Chapter 1

When my college roommate tried to publicly expose me as a fraud, I casually adjusted the sleeve of my cardigan, letting everyone catch a glimpse of the one-million-dollar ice bracelet sliding down my wrist before carelessly tossing the keys to a Rolls-Royce onto the table.

As I turned to leave, the neckline of my blouse shifted just enough to flash the ten-million-dollar white diamond necklace resting against my collarbone.

I strutted out of the student union, leaving a wake of aggressively jealous glares behind me. The second I was out of sight, I whipped out my phone, pulled up a luxury resale app, and furiously typed a message to a seller.

[Is that third-hand bag still available? I've got a grand for it right now.]

*****

I was a full-on fake socialite.

Back in high school, while girls my age were buried in textbooks, dealing with strict dress codes and curfew rules, my social media feed was a facade of split-bill coffee.

Every week, I would casually flex a different designer bag on my arm. Some were convincing counterfeits; others were rented by the hour. I lived for the envious stares. I was addicted to the illusion of being rich.

Until one day, a real socialite called me out in front of everyone. I panicked. I was mortified.

But it didn't break me. Honestly, I was grateful to her.

She taught me that being "new money" was amateur hour. So, I took my operation underground. I made burner accounts to stalk her socials, analyzed the behavior of actual old-money heiresses, and learned to be a real socialite.

By the time I was twenty, I had used my one genuine talent—a freakish gift for fine art—to secure a full scholarship to Westbridge University, the most elite private college in the country.

It was basically a four-year country club where billionaires sent their heirs to network and pretend to study finance.

I, on the other hand, got in because my illustration of a moth tearing its way out of a cocoon had won the National Collegiate Art Prize.

Fake socialites usually scream for attention with massive logos, rented supercars, and overly posed afternoon coffee photos. Real socialites only embrace quiet luxury, where the craftsmanship speaks louder than any brand.

So, on move-in day at Westbridge, I arrived in character. I wore a custom-tailored white linen dress, which was meticulously stitched by my grandfather, a retired master tailor.

I carried an elegant, unbranded leather tote, which was also handcrafted by my grandfather. I gave my freshly blown-out hair a casual toss, radiating an aura of untouchable, old-money boredom.

I rolled a vintage Chanel suitcase across the quad, a heavily damaged third-hand piece my grandfather had painstakingly restored. And on my wrist, I wore a flawless ice bracelet. That bracelet was the only real luxury item I owned.

It was bought with the one-million-dollar wrongful death settlement my grandfather and I received after my parents were killed in a car crash.

"Need a hand with that, freshman?"

Out of the sea of curious stares, a guy stepped forward and grabbed the handle of my suitcase. I clocked the limited-edition watch on his wrist instantly.

He was Benjamin Whitman, the heir to Whitman Enterprises. I had spent weeks thoroughly researching his exact type. My innocent, fresh-faced makeup and quietly expensive wardrobe were a carefully constructed trap designed specifically to hook him.

Clearly, the bait worked.

But the first lesson society ever taught me was that men never value what they get too easily.

I gave him a polite smile and turned him down flat.

Over the next two years, I finally won him over with nothing but my sheer charm.

I orchestrated "accidental" run-ins at the campus library. I discovered his favorite obscure cologne and started wearing a perfume with the exact same base notes. On rainy days, I would happen to walk by and casually offer him my umbrella.

When Whitman Enterprises sponsored the university's annual art gala, I stood on stage to accept first prize, radiating grace and brilliance. Whenever we spoke, I was perfectly gentle, casually dropping hints that we shared the exact same niche hobbies.

Even every stray lock of hair that fell across my face was a meticulously designed snare.

So Benjamin fell into it.

Finally, toward the end of our sophomore year, Benjamin cornered me outside a neon-lit club. He crushed his cigarette, looking at me with possessive intensity.

His eyes seemed to say, "Anna Sinclair, I have to have you."

Benjamin confessed his undying love.

But I rejected him.

Plagued by his relentless pursuit, I was "forced" to accept his gift: the Azure Tear, a flawless blue diamond necklace worth one million dollars.

Just like that, I officially gained my second piece of understated leverage.