The Ace of Spades

Chapter 1

Ariana Ross

“Is that a stain, or did the moths just have expensive taste?”

The voice cuts through the low murmur of the courtyard. It is smooth like honey, but with a shard of glass hidden inside. I stop walking. My secondhand leather shoes, polished to a desperate shine this morning, feel suddenly tight.

I turn slowly. Three girls stand near the grand stone archway that leads to the main hall. They are a portrait of effortless wealth. Their navy blazers are perfectly tailored, the golden Blackwood Academy crest gleaming on the pockets. Their hair falls in waves that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

The one in the middle, the one who spoke, is breathtaking. Dark hair, olive skin, eyes the color of dark chocolate that are currently dissecting the sleeve of my blazer.

“I’m sorry?” I ask. My voice is steady. It is the one thing I can always control.

She takes a step closer, her friends flanking her like designer wolves. The scent of expensive perfume, something with vanilla and maybe sandalwood, rolls off her.

“I asked about your jacket,” she says, her lips curling into a smile that does not reach her eyes. “It’s a simple question. We value clarity here at Blackwood.”

Her name is Isabella Rossi. I know from the orientation packet. Her family’s name is on half the buildings here. A legacy. I am a scholarship case. We are different species.

I glance down at my blazer sleeve. There is a tiny, faded spot near the cuff, barely noticeable. The result of a frantic five dollar dry cleaning ticket and a prayer. It is the best I could afford.

“It’s vintage,” I say, meeting her gaze. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. But my face is calm. My hands, tucked into my pockets, are still.

One of her friends lets out a high pitched giggle. “Vintage? That’s what we’re calling it now?”

Isabella holds up a hand, silencing her without looking. Her focus is entirely on me. It is intense, predatory. She is sizing me up, looking for the weak spot.

“Let me see,” she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She reaches out, her perfectly manicured fingers heading for my sleeve.

I take a half step back. A small, almost imperceptible movement. “No, thank you.”

Her hand freezes in the air. The smile on her face tightens. “Excuse me?”

“I’m fine,” I repeat, keeping my voice level. “I need to find the registrar’s office.”

“The registrar is that way,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. “But we’re not done here. What’s your name, charity case?”

“Ariana Ross.”

“Ariana,” she tests the name on her tongue. “Well, Ariana Ross. At Blackwood, appearances matter. That crest on your pocket means something. It means you represent us. And ‘vintage’,” she says the word like it is something foul, “does not represent us.”

She turns to her friends, a silent communication passing between them. The two of them move, positioning themselves slightly to my left and right. Not quite blocking me, but making it clear that leaving is not an option. A classic pincer movement. Simple, but effective.

“It’s just a uniform,” I say.

Isabella laughs, a genuine, throaty sound this time. It is a beautiful sound, and it makes the skin on my arms prickle with cold. “Oh, sweetie. You have so much to learn. Nothing here is ‘just’ anything. Every thread, every word, every friendship is a transaction. A calculation. You, for instance. Your presence here subtracts value from our brand.”

Her eyes flick down to my shoes, then back to my face. A slow, deliberate insult. I feel the stares of other students passing by. They slow down, pretending to check their phones, but they are watching the show. Isabella Rossi, the queen, holding court.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say. My jaw aches from clenching it.

“You do that.” She finally steps back, the invisible pressure releasing. “Get a new blazer. Or find a new school. Someplace where vintage is appreciated.”

She turns, her long hair swinging like a curtain, and walks away. Her friends follow a step behind, casting smug glances over their shoulders. The courtyard goes back to its normal hum, but now I am the center of a silent, judgmental circle. I can feel their pity and their disdain. I am marked.

I force my feet to move. One foot in front of the other, through the archway, into the cavernous main hall. I do not look at anyone. I focus on the polished marble floors, the portraits of stern faced old men on the walls, the scent of old books and floor wax. I find a deserted corridor and lean against the cool stone wall, finally letting out a breath I did not realize I was holding. My hands are shaking.

This is what he warned me about. Not my stepfather, Rick. He would not have cared. My mother. In a rare moment of clarity, she had held my hands the night before I left. ‘They will try to break you, Ariana,’ she had whispered, her eyes watery. ‘Don’t let them see you bleed.’

I push off the wall. Bleeding is not an option.

As I start walking again, looking for any sign that points to the registrar, I hear two boys talking in a recessed doorway ahead. Their voices are low, urgent.

