochure photo.
The town car's door swung open, spilling her into the courtyard.
Piper's fingers toyed with her blush-pink cashmere sweater—chosen to murmur I was born for this. "I still can't believe Daddy actually got your parents to say yes. We're really here. You and me. Like we planned."
"Hope I make the lacrosse team." Omar's words came thin and tight. She heard it instantly—that brittle strain whenever his father's shadow wrapped around his chest and squeezed.
"You'll crush it," she said, the words smooth as silk and just as practiced.
"Lost?"
The voice slipped in from behind them—cool as silk, sharp as a scalpel.
George Morrison leaned against a limestone pillar like he'd been poured there. Hair the color of old gold, artfully tousled in that way that cost a small fortune. His Thornfield blazer hung open, tie askew, uniform rules broken so perfectly it felt like they'd been written just so he could bend them. Ice-chip blue eyes, bored until they found her.
Omar stiffened, chin lifting, shoulders tilting like a shield.
George barely spared Omar a glance before his gaze settled on Piper again, slow and deliberate. When he smiled, it was a predator's grin disguised as charm.
"Need someone to show you around?"
Before Piper could answer, George stepped forward and took the pink leather suitcase from her hand. His fingers brushed hers—light enough to look accidental, heavy enough to whisper mine.
"Oh!" Her laugh slipped out soft and sweet. "That's so thoughtful of you."
George's mouth twitched—satisfaction, like he'd nudged a piece on the board exactly where he wanted it.
"I'm George Morrison. And you're Piper Abbott. Kentucky. Thoroughbreds." He shaped her name like a secret, tasting each syllable before letting it go.
Piper's pulse picked up. How did he know about her father's horses? Gossip traveled fast in cages lined with gold, but this felt colder—curated, precise.
"This is my boyfriend, Omar Carter." Her hand closed around Omar's wrist, thumb brushing the promise ring's ridged silver. The word boyfriend fell between them like a warning shot.
George's eyes cut to Omar, pale and almost bored, lingering just long enough to measure him before flicking away like a smudge. "Right. The Jock."
"Come on, then." He turned without waiting, suitcase swinging at his side. "I'll show you what really matters here."
The choice wasn't a choice at all. Their feet moved because people always followed George Morrison.
The quad felt colder as they crossed it. Piper wanted to slip her hand into Omar's, to braid their fingers like Kentucky nights when cicadas sang and everything felt soft. But his arm had gone marble-hard, jaw set, eyes pinned to George's shoulders cutting a path ahead.
She recognized that look—the quiet storm gathering under his calm.
By the registration table, Derek Hayes slipped his phone back into his jacket, gaze hooded as he tracked them: the golden boy, the southern belle, the athlete trying too hard to look unbothered.
At Thornfield Academy, someone was always watching. Always measuring. Always filing away your soft spots for later.
The real trick wasn't figuring out if you were a piece on someone else's board. It was realizing you'd been in the game long before you ever set foot on campus.