A Crown of Broken Oaths

Chapter 1

Lena

The noise is the first thing that hits me. A hundred conversations crashing into each other, a wave of static and cheap perfume. My roommate, Chloe, grabs my arm, her grip surprisingly strong for someone whose diet seems to consist entirely of iced coffee and gummy bears.

“Isn’t this amazing, Lia? Our first official college mixer!”

I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “It’s a lot.”

An understatement. It’s a tactical nightmare. The university’s grand hall is all high ceilings and marble columns, designed to inspire awe, not to be secured. Too many entrances, too many blind spots behind the ridiculously large potted ferns. My father would take one look at this place and call it a kill box.

“A lot of cute guys, you mean,” Chloe says, wiggling her eyebrows. She points with her chin. “Look, the quarterback. He’s exactly as dreamy as his recruiting photos. Do you think I should go say hi?”

“You should totally go say hi,” I say, my voice pitched with the right amount of bubbly encouragement. My eyes are not on the quarterback. They are scanning. It’s a habit I can’t break. I clock the exits first. Three sets of double doors. Two smaller service doors behind the catering tables. I map the security guards, bored-looking men in ill-fitting blazers, their attention on their phones, not the crowd.

Amateurs.

“Okay, wish me luck,” Chloe whispers, then she smooths her sundress and starts weaving her way through the throng of students. She moves with an open, guileless confidence that I find both fascinating and terrifying. She belongs here. I am an intruder wearing a very expensive costume.

My costume is a pale yellow dress, flowy and innocent. My hair is down. I’m wearing a delicate gold necklace, not the thin, razor-sharp wire disguised as a choker that my instructor, Sergei, prefers. My name here is Lia, just Lia. A girl from a wealthy but obscure family, a little shy, a little naive, here to get a business degree and maybe join the equestrian club.

Lena Romano doesn’t exist at Blackwood University. Lena Romano can field strip a Glock in under thirty seconds and knows three different ways to kill a man with a ballpoint pen. Lia thinks a Glock is a kind of German clock and uses pens for, well, writing. It’s crucial I remember the difference.

“First time away from home?” a voice asks beside me.

I turn to see a guy with a plastic cup of punch and an overly confident smile. He’s wearing a polo shirt with the collar popped. He looks like his name is Chad.

“Is it that obvious?” I ask, injecting a flutter of nervousness into my voice. It’s not hard to summon. I am nervous, just not for the reasons he thinks.

“You’ve got that deer in the headlights look,” he says, leaning closer. “Don’t worry. I can show you around. My name’s Kyle.”

Close enough.

“Lia,” I say, letting him take my hand. His grip is limp. All posture, no substance. “It’s nice to meet you, Kyle.”

“So, what’s your major?” he asks, his eyes flicking down to my necklace and lingering a little too long.

“Undecided,” I lie easily. “Maybe art history? Or literature? Something… beautiful.”

It’s the perfect answer. Vague, romantic, useless. It fits the character. Father sent me here to get a degree in international finance, to learn the legal side of moving money his way. He called this desire for normalcy my “childish rebellion.” A two year vacation, he allowed, before I had to come home and take my place. My older brother, Marco, thinks it’s hilarious. He’s the heir. I’m the asset. The secret weapon. But even weapons need a rest. Surprisingly, Father agreed.

Kyle launches into a monologue about his fraternity, their parties, their legendary tolerance for alcohol. I nod and smile, my gaze drifting over his shoulder. I continue my scan. Clusters of people form and dissolve. I categorize them instinctively. The athletes, loud and physical. The academics, huddled together in tight, anxious circles. The legacy kids, children of alumni, who walk around with an air of effortless ownership. They are the top of the food chain here.

Then my eyes stop. They stop because they’ve found something that doesn’t fit into any of my neat little categories.

He’s leaning against a stone column, half hidden in the shadows cast by a large banner that reads ‘Welcome, Class of 2029!’. He holds no drink. He’s not talking to anyone. He’s not trying to. He’s working.

His gaze moves with a slow, deliberate economy that I recognize. He isn’t admiring the architecture or searching for a friendly face. He’s mapping the territory. He assesses the jocks puffing out their chests, the professors looking bored, the legacy kids holding court. He’s cataloging influence, weakness, power structures. It’s exactly what I was doing a minute ago.

He’s dressed simply. Dark jeans, a plain grey shirt. Nothing that screams money or status. But the way he stands, the stillness of him in this sea of frantic energy, that is a different kind of power. He’s coiled, perfectly at ease, a predator resting in the tall grass. He is dangerous.