“He’s not going to like it. You know how Carter is about loose ends.”

“It wasn’t my fault. The package was intercepted.”

“Tell that to The Syndicate. They don’t accept excuses.”

The name hangs in the air. The Syndicate. It sounds less like a school club and more like a threat. The boys fall silent as I approach, their eyes wide with a flicker of fear before they compose themselves and hurry away in the opposite direction.

Carter. The Syndicate. The names echo in my head. Power. That is what Isabella had. The power to humiliate me with a word. The power that made those boys speak in hushed, frightened tones. That is the real currency here, not money. Money is just a tool to get it.

The scratchy wool of this blazer feels familiar. It feels just like the worn felt of that table in the back of a smoky bar, the air thick with cheap whiskey and desperation.

The memory hits me without warning.

I am ten years old. My legs barely reach the floor. I am sitting at a round poker table, the cards in my small hands feeling enormous. Across from me sits Rick, my stepfather. His eyes are narrowed, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Again,” he says, his voice a low growl.

I look at the man to his left. His name is Jimmy. He sweats a lot, even though it is cool in the room. He has a pair of aces. I know he does. His tell is a slight flare of his nostrils right after he looks at his hand.

“He has two aces,” I say quietly.

Rick does not look at Jimmy. He looks at me. “How do you know?”

“His nose.”

“Not good enough. What else?”

I look closer. At the way Jimmy is stacking his chips, a little too neatly. The way he avoids looking at the pot, trying to appear nonchalant. He is trying too hard.

“He’s faking,” I say. “He wants you to think he’s weak, so you’ll bet more.”

Rick grunts. He tosses his cards into the center of the table, face up. A worthless hand. “Fold.”

Jimmy sighs, a mix of relief and disappointment. He shows his aces. “Lucky guess, kid.”

“There is no luck,” Rick snarls, grabbing my arm. His grip is tight, his fingers digging into my skin. “Luck is for idiots and saints. We are neither. You do not guess, Ariana. You know. You watch. Every twitch. Every breath. Every time they blink. People are books written in a language no one else bothers to read. You will become fluent. Understand?”

He is not teaching me a game. This is not a hobby. This is my education. My mother is in the other room, the television turned up loud to drown out the sound. She thinks this is just Rick’s way of bonding. I know better. He is forging a tool. He is sharpening a weapon. And I am it.

He pulls me to another table, a different man. This one is named Sal. Sal is a rock. He shows nothing.

“Read him,” Rick orders.

I watch Sal for ten minutes. He does not twitch. He does not sweat. His breathing is even. I watch his hands, his eyes, the muscles in his jaw. Nothing.

“I can’t,” I whisper. My throat is dry.

Rick’s hand connects with the back of my head. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough that my teeth click together. “Wrong answer. Everyone has a tell. Find it. Or we stay here all night.”

I stare at Sal, my eyes burning. I watch him play a hand. He wins. He plays another. He loses. There is no change in his expression. No tells. But then I see it. It is not something he does. It is something he does not do.

When he has a good hand, a winning hand, his blink rate is normal. But when he is bluffing, when his hand is garbage, his blink rate slows down. By maybe a fraction of a second. He is consciously trying to control his body, to remain still, and he is overcorrecting. He is trying so hard to be a rock that he stops the little, involuntary movements we all make.

“He stops blinking,” I say, my voice shaking slightly.

Rick stares at me. A slow smile spreads across his face. It is a cold, terrifying thing. “Good girl.”

That was the first time he ever praised me. It felt like poison.

He spent years on my education. He would bring home videos of political debates, of corporate negotiations, of criminal interrogations, all with the sound off. “What is he lying about?” he would demand. “Where is her weakness? Who has the power in this room?”

I learned to see the slight tightening around a person’s eyes that signaled fear. The subtle press of lips that meant concealed anger. The microscopic head shake that negated a confident ‘yes’. I learned to read the hidden language of the human body. I became fluent.

I shake my head, the memory fading, leaving the bitter taste of stale cigarette smoke in my mouth. I am back in the hallway of Blackwood Academy. The portraits of the dead men stare down at me.

Isabella Rossi. When she told me my presence subtracted value, her right eyebrow lifted by less than a millimeter. A flash of genuine contempt. But when she told me to get a new school, she glanced at her friends for a fraction of a second. She was not just talking to me. She was performing for them. Her power is dependent on her audience. That is her weakness. That is her tell.

