Today was a shitty day, even if it started out okay. Waking up in Lydia's bed, her perfume still lingering on the sheets, was a high point after hooking up last night. I was so wiped I slept like a rock until the alarm blasted me awake, a fucking piercing beep that drilled into my skull. I checked my phone: 7:45. Shit. I had to meet my dad at nine at some fancy Silicon Valley restaurant. I could've made up an excuse—I've done it before—but Nathaniel Whitman isn't the type to take "I've got a headache" without kicking up a storm. Breakfast with him is a pain in the ass, a full-on interrogation about college and his plans to mold me into a mini-him. Being the son of a pharmaceutical tycoon has its perks: steady cash, a Mustang that turns heads, a cushy life. But it comes at a cost, like his obsession with making me follow in his footsteps. I hate his world. He doesn't touch a lab, just deals: contracts, negotiations. That's why I started at Stanford in Economics, to take the spot "meant for me." But after one semester, I couldn't take it. On the sly, I switched to Molecular Biology. Believe it or not, with my charm and infuriating good looks, I love research, not offices. I've been enrolling behind his back for a year and a half, but now I'm screwed: he wants to come to an Economics Department event where I'm supposed to be.
I stretched in bed, my body still heavy from the night. Lydia was in the shower, the sound of water slipping through the half-open door. Her apartment, two blocks from campus, is organized chaos: clothes draped over a chair, art books stacked on the floor, a cold coffee forgotten on the table. I threw on last night's jeans and shirt, still smelling of her sweet perfume, and shouted a "See ya!" while she yelled back, "Don't leave without saying goodbye, asshole!" from the bathroom. I tossed a vague smile over my shoulder. Lydia's fun, carefree, but I'm not looking for anything serious. I like it casual, let time sort it out. I don't have the ego to correct her, though I doubt she wants more than a fun night.
I stepped into Palo Alto's crisp air, hitting me like a bucket of cold water. I drove my Mustang down El Camino Real toward Silicon Valley, the sun glaring in a cloudless sky. Glassy startup and tech office buildings gleamed on both sides, cyclists with pricey backpacks and electric cars humming along the road. The vibe was pure Silicon Valley: energy, ambition, and a hint of arrogance dressed up as innovation. I parked outside Le Jardin, a French restaurant in Menlo Park that screams "money" from the entrance: white tablecloths, waiters with bored faces, and the smell of fresh-baked bread mixed with expensive coffee. It's the kind of place where execs close deals or meet someone on the side.
"Running late, sorry," I say, slumping into the chair across from my dad. Nathaniel Whitman looks flawless, as always: tailored gray suit, blond hair perfectly combed, eyebrows carved to intimidate. His annoyed face is practically a work of art.
"Punctuality matters, Noah," he says, that dry tone grating my nerves. "You'll get it when you're in my position."
The thought alone makes my stomach churn. "Yeah, sorry. Alarm didn't go off," I lie, shrugging.
"I'm surprised you showed," he says, sharp, scanning the menu like it's a contract. "Expected another of your excuses."
"How could I not want to see my great dad?" I shoot back with an ironic smile I know pisses him off.
A young waiter, looking like he's counting the seconds till his shift ends, takes our order: black coffee for him, cappuccino for me, croissants, and a fruit salad I know I'll barely touch. We talk about nothing heavy: how Mom's doing (fine, but distant), how my sister's killing it in her new role (as always). Nathaniel Whitman is a heavyweight, and not just because of his bank account. He inherited my grandfather's fortune and multiplied it with Pharmat, his pharmaceutical empire. He's the classic tycoon: charisma to spare, a powerful image, blond, hazel eyes. I got his features—though the blue eyes come from Mom, and, no bragging, I'm better-looking—but not his obsession with money. Or his knack for wrecking families.
"How's college?" he asks, as always, slicing a croissant with surgical precision.
"Good," I say, a knot forming in my chest. "Pretty… intense."
"Glad to hear it," he says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I want to see your ideas at the Economics Department event next week. Spoke to the dean—they're expecting big things from you."
Fuck. Here it comes. I swallow hard, staring at my cappuccino like it holds answers. "Well…" I mumble, avoiding his eyes, "a year and a half ago, I found something that fits me better."
"Really?" He frowns, setting the knife down. "Tell me."
"It's… something that means you don't need to come to the event," I say, choosing my words carefully.
"I don't follow," he says, his voice hardening, like he smells the lie.
I take a deep breath. No way to sugarcoat it. "Dad, I'm not studying Economics," I confess, the words heavy as stones. "I switched to Molecular Biology after the first semester."