And then his eyes find mine.

It’s not a glance. It’s a lock. For a split second, the noise of the hall fades away. His eyes are dark, intense, and they don’t just see the yellow dress and the naive smile. They see the cracks in the paint, the wiring underneath. It feels like a searchlight pinning me against a wall. My heart gives a painful thud against my ribs, a jolt of pure adrenaline. It’s the shock of being seen.

I break the contact first, turning back to Kyle with a small, apologetic smile. It’s a rookie mistake. Never let them know they’ve gotten to you.

“…and that’s when Todd puked in the mascot head,” Kyle is saying, laughing at his own story. I laugh too, a light, airy sound that is pure performance. But my senses are screaming. My skin tingles with the awareness of that stare still on me. Who is he? He doesn’t move like a student. He moves like one of my father’s men. Or worse, one of our rivals.

Someone jostles me from behind. A quick, sharp bump. “Sorry,” a voice mutters, already moving away. It’s a classic pickpocket move. I instinctively check my purse. It’s still there, zipped. I check my pockets. Empty, as they were. But my hand brushes against my side, and my fingers find a small, hard rectangle tucked into the waistband of my dress. It wasn’t there before.

My training kicks in. Don’t react. Don’t draw attention to it. I keep the smile plastered on my face as Kyle asks for my number.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, feigning shyness. “I’m still trying to figure out my schedule and everything. It’s all a bit overwhelming.”

It’s the perfect brush off. It makes him feel like he’s too much for me, which feeds his ego, and it gets him to leave. He gives me a charming grin, tells me he’ll find me later, and disappears back into the crowd.

The moment he’s gone, I glance back toward the column.

He’s gone.

Vanished. Like he was never there. The only proof of his existence is the lingering feeling of being X-rayed and the strange card digging into my hip.

Chloe bounces back over, her face flushed with success. “I got his number!” she squeals, waving her phone. “He’s having a party at the football house on Friday. He said I should bring a friend.” She winks at me.

“That’s amazing,” I say, my voice perfectly pitched with excitement for her. “We should definitely go.”

We won’t. The football house is a security black hole. But Lia, the normal girl, would be thrilled. And right now, being Lia is the most important mission of my life.

Back in the dorm room, the chaos of the mixer is replaced by the scent of Chloe’s vanilla bean air freshener and the soft glow of her fairy lights. It smells like a teenage girl’s bedroom. Jarring.

“Okay, debrief!” Chloe says, kicking off her sandals and flopping onto her floral comforter. “Was Kyle as much of a tool as he looked?”

“He was very enthusiastic about his fraternity,” I say diplomatically, sitting on my own bed, which is covered in a plain, functional grey duvet.

While Chloe scrolls through the quarterback’s social media, I pull the card from my waistband. It’s thick, heavy stock. Black, with a single, elegant symbol embossed in gold foil. A shield, with a stylized letter ‘A’ inside it. No words. No numbers. Just the emblem.

“What’s that?” Chloe asks, peering over from her bed.

My mind races. “Oh, just a flyer or something. Someone handed it to me.” I make to toss it on my nightstand, a casual dismissal.

“Wait, let me see,” she says, scrambling over. Before I can stop her, she plucks it from my fingers. Her eyes widen. “Oh my god, Lia. This isn’t a flyer.”

“It’s not?” I ask, playing dumb.

“No! This is The Aegis.” She says the name in a hushed, reverent tone. “They’re like, the secret society on campus. All the most powerful people are in it. Senators, CEOs, that ridiculously hot actor from the ‘Crimson Sky’ movies. They all went here, and they were all in The Aegis.”

“A secret society?” I frown. “That sounds kind of… weird.”

“It’s not weird, it’s exclusive! Getting an invitation is like winning the lottery. It means they’ve been watching you. They think you have potential.” She looks from the card to me, her eyes shining with reflected glory. “They think *you* have potential! This is huge!”

I take the card back from her, turning it over in my fingers. A secret society. A network of power and influence. It sounds like a junior version of the world I just left behind. It sounds like something my father would create to vet new business partners.

It sounds… interesting.

“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “I just wanted to come to college and focus on my classes.”

“Lia, don’t be crazy. You have to do it! This is the kind of thing that sets you up for life!”

Later, long after Chloe has fallen asleep to the sound of a true crime podcast, I sit in the dark, the card cool against my palm. My laptop is open, the screen’s glow illuminating my face. A blank, encrypted message window is open, waiting for my weekly check in with Marco.