I finally find the registrar’s office. It takes ten minutes to get my schedule and my dorm key. Room 312. I make my way up the winding staircases, my footsteps echoing in the silence. The dorm room is small, spartan. A bed, a desk, a closet, and a window that looks out over the perfectly manicured lawns.

It is more space than I have ever had to myself. It feels like a palace and a prison all at once.

I drop my single, scuffed suitcase on the floor and walk to the window. Down below, I can see Isabella and her friends, laughing as they get into a sleek, black car that probably costs more than the house I grew up in. They drive away, leaving me here in this ivory tower.

She thinks she has won. She thinks she has put me in my place. The poor little scholarship girl with the secondhand blazer. She is wrong.

She and Rick are not so different. They both see people as pieces on a board. They both understand that the world is run by those who are willing to do what others are not.

Blackwood is not a school. It is a poker table with higher stakes. And everyone here has a tell. I just have to watch closely enough to see it. I look down at the faded spot on my blazer. It is not a mark of shame. It is a reminder. A reminder of where I came from, and a reminder that I have survived far worse than a rich girl’s insults.

Isabella may be the queen of this place, but queens can be toppled. I did not come here to make friends. I did not come here to fit in. I came here to escape, to build a new life, to win. And I know something Isabella does not.

This is not her game. It is mine. And I always know when my opponent is bluffing.

Chapter 2

Ariana Ross

The humiliation is not a single event. It is a campaign. A slow, steady drip of acid designed to dissolve my presence at Blackwood.

In the dining hall, a tray of tomato soup finds its way onto my lap. Isabella’s friend, Chloe, offers a saccharine apology about her “clumsy shoes” while Isabella watches from a nearby table, a flicker of triumph in her dark eyes.

My literature textbook vanishes from my locker the day before a major essay is due. I find it later in a trash can behind the gymnasium, its pages waterlogged and ruined.

Whispers follow me down the hallways. Scholarship case. Charity girl. Damaged goods. The words are like little paper cuts, insignificant on their own, but collectively, they leave me bleeding.

I endure it. I show nothing. My face remains a mask of calm indifference. Inside, I am a tightly coiled spring. Rick taught me to absorb punishment, to wait for the moment to strike back. But here, I have no leverage. I am a ghost, and they are the gilded walls of the castle.

For a week, I watch. I listen. And I learn.

I learn that the name whispered with the most reverence, the most fear, is Carter Vance. He is not loud or flashy like the other boys who drive sports cars and brag about their fathers’ yachts. He is quiet. He moves through the school with an unnerving stillness, a predator conserving its energy.

He has a core group. A tall, serious looking boy with watchful eyes named Leo, who always walks a half step behind him. A girl with sharp, intelligent features and perpetually ink stained fingers named Seraphina, who is always typing on a laptop that looks far too adRossd for schoolwork.

They are The Syndicate. Everyone knows it, but no one says it aloud.

They do not run the school’s social scene. They are above it. They are the school’s shadow government. A quiet word from Carter can get a professor to change a grade. A nod from Leo can end a rivalry between two warring cliques. Seraphina, they say, can access any secret on campus with a few keystrokes.

They are power. The absolute, undeniable kind. The kind I need.

Isabella and her friends orbit Carter, but they are not in his circle. They are moths drawn to a flame they cannot touch. I see the way Isabella looks at him when she thinks no one is watching. It is not adoration. It is hunger. She wants his power, his status. She wants to be his queen.

My decision solidifies on a Tuesday afternoon. I am in the library, trying to rewrite my ruined essay notes from memory. Isabella and her clique take the table next to mine, their conversation loud and pointedly exclusionary.

“My father is flying me to Paris for the weekend,” Chloe announces. “Just for a little shopping.”

“How lovely,” Isabella says, not looking up from her phone. “Carter’s family has a place in Monaco. He told me I should visit sometime.”

A lie. I can see it in the way she grips her phone, her knuckles white. She is testing the name, trying it on for size. Claiming a proximity she does not possess.

That is when I know I cannot just survive this place. I have to conquer it. And the only way to topple a queen is with a king.

My plan is simple. Audacious. Possibly suicidal.

Carter holds court in the library’s east wing, in a private study room with a heavy oak door. No one enters without an invitation.

I do not have an invitation.