The silence hits like a slab of concrete. His hazel eyes pin me, and the restaurant air feels thick, like the smell of bread and coffee has solidified. A couple of diners glance over, sensing the tension. "What are you talking about, Noah?" His voice rises, echoing off nearby tables. "You're not studying Economics? What have you been doing?"
"I started with Economics, like you wanted," I defend, keeping my voice steady. "But it wasn't for me. I did one semester, then switched. I'm good at Molecular Biology, Dad, really good. I love research, labs, fieldwork—not sitting in an office signing contracts."
"You did what?" he yells, and the waiter flinches, nearly dropping a tray. "You lied to me for a year and a half?"
"It wasn't lying, I just… didn't tell you," I try to explain, but it sounds pathetic even to me.
"Why, Noah?" His voice shakes with fury, and a couple of execs at the next table pretend not to listen. "Why throw away your career? You're meant for Pharmat. I've set everything up for you."
"It's not what I want," I say, heat rising in my neck. "I don't get why parents want their kids to be their clones. I don't want your company. I want to make my own path, do research, discover something that matters."
"My father chose my career, and I didn't want it," he says, cutting, eyes blazing with rage. "But I did it, and look where I am."
"I'm not you," I snap, harsher than I meant.
"Two years of lying," he hisses, jaw clenched, napkin crumpled in his fist.
"And you lied to Mom for longer," I spit without thinking, crossing the line. His affair broke our family: tense dinners, cold silences, my mom crying in the kitchen when she thought no one saw. They nearly split, and I pulled away from everyone after that.
He doesn't say anything, just stares, his jaw so tight it might snap. "Fine," he says at last, with a calm that's scarier than his shouting. "This is a failure of responsibility."
"What?" I ask, thrown off.
"I won't let you waste my efforts," he continues, ignoring me. "I won't force you back to Economics, but I'm cutting all support."
"What are you talking about?" My heart races, the cappuccino forgotten, going cold on the table.
"Your credit cards are done," he says, cold as ice. "No access to family accounts or your trust."
"What?" I shout, making heads turn this time. "That money's mine. I turn 21 in a month."
"I gave you that money to build a life, a company," he says, unfazed. "I know the bank manager. I can set conditions. You won't touch it until I say so."
I'm frozen, the bitter taste of coffee stuck in my throat. "This is punishment," he continues, folding his napkin with precision. "You lied for years, Noah. You're an adult—face the consequences. I won't pay your tuition next semester. If you want to throw away my efforts, pay for your own studies."
I can't believe it. I expected a lecture, not a fucking execution. I stand, hands shaking, and walk out without a word. The waiter gives me a mix of pity and curiosity as I pass. Outside, Silicon Valley's sun keeps shining, like nothing happened.
****
Breakfast with my dad was a fucking disaster. He sat there like a goddamn rock, and no matter what I said, he wasn't budging. That he controls my trust fund burns me up, but what the hell can I do? He's got connections everywhere; I've got a handful of frat brothers who, when they're not drunk or screwing, are studying or dealing with their own drama. I peeled out in my Ford Mustang—my 18th birthday gift—before he could decide to take that too. What a shitty day, fuck. I knew it'd be bad, but this is next-level.
Back on campus, Palo Alto's crisp air hits me again, but it doesn't ease a damn thing. The paths of Old Campus are buzzing: students jogging with earbuds, bikes whizzing by, laughter floating from the grass. I park near the Alpha Centauri house, where the echo of last night's party still seems to slip through open windows, and it hits me I'm still in yesterday's clothes: beige chinos, leather shoes begging for mercy, a wrinkled white Oxford shirt, and don't even get me started on the underwear—I'm not thinking about that. Alpha Centauri's the heaviest frat at Stanford, period. It's where guys with door-opening last names and fat bank accounts end up, though I'm technically broke as of a few minutes ago. The name's weird, I know, none of that generic Greek letter shit. Word is the founder was a star nerd, now some big shot at NASA. You'd think NASA geniuses come from MIT, but what do I know? Point is, this house carries weight, and being here's like wearing an invisible badge on campus.
I shove the door open, and the first floor's a living mess: the frat's in full hangover mode—red plastic cups littering the floor, a stale beer stench, and Jake snoring on a couch, clutching an empty bottle. Other brothers are sprawled on sofas like a hangover steamrolled them, some yelling over a poker game at the dining table, others hammering controllers on an Xbox, the screen flashing explosions. Red cups are scattered everywhere, and the air reeks of stale beer and reheated pizza. I climb the wooden stairs, creaking like they're pissed at my weight, to my room. It's big—a Whitman perk—with a window overlooking the campus lawn and a desk buried under biology books and fast-food wrappers. I collapse onto the bed, bury my face in the pillow, and let out a growl that doesn't fix shit but feels good.