*All quiet,* I was supposed to type. *Acclimating to the environment. No threats detected.*

But that’s not true. I close the message window without sending it. There was a threat tonight. The man by the column. He wasn’t a threat to my life, not yet. He was a threat to my cover. He saw something, and a man like that will not stop looking until he understands what it is.

And then there’s this card. The Aegis. Chloe sees a golden ticket. I see a structure, a hierarchy. A system to be understood, mapped, and, if necessary, dismantled. Father taught me that power is never harmless. It’s a weapon, and you either hold it or have it used against you. Letting an unknown power structure operate around me unchecked is a liability.

This whole plan, coming to Blackwood, was about escaping the game, just for a little while. I wanted to sit in a lecture hall and worry about a pop quiz, not about an ambush. I wanted to drink bad coffee in the dining hall and talk about boys with Chloe. I wanted a sliver of the life my father’s choices stole from me.

But maybe he was right. Maybe I can’t escape it. Maybe it’s just in my blood.

I look at the card again. This campus is its own little kingdom, with its own court and its own politics. The Aegis is at the center of it. Ignoring it is naive. Controlling it… that’s a different story.

It’s supposed to be a harmless diversion. A way to understand the campus power dynamics.

I flip the card over. On the back, almost invisible against the black paper, is a single line of text in faint grey print. An address and a time. Midnight. Tomorrow.

A test. An invitation to a pledge.

My father always said, if you’re invited to a game of wolves, you don’t pretend to be a sheep. You show up and you become the alpha.

Maybe my vacation is over before it even began.

A slow smile spreads across my face in the darkness. Fine. Let’s play.

Chapter 2

Dante

This place is a joke. A theater of children playing at being adults. My name, for tonight, is Leo Rossi. It tastes like ash in my mouth. A name as flimsy as the paper cup of punch I refuse to hold. My mission is simple. Infiltrate. Identify. Report. My father’s instructions were precise, delivered with the cold finality of a gunshot.

“The Aegis is a nest of snakes, Dante. Learn their poison. Then bring me the antidote.”

I lean against a marble column, a ghost in the chaos of this welcome mixer. My posture is relaxed, a carefully constructed illusion of a bored student. Inside, I am a tightly coiled spring. My senses are sharp, filtering the overwhelming noise into data streams. The jock holding court by the punch bowl, his arrogance a weakness. The girl crying in the corner over some boy. The professor smiling too much at his students, his desperation is a tool that could be used.

Everyone here is a potential asset or a potential threat. My job is to categorize them. It is what I do. It is all I do.

My father, Andrei Bellandi, does not tolerate failure. He does not tolerate distractions. And this entire university, this entire mission, is beneath me. A game for a boy, not a man. But I follow orders.

My eyes sweep the room with methodical patience. A practiced, emotionless scan. I catalog faces, gaits, the subtle shifts in social dynamics. I am assessing the terrain before the battle. Then, I see her.

A girl in a pale yellow dress. She is smiling, nodding at some idiot in a polo shirt whose collar is popped like a cheap proclamation of his own inadequacy.

She looks soft. Innocent. Her hair is down, her posture open. She is the picture of a freshman heiress, nervous and out of her depth. A perfect little sheep. My initial assessment is dismissal. Another piece of background scenery.

But I look again. My training forces me to. And the details begin to fight the narrative.

Her smile does not quite reach her eyes. Her eyes are not taking in the party. They are scanning. They move with an efficiency that makes the hairs on my arm stand up. She is not looking for friends. She is mapping exits. Gauging threats.

She is doing my job.

My gaze narrows. The world around her fades into a dull hum. Who is she? She stands with a perfect, subtle balance, her weight distributed to move in any direction at a split second’s notice. That is not the stance of a girl who has only ever worried about what to wear to a party. That is the stance of someone who has been trained to fight. To survive.

The idiot in the polo shirt leans in, invading her space. I watch her hand, expecting a flinch, a nervous flutter. There is nothing. Only a stillness. A controlled, patient waiting. She is not afraid of him. He should be afraid of her.

And then her eyes find mine.

Across the crowded room, it happens. A direct hit. It feels like the impact of a sniper’s bullet. Her mask, that perfect construction of wide eyed innocence, cracks. For one single, stunning heartbeat, I see her. The predator. Her eyes are not the soft brown of a fawn. They are the hard, calculating obsidian of a hunter. There is shock in them, but it is not fear. It is the raw shock of recognition.