I wait until the library begins to thin out, as students leave for dinner. I watch Leo and Seraphina pack their bags and leave the study room, leaving Carter alone.

My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My palms are damp. I wipe them on my skirt and stand up. My legs feel unsteady, but I force them forward, one step after another, across the marble floor.

I do not knock. I simply turn the heavy brass handle and push the door open.

He is sitting in a worn leather armchair, a thick, ancient looking book open on his lap. The room smells of old paper and something else, something clean and masculine, like expensive soap and cold steel. He does not look up immediately. He finishes his page, his focus absolute. The deliberate pause is a power move. A dismissal.

Finally, he closes the book, the sound a soft thud in the silence. He raises his head. His eyes are dark, darker than Isabella’s, and unnervingly perceptive. They see everything. I feel stripped bare, my secondhand uniform, my frayed nerves, my desperate ambition, all laid out for his inspection.

“The door is closed for a reason,” he says. His voice is a low rumble, calm and laced with authority.

“I know,” I say. My own voice sounds surprisingly steady.

He raises an eyebrow. A small, elegant movement. He is waiting. He is used to people explaining themselves, begging for his time. I will not.

“I want in,” I say.

Amusement flickers in his eyes. “In where?”

“The Syndicate.”

The amusement vanishes. His face becomes a mask of stone. He leans forward slightly, the leather of the chair groaning in protest.

“Who are you?” he asks. It is not a question. It is a demand for data.

“Ariana Ross.”

“The scholarship girl,” he says. It is a statement of fact, not an insult. He already knew. Of course he knew.

“Yes.”

“You have been here for two weeks,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “And in that time, you have managed to become Isabella Rossi’s favorite charity project. And now you walk into my room and make demands. You have courage, Ariana Ross. Or you are a fool.”

“Maybe both,” I admit. “But I am also useful.”

“Are you?” He leans back, steepling his fingers under his chin. He is analyzing me, the way Rick taught me to analyze poker opponents. Looking for the tell. “What use could I possibly have for a girl who cannot even afford a new blazer?”

He is testing me. Pushing the bruise to see if I flinch.

I do not flinch.

“You see a charity case,” I say, taking a step closer. “I see an advantage. No one looks at me and sees a threat. They see a victim. They underestimate me. And people who are underestimated can get close. They can see things. Hear things. Everyone has a tell, Carter. You just have to know how to look for it.”

His expression does not change, but I see it. A flicker of something in his eyes. The subtle stillness that precedes a predator’s interest. He recognized the language I was speaking. The language of power, of weakness, of observation.

“And what is it you want from me?” he asks, his voice dangerously soft.

“The same thing everyone else in this school wants from you. Protection,” I say, the honesty of it raw and sharp. “And a seat at the table.”

“Protection from Isabella?” He almost smiles. “She is an annoyance. Not a threat.”

“Her family is the Rossi family, is it not?” I counter, playing the only card I have. It is a long shot, a guess based on whispers and the way people talk about the old families. “And your name is Vance. I may be new here, but I know those names mean something. They mean more than just buildings with plaques on them. This school is a battlefield for people like you. Isabella is just a soldier in that war. A spoiled, arrogant one, but a soldier nonetheless.”

The silence in the room stretches, becoming heavy, suffocating.

Carter stares at me for a long time. I feel like a butterfly pinned to a board. He could crush me with a word. Destroy my entire future at this school.

“The Syndicate is not a club you join,” he says finally. “It is not a shield for frightened little girls. It is a family. And loyalty to that family is absolute. You earn your place. You prove your worth.”

“Then let me prove it,” I say, my voice a breath of sound. “Give me a task. An initiation.”

He looks down at the book in his lap, then back at me. “An initiation is not a game. It can be dangerous. It can get you expelled. Or worse.”

“My whole life has been worse,” I say, and the words are truer than anything I have ever said. “I am not afraid of danger. I am afraid of being powerless. Let me prove I belong.”

A long moment passes. Then another.

He gives a slow, single nod. “Fine.”

My breath catches in my throat. Relief floods through me, so potent it makes me dizzy.

“You will have your chance,” he continues, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You will be given one task. If you succeed, you are in. If you fail, I never want to see your face or hear your name again. You will pack your bags and disappear from Blackwood. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I say, my voice firm.

“Good. Leo will be in touch with the details.” He looks away from me, back toward his book. A clear dismissal.

The audience is over.

