The East Wing basement had been converted into an unofficial student lounge years ago, complete with vintage furniture, a full bar that was technically for faculty events, and enough soundproofing to ensure that whatever happened down there stayed down there. It was where Ashwick’s elite gathered for the kind of activities that didn’t appear in official school publications.
Tonight’s underground poker night had drawn the usual crowd—trust fund babies with too much money and not enough supervision, looking for entertainment that their families’ wealth couldn’t directly purchase. The stakes weren’t just financial; reputations, secrets, and social currency were all fair game in these basement tournaments.
“Five hundred to you, Isabella.” Harrison Price pushed chips forward with the kind of