My own breath catches in my throat. An unwelcome, unfamiliar sensation.

She breaks away first. A professional move. She turns back to the polo shirt clown and laughs at something he says. The sound is light, airy, and utterly fake. A beautiful, perfect lie.

I feel a pull toward her that is as dangerous as it is undeniable. This is a complication. My father’s voice echoes in my head. *No distractions.* She is the very definition of a distraction, a rival player on a board I was meant to command alone.

I need to know who she is.

I push off the column and begin to move through the crowd. As I pass a cluster of laughing girls, a man in a waiter’s uniform bumps into me. A clumsy, apologetic gesture.

“My apologies,” he murmurs, his face blank, and continues on his way.

I do not stop. I do not acknowledge him. But my fingers find the card he slipped into my jacket pocket. I already know what it is. My intel was correct. The Aegis is recruiting. They look for the outliers, the ones who stand apart.

Apparently, we both caught their eye tonight.

I find a quieter corner, near a service exit I had already marked. I glance back to where she was standing. She is gone. The idiot is looking around, confused, like a dog who has lost its ball. Smart girl. She knows when to vanish.

I look at the card in my hand. It is heavy, black stock. An embossed gold shield with the letter ‘A’. Identical to the one described in my briefing file. It is an invitation. A key.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. A secure message. One word.

*Status?*

It is from Mikhail. My second, my shadow on this campus. He is posing as a graduate student in the engineering department. His message is a leash, pulling me back to the mission.

I type a reply, my thumb hovering over the screen.

*Target in sight.* I write, referring to The Aegis.

I pause. Then I add two more words.

*And a complication.*

I hit send before I can second guess myself. Sharing a potential problem is protocol. Sharing this particular problem feels like admitting a weakness.

His reply is instantaneous.

*Neutralize it.*

I stare at the words. Neutralize it. In my world, that word has a very specific meaning. It means eliminate the threat. Permanently.

I look across the hall, searching for that flash of yellow again, but she has melted into the crowd completely. The thought of neutralizing her sends a cold, unpleasant jolt through me. It is not a moral objection. I have done what was necessary, many times. It is… something else. A profound reluctance to remove the most interesting piece from the board.

She is not just a complication. She is a puzzle. A beautifully crafted enigma wrapped in a lie. Her movements, her awareness, the flash of steel I saw in her eyes. It all points to a background like my own. A life of violence and discipline hidden beneath a veneer of civilization.

Who trained her? The Italians? The Triads? The Bratva does not have any active female operatives of her age in the field. She could be Romano. The thought lands with the weight of a stone in my gut. Lena Romano. The Ghost. Marco Romano’s younger sister. Spoken of in whispers. An asset so secret, most of our people think she is a myth, a scare tactic. If it is her… then this mission has just escalated from a simple infiltration to the opening move in a war.

My father would want her dead yesterday.

And I… I want to know her.

I want to stand in a room with her when the masks are off. I want to see what she is capable of. I want to peel back the layers of her disguise and see the woman underneath.

This is a dangerous path. A deviation from the mission. It is a weakness. My fascination is a liability that could compromise everything. I know this. Every instinct, every piece of my brutal training, is screaming at me to follow Mikhail’s advice. Neutralize the threat. Report her existence to my father and let him handle it.

But for the first time in a very long time, I am going to disobey.

I turn the Aegis invitation over in my hand. On the back is an address. A time. Midnight. Tomorrow.

This was always the plan. Get the invitation, accept the pledge, and climb the ladder of their pathetic little secret club until I can see who is pulling the strings.

Now, the mission has a new dimension. Infiltrating The Aegis is no longer just about my father’s ambitions. It is about her. It is the only way to get close to her, to watch her, to understand the threat she represents. Or the ally she could be.

This campus is her hunting ground. And it is mine.

A confrontation is not just inevitable. I am going to make sure of it. I need to know if the fire I saw in her eyes is the kind that warms, or the kind that burns everything to the ground.

I pocket the card. My decision is made. Let the children have their party. The real games are about to begin.

Chapter 3

Lena

The air in the room is stale with money and secrets. It’s an off campus townhouse, probably owned by some forgotten alumni, all dark wood and faded leather. There are maybe a dozen of us. The chosen few. The other pledges shift on their feet, a collection of nervous energy and expensive cologne. I can smell the ambition on them. It’s a scent I know well.