I turn and walk toward the door, my legs shaking now that the adrenaline is fading. I pull the door open and step out into the hallway.

Standing there, as if she was waiting, is Isabella Rossi. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. Behind her, Chloe and her other friend look on, their expressions a mixture of shock and fear.

Isabella’s eyes are locked on me. They burn with a hatred so intense it feels like a physical force.

“What were you doing in there?” she hisses, her voice low and venomous.

“Just having a conversation,” I say, my newfound confidence making me bold.

“You do not speak to him,” she snarls, taking a step toward me. “You do not even look at him. Who do you think you are?”

From inside the study room, Carter’s voice cuts through the tension, calm and cold as ice.

“She is with me, Isabella.”

Isabella freezes. The color drains from her face. She looks past me, into the room where Carter sits, still not looking at her. He does not need to. His words are enough. They are a shield around me. A declaration.

She looks back at me. If looks could kill, I would be a pile of ash on the marble floor.

“This is not over,” she whispers, her voice shaking with rage.

I meet her gaze without flinching.

“No,” I say, a small smile touching my lips for the first time since I arrived at this school. “It’s just beginning.”

Chapter 3

Ariana Ross

The text message comes from an unknown number. Just a time and a room number. The observatory. It is the highest point on campus and has been closed for renovations for a decade.

Leo is waiting for me inside. Dust motes dance in the single beam of moonlight cutting through the grimy dome overhead. He does not waste time with greetings.

“Your test,” he says. His voice is flat, devoid of emotion. He slides a thick envelope across a dust covered table. “This is your buy in. Five thousand dollars. Do not lose it.”

I pick it up. It feels heavy with expectation. “What am I buying into?”

“A poker game,” he says, his eyes scanning me, unimpressed. “There is a club downtown. The Serpent’s Coil. A faculty member, Professor Albright, has a membership. He is hosting a guest tonight. A man named Nikolai Petrov.”

He pauses, watching for my reaction. I give him none.

“Petrov is a business associate of a rival family. He is in town to finalize a deal. We need to know what that deal is.”

“And you want me to ask him?”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. It is not a friendly expression. “No. We want you to play cards with him. Albright’s games are high stakes. Petrov is arrogant. He likes to talk when he wins. He gets angry when he loses. People like that are sloppy.”

“What’s the keyword?” I ask.

Leo’s eyes narrow slightly. “What?”

“There is always a keyword. A company name. A project. Something specific you need to know about. Otherwise, the information is useless.” Rick’s voice echoes in my head. Be specific. Know the target.

Leo is silent for a moment. He seems to be reevaluating me. “Sterling Imports.”

“Sterling Imports,” I repeat. “What do I do when I have the information?”

“A car will be waiting for you outside at two a.m. It will bring you back here. Tell the driver what you learned. He will relay the message.” He turns to leave. “And Ross.”

I look at him.

“Do not talk to anyone else. Do not make friends. Just get the information. If you fail, the ride will not take you back to campus. Understood?”

“Perfectly.”

He leaves without another word, a shadow disappearing into the darkness.

The Serpent’s Coil is not a place you find by accident. It is in a basement, behind an unmarked steel door in a quiet alley. The air inside is thick with the smell of expensive whiskey and quiet desperation. The room is dimly lit, the only real pools of light are over the green felt tables.

I find Professor Albright’s table easily. He looks different here than in the lecture hall, his tweed jacket replaced with a silk shirt, his face flushed with excitement. And sitting across from him is a man with a heavy gold watch and eyes like chips of ice. Nikolai Petrov.

I approach the table. “Is there an open seat?”

Albright looks up, surprised to see a student here. Before he can speak, Petrov laughs, a low, dismissive sound.

“Look what we have here. A little bird, lost from her nest.” He gestures to the empty chair. “Come, little bird. We do not bite. Much.”

I sit down. I slide the envelope to the dealer. “Five thousand, please.”

The men at the table exchange looks. Petrov’s smile widens. He thinks I am a rich girl, here for a thrill. Good. Underestimation is a weapon.

For the first hour, I play quietly. I fold more than I play. I lose a little, win a little. I am not watching the cards. I am watching the players. Especially Petrov.

He is a classic bully. He bluffs with aggression, raising big to scare off weaker hands. When he has a strong hand, he becomes condescending, trying to coax more money into the pot with taunts.

But that is not his tell. That is just his personality. Rick taught me to look deeper.

I watch his hands. He has a habit of tapping his index finger on his cards when he is thinking. One tap for a bluff. Two taps when he has a monster hand. It is tiny. Almost imperceptible. But it is there. A little rhythm of deceit.

Everyone has a tell.

I wait for my moment. It comes when the dealer puts out a flop with two kings. I have the third king in my hand. Petrov gets a smug look on his face. He caught a king, I am sure of it. He starts his routine, talking down to the man next to me.

“Are you sure you want to stay in, old man? This is a rich pot.”

The man folds. It comes to me. I look at Petrov. He is staring at me, a wolfish grin on his face. He slides a large stack of chips into the middle.

I watch his finger. Tap. Tap. He has a king. He is strong.

“I’ll call,” I say quietly.

The last card is dealt. It is useless. Petrov immediately shoves all his chips into the middle. “All in, little bird. Time to fly away home.”

He thinks his pair of kings is the best hand. He is trying to bully me out. He thinks I am weak.

I look at my chips, then at him. “You know, this reminds me of a business deal I was reading about. A company called Sterling Imports. It seemed like such a sure thing, but then the deal fell through at the last minute.”

His smile tightens. Just for a second. His right eye twitches.

There it is. The real tell. Not the finger tapping. That is a performance. The twitch is real. The twitch is an involuntary reaction to stress. The mention of Sterling Imports is a source of stress.

“That is foolish gossip,” he says, his voice a little too sharp. “Only an idiot would pass on Sterling.”

“An idiot or someone who knows something others do not,” I say, pushing my chips into the middle. “I call.”

My voice does not shake. My hands are steady.

He looks shocked. Then angry. “Show your cards, girl.”

I turn over my three kings. The table goes silent. Petrov slams his hand down, showing his two kings. His face is a mask of thunder. I just took nearly twenty thousand dollars from him.

“Beginner’s luck,” he snarls, signaling the waitress for another drink.

I just nod, stacking my new chips. “Maybe.”

I spend the next hour slowly bleeding him. I know when he is bluffing because his eye is still. He only twitches when he has a real hand and is trying to trap someone. The finger tapping was a conscious misdirection. The twitch is his soul telling secrets.

As I take another pot from him, he glares at me. “You play like a shark.”

“I just get lucky,” I say. “Speaking of luck, the people taking over Sterling Imports will need a lot of it. Cleaning house is always a messy business.”

His anger boils over. “It is not messy, it is necessary!” he snaps. “Once we liquidate their shipping division and sell the routes, the company will be worth double. It is a simple corporate raid. Not that a child like you would understand.”

He stops himself, realizing he has said too much. The other players are trying not to stare.

There it is. Liquidate the shipping division. Sell the routes. That is the plan. That is the information Carter needs.

I play for another twenty minutes, losing some of my winnings back to the other players to avoid suspicion. Then I stand up.

“Thank you for the game, gentlemen,” I say. I cash out. My original five thousand, plus ten thousand more.

Petrov watches me go, his eyes full of hate. He does not see a little bird anymore. He sees the person who read him like a book and took him apart.

I walk out into the cool night air. The black car is there, just as Leo promised. The driver opens the back door for me without a word. I get in.

“Where to?” he asks, his voice a low growl.

“Back to the observatory.”

He starts the car and pulls away from the curb. The silence is heavy.

“Did you get it?” he asks after a few blocks.

I realize it is not a driver. It is Leo.

“Yes,” I say. I do not look at him. I look out the window at the passing city lights.

“Petrov’s group plans to acquire Sterling Imports under the guise of a partnership. Then they will liquidate the entire shipping division and sell off the routes individually. It is a hostile takeover. A corporate raid.”

I place the envelope with my winnings on the seat between us. “That is the buy in. And a little extra.”

Leo glances at the envelope, then at me in the rearview mirror. The car is quiet for a long time. I can feel his stare, his reassessment.

He drives through the academy gates and up the winding road to the observatory. He pulls the car to a stop in the shadows of the old building.

I open the door to get out.

“Ross,” he says.

I pause, one foot on the gravel drive.

“Carter was not wrong about you.”

It is not praise. Not really. It is a statement of fact. An admission. It is the flicker of respect I needed to earn.

I get out of the car and close the door gently.

He drives away, leaving me alone in the moonlight.

I walk back toward my dorm, the cold night air on my face. For the first time since arriving at Blackwood, I am not just surviving.

I am playing the game.