Not even a minute passes before the door flies open, no knock, like this is a damn hostel. "How was your night with Lydia?" It's Chris, my best friend, strutting in with that shit-eating grin he gets when he wants dirt. Joe's behind him, nursing a beer even though it's barely noon.
"Dunno," I say, half-sitting up, running a hand through my hair, which probably looks like a bird's nest.
"Fuck, you look like shit," Joe says, eyeing me like I just crawled out of a ditch.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" Chris presses, leaning against the doorframe with a raised eyebrow. "Who forgets a night with someone as hot as Lydia?"
I'm not lying—I barely remember. Waking up naked with used condoms scattered around gave me a clue, and I've got flashes of Lydia on top of me, moving like she wanted to break me in half, but the rest is a haze of vodka and exhaustion. "Look, I'm not in the mood for your bullshit," I snap, sitting up on the bed.
"What's up with you?" Joe asks, and both of them stare at me like I'm about to confess to a crime.
I run my hands through my hair, trying to tame it, and spill everything: the shitty breakfast with my dad, his epic meltdown over me switching to Molecular Biology, the credit card cutoff, and the trust fund lockout. "He can do it, and he did," I say, rage clawing up my throat. "Checked my accounts in the car—zeroed out or frozen. The old man moved fast, gotta give him credit for that."
"So what're you gonna do?" Chris slumps onto my desk, accidentally knocking a notebook to the floor. "How do you pay tuition? Or the frat?"
"When I joined the frat, I paid most of it upfront to look good for Morgan," I explain, shrugging. "That buys me some time. But next semester's tuition… I'm fucked."
"Didn't he give you any way to get your money back?" Joe asks, taking a swig of his beer.
"I was so pissed I didn't ask," I admit, feeling a stab of stupidity. "Don't even know why I didn't deck him. But he'll cave, right? He's not gonna leave me on the street."
"And if he doesn't?" Joe raises an eyebrow, giving me that "I told you so" look I hate.
"No clue… fuck," I say, kicking a chair that wobbles with a creak, anger squeezing my chest like a vice.
"What about a scholarship?" Chris suggests, and I whip my head around so fast I nearly sprain my neck.
"Seriously?" I ask, half-intrigued, half-skeptical. "With my last name? A Whitman begging for a scholarship? Sounds like a fucking joke."
"Dude, Stanford's got tons of aid," Chris says, shrugging. "Scholarships, loans, whatever. You've got decent grades, right? You could swing it."
I don't think twice. I jump up, yank open the closet, and grab a red polo that makes me look less dead and pops my eyes, plus dark pants that don't scream "I partied last night." "I gotta go," I say, not looking at them, changing in a rush.
"Yo, hold up," Joe cuts in, pointing his beer at me. "Don't forget the pledge committee."
"Fuck, yeah, whatever," I say, already at the door, my head all over the place.
The pledge committee's a damn meeting to recruit new members mid-semester, right when everyone's drowning in midterms. At the start of the semester, the hazing was a shitshow: pledges went to an off-campus party, got plastered to the point of poisoning, and nobody got in. That's why Morgan, Alpha Centauri's president, set up this new committee, and I'm stuck on it, because of course I am. As if I don't have enough with my dad clipping my wings.
I bolt down the stairs, dodging a red cup rolling across the floor like it's alive. Jake's still passed out on the couch, hugging his empty bottle like it's his soulmate. "Wake up, slacker!" I yell, shoving his shoulder. He mumbles something about "five more minutes" and rolls over, snoring louder. Classic.
****
I'm trudging across campus to Montag Hall, my body heavy like I'm hauling a sack of bricks, thanks to last night's hangover and this morning's shitshow with my dad. Palo Alto's crisp air brushes my face, but it does fuck-all to douse the fire in my head. The Main Quad's buzzing: students sprawled on the grass with open books, pretending to study while they chat, some guy strumming a shitty guitar under a tree, and a couple of girls jogging with coffee cups, dodging bikes zipping down the paths. The sun's beating down, bouncing off the stone buildings, and every laugh I hear reminds me how fucked I am. My life fell apart over breakfast, and here I am, crossing campus like I can fix it in an hour.
I reach Montag Hall, but before I go in, my phone buzzes. It's Morgan: "Pledge meeting in 30. Don't be late, Whitman, or you're cleaning the basement again." Fuck. The Alpha Centauri basement's a graveyard of cans and old party memories. I sigh, pocket my phone, and push through the admissions door. Between the scholarship and this damn committee, this day's not looking up, but something tells me the disaster's just getting started.