I stand near the back, cultivating an aura of being slightly overwhelmed. It’s a useful look. People underestimate you. They dismiss you. Then you can break them.

He is here. Of course he is. The man from the mixer. He calls himself Leo Rossi. He leans against a bookshelf on the far side of the room, just as he did against the column. A study in stillness. He has not looked at me once since we were all ushered in here. That is more telling than a stare. He knows I am a threat. I know he is one too. The game has begun.

Heavy footsteps sound on the polished floor, and a man walks into the center of the room. He is handsome in a way that knows it, with blond hair that looks sculpted rather than cut and a smile that is all teeth. He wears a university blazer like a suit of armor.

“Welcome, pledges,” he says, his voice smooth and condescending. “I am Julian Thorne. Your president.”

He surveys us, his gaze lingering on the prettiest girls and the boys who look like they row crew. His eyes pass over me, then snap back, a flicker of possessive interest lighting them up. I hate it instantly.

“You are here because The Aegis sees potential in you,” Julian continues, pacing slowly. “Potential for greatness. For power. This is not a fraternity for beer pong and charity car washes. We are the architects of the future. But first, we must see if you are worthy of holding the blueprint.”

His gaze lands on Leo.

“Some of you come from families that understand power,” Julian says, a slight sneer in his tone. “Others… well, ambition can be a dirty business. We do run very thorough background checks, Mr. Rossi. I trust yours will be satisfactory.”

The threat hangs in the air, thick and oily. Leo doesn’t react. Not a twitch. Not a flicker of an eye. He just watches Julian, his expression unreadable. It is the most impressive display of defiance I have ever seen.

Julian, annoyed by the lack of reaction, turns his attention to me. He steps closer, invading my personal space. I have to physically stop myself from breaking his nose.

“And you, Lia,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. My skin crawls. “So quiet. We like quiet girls. But don’t think we haven’t noticed you. We notice everything.”

I give him the best shy, flustered smile I can manage. “I’m just honored to be here.”

“As you should be,” he says, patting my shoulder before moving back to the center of the room. He claps his hands together, the sound sharp and final.

“Your first test is simple. A matter of acquisition.” He gestures to a large screen on the wall. An image appears. A gaudy, gold plated football trophy. “This belongs to the Sigma Chi fraternity. It is their most prized possession. And by dawn, it will belong to us.”

A nervous murmur ripples through the pledges.

“The Sigma house is three blocks from here,” Julian says, clearly enjoying the tension. “They are having their mid week mixer tonight, so the house will be full. Security will be… active.” He smiles that predatory smile again. “I have faith you will all figure it out. Don’t disappoint me.”

He gives no other information. No layout. No security details. No extraction plan. It’s a deliberate, calculated setup. He wants us to fail. He wants to watch us squirm and get caught. He wants to see who cracks under the pressure.

This is my world. This is what I was born for. I feel a grim, familiar thrill spread through my veins.

We are dismissed. The pledges huddle together, whispering frantically, trying to form a plan out of thin air. I watch them for a moment. They are children. Scared and out of their depth.

I turn and walk toward the door. I need to think. Alone.

“Not a team player?” a low voice says from behind me.

It’s him. Leo Rossi.

I stop but don’t turn around. “Their plan is to knock on the front door and ask nicely. It doesn’t seem very effective.”

“And what’s your plan?” he asks. He is closer now. I can feel the warmth of his body at my back.

“Get the trophy,” I say simply.

“You’ll need a diversion,” he states. It is not a suggestion. It is an assessment of the facts. “Something big enough to pull their attention away from the trophy room.”

“I’m aware,” I say, finally turning to face him. Up close, his eyes are even darker. “And you’ll need a way past the alarms. I’m assuming the trophy is wired. Laser grids, maybe a pressure plate. Amateurs love pressure plates.”

A muscle in his jaw tightens. “You seem to know a lot about amateur security setups.”

“I watch a lot of movies,” I say, the lie tasting like sugar and poison on my tongue.

He does not believe me. I do not expect him to. We stand there for a long moment, the noise of the other pledges fading into the background. It is a silent negotiation. A treaty being drawn between two warring nations.

“Back entrance,” he says, breaking the silence. “Kitchen. Two minute window when the catering staff takes a smoke break.”

“The trophy room is on the second floor. North wing. Away from the party,” I counter, not questioning how he knows this. A professional has already done his reconnaissance.

“The diversion needs to be on the south side of the house. As far away as possible,” he says. “Can you handle that?”

