Chapter 2

2.

The cabin of the private jet smelled of leather and cedarwood.

Julian Thorne looked up from his laptop and gestured to the seat across from him. “There’s coffee in the carafe. Your father’s doctors say he’s stable, so you can relax.”

“How did you know―”

“Your family’s chief medical consultant is the director of a hospital my firm invests in.” He closed his laptop and handed me a manila folder. “Take a look at this.”

Inside were two documents.

The first was the official roster for Cornell Law School’s International Moot Court team. My name was crossed out with a black marker. Handwritten next to it was: “Mia Solano―Approved by Coach and E. Vance.”

The second was the annual audit report for the Vanderbilt-Sterling Scholarship. Under the list of recipients, an entry for “Mia Solano” was noted: “Full tuition + living stipend, 2019-2023. Recommended by: Professor Monsen. Additional note: Family of limited means, single mother employed at Walmart.”

My fingers tightened, crinkling the edge of the paper.

“When your father established this scholarship, didn’t he insist on remaining anonymous?” Julian asked.

“Yes. He said philanthropy should be quiet.”

“Then you might not know,” he said, leaning forward, “that in her application essays, Mia wrote: ‘This scholarship, drawn from the law school’s general fund, reflects Cornell’s deep commitment to students from diverse backgrounds.’”

He paused. “She also used that story to land a feature in The New York Times―‘Rust Belt Girl’s Road to Harvard.’ It ran last week.”

The blood pounded in my ears.

I remembered Ethan’s voice on the phone once: “Mia’s not like you, Chloe. She doesn’t have a safety net. That’s why she has to run so hard.”

It turned out my family had provided that fucking net.

“Why are you showing me this?” My voice was hoarse.

Julian opened his laptop again, revealing a complex diagram of corporate structures.

“Because your father is one of my most important business partners. And I believe,” he said, his eyes meeting mine, “that his daughter is being used as a fucking grappling hook by a team of social climbers.”

The jet began its descent. The clouds broke, revealing the scattered lights of Boston below.

“We’re here,” Julian said. “Want some advice?”

“Please.”

“In the games elites play, there’s no shame in having something stolen from you. The shame,” he said, pulling open the cabin door as a gust of frigid air swept in, “is in winning it back, only to lock it away in a safe.”

“So what should I do?”

He smiled. “You wear it. And you make sure everyone knows―it’s not a piece of jewelry. It’s a trophy.”