I arrived at Ashwick Academy's end-of-year gala wearing a custom Valentino gown worth three million dollars, dripping with jewelry from my family's private collection, and radiating the kind of pharmaceutical wealth I'd spent months hiding. My grandmother had helped me select everything—the dress, the diamonds, the deliberate message that Isabella Virelli was done apologizing for being a billionaire.
"You look like you're declaring war," Roni said when she saw me, her eyes wide with something between admiration and concern.
"Good. That's exactly what I'm doing."
The past two weeks since Alexander's public betrayal had transformed me. No more hiding my wealth, no more trying to be relatable, no more pretending that genuine emotion mattered in a world where everything was strategic positi