Is he testing me? I give him a sweet, guileless smile. “I think I can cause a little trouble.”

“Good,” he says. His eyes hold mine. “When you make your move, make it loud. I’ll handle the rest.”

He turns and melts back into the shadows of the room, leaving me with a racing heart and the cold, sharp certainty that I am walking into a fire.

An hour later, I am Lia again. I am a slightly tipsy party crasher at the Sigma Chi house. I managed to get a red solo cup, and I’ve been carrying the same flat soda around for twenty minutes. The music is a physical force, pounding against my chest. The air is hot and smells of sweat and spilled beer.

I weave through the crowd, my eyes scanning, mapping. I spot the staircase leading to the second floor. A large football player stands at the bottom of it, acting as a makeshift guard. Cute. I locate the south side patio. Perfect. It is packed with people.

I pull out my phone and pretend to take a call. I let my face fill with distress. I raise my voice slightly.

“I can’t believe you would say that to me, Chad! After everything!” My voice cracks on cue. A few people turn to look.

Perfect.

I push my way out to the crowded patio. Now for the main performance. I find the biggest, most obnoxious looking guy, a blond giant holding court near the DJ booth.

“It’s over!” I shout into my phone, making sure he can hear me. “We are done!”

I make a show of hanging up, my shoulders shaking with fake sobs. Then I turn and ‘accidentally’ stumble directly into the giant. My entire cup of soda sloshes down the front of his expensive looking shirt.

He looks down, his face a mask of disbelief. Then his eyes, small and piggy, narrow at me.

“What the hell?” he bellows. The music suddenly feels quieter.

“I’m so sorry,” I gasp, putting my hands to my mouth. “My boyfriend, he just, he just broke up with me.”

This is the key. Frame it in a way they understand. Boy drama. It’s a language they all speak.

“I don’t care about your loser boyfriend! This is a five hundred dollar shirt!” he yells. The entire patio is watching now. Even the guard from the stairs has poked his head out to see the commotion.

This is it. The signal. I hope Leo is as good as he thinks he is.

“Five hundred dollars?” I cry, my voice rising hysterically. “You think I care about your stupid shirt when my heart is breaking?”

I give him a hard shove. It is more than he expects from a girl my size. He stumbles back, knocking over a table of drinks. Glass shatters. People shout. The chaos is beautiful. It is perfect cover.

I see my chance. While everyone is focused on the screaming giant and the crying girl, I slip away from the edge of the patio, melting into the shadows along the side of the house. My heart is pounding, but it is not from fear. It is the thrill of the hunt.

I circle around to the back. The kitchen door is propped open an inch. A thin trail of cigarette smoke drifts out. I slip inside. The kitchen is empty. On the counter is a small, dead spider. A signal. He’s already through. He works fast.

I move silently through the house, a ghost in the machine. I take the service stairs. They are empty. The music from the party is a distant, muffled drumbeat.

The second floor hallway is dimly lit. I see the door to the trophy room at the far end. It is slightly ajar.

I approach with caution, my senses on high alert. I peek inside. He is there. Leo. He stands in front of the glass case, the trophy already in his hands. The security panel on the wall is open, wires neatly snipped. A clean, professional job. He turns as I enter, his face unreadable in the low light.

He holds the trophy out to me.

“I thought you could carry it,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “It would look less suspicious.”

He is right. A girl with a trophy looks like a prank. A guy who looks like him, carrying a trophy, looks like a thief. We move without speaking, back the way I came. Our footsteps are perfectly synchronized, our movements fluid. It feels less like a partnership and more like we are two halves of the same whole. It is the most terrifying and exhilarating feeling I have ever had.

We slip out the back door and into the cool night air. The other pledges are huddled across the street, looking lost and pathetic.

Their jaws drop when they see us. When they see me, holding the ridiculous gold trophy.

“How…” one of them stammers. “How did you do that?”

I give them my sweetest, most innocent smile. “It was easy. I just asked them for it.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Julian Thorne step out from behind a tree. He was watching us. His face is a storm cloud. The smug superiority is gone, replaced by a raw, ugly annoyance. His little test failed. We did not flounder. We succeeded. Perfectly.

I look from Julian’s angry face to Leo’s calm one. He is watching me, and for the first time, there is something in his eyes besides cold assessment. It looks like respect. And something else. Something dangerous.

The air between us is a live wire. We did not just steal a trophy tonight. We declared ourselves. To Julian. To The Aegis. And to each other. This is no longer a game. It is a war for control.