I shove open the door to the Diversity and Inclusion office. The place is a half-assed attempt at cozy: blank white walls begging for color, motivational posters with shit like "Be Yourself" peeling off the edges, and a desk buried under papers, folders, and a forgotten coffee mug with a brown stain. Garret Sterling, the director, sits there, his tie loose like it gave up by mid-morning and glasses so big his eyes look like a skeptical owl's.
"A scholarship?" he asks, leaning back in his creaky chair, eyeing me with a mix of curiosity and distrust, like I just asked for his kidney.
"Yeah, I wanna apply," I say, blunt, sitting across from him without waiting for an invite. I don't have time or patience for bullshit; my head's still pounding like a drum.
"Let me get this straight," he says, adjusting his glasses with one finger, leaning in like he's cracking a code. "Your dad cut you off, you can't pay tuition, and you want a scholarship to keep going."
"Exactly, I'm fucked, as you… can probably tell, flat broke," I say, and shit, I regret it instantly because his face tightens, and I swear I see a muscle twitch in his jaw.
"Noah, I doubt your dad's leaving you in the gutter," he says, calm but firm, like he's talking to a kid who missed a basic instruction. "Go back to Economics, sort it out with him."
"With all due respect, sir, you don't know my dad," I push, clenching my fists under the table. "When he gets something in his head, no one changes his mind. Trust me, I've tried."
"Still, why are you here?" he asks, crossing his arms over a stack of forms that's about to collapse. "I run Diversity and Inclusion. Scholarships are through financial aid, not here."
"I already went there," I say, frustration rising like bile. "No slots, everything's taken. But I heard you handle special scholarships. Can't you make an exception? For old times' sake, Sterling—we were almost buddies in that ethics class."
"You just implied I'm broke," he says, and behind those giant glasses, there's a glint of irritation he doesn't hide, though his mouth twitches into a tight half-smile.
"That's how friends talk, right?" I try to joke, forcing a smile that's more awkward than charming, because sweat's trickling down my neck and my pulse is hammering my temples.
"Noah, even if we were friends, I can't help you," he says, blunt, rubbing his face like he's already done with me. "You want me to pass you off as Black, Latino, or an immigrant? Look at you, Whitman. You're the poster boy for privilege."
"I'll take that as a compliment," I sigh, leaning back with a confidence I don't feel, because it's my only card. "But for the scholarship, I'll be whatever it takes."
"Listen," he says, his tone shifting to a teacher scolding a kid, "even if you were a Hollywood actor, we're out of slots. There's one scholarship left, and it's for the LGB—"
"I'm gay!" The words shoot out, desperate, echoing off the white walls like the "Diversity is Strength" poster's mocking me. I need that damn scholarship, and my mouth's moving faster than my brain.
"What?" Sterling's jaw drops, his chair creaking as he snaps upright, glasses slipping down his nose, shock clear in his eyes.
"For real," I lean in, doubling down, though my stomach's churning like I ate something rotten. "I'm gay, super gay, one hundred percent."
"Noah," he says, skeptical, adjusting his glasses slowly, like he's buying time to process the bullshit I just dropped.
"I'm not lying, I am," I insist, faking a confidence I don't have, sweat sticking to my shirt. "Always have been."
"This week, I saw you making out with three different girls in the plaza," he says, raising an eyebrow, his tone slicing like a knife. "You're not gay, Noah."
"Okay, I…" I scramble for an excuse, because the hole I'm digging is getting deeper. "It's social pressure. Campus, with all that testosterone floating around, pushes you to go along with the majority. I've been hiding, you know?"
"Seriously? This is basically mini San Francisco," he says with sarcasm that makes me grit my teeth, because he's right, and I hate it. "No one's forcing you into anything here."
I shrug, holding up the facade, because it's my only shot. "Maybe you've got the wrong idea about me. When I'm with a girl, I force myself to think about… I dunno, the guys in the frat. That's why it looks so natural, and, well, I manage to get it up and—"
"Okay, enough," Sterling raises a hand, cutting me off, rubbing his face like he wants to erase this conversation from his memory. "Even if that's true, no one on campus would buy it. You're Noah Whitman, for Christ's sake."
"So, I have to come out publicly for the scholarship?" I ask, and fuck, the idea twists my gut. Pretend with a guy for a scholarship? I know who I am, but if it's to avoid ending up on the street, I'll try it, even if it means swallowing my pride.
"Even if you do, you need to meet academic requirements," Sterling says, his tone flat, leaving no room for negotiation, as he scribbles something on a notepad.
"No problem, I've got that covered," I say, standing, because this claustrophobic office and those posters are suffocating me. "My grades are top-tier."
"Where are you going?" he asks, confused, as his glasses slip again and he pushes them up with a finger.
"To get a boyfriend," I say, not looking back, and the door shuts with a dry click that feels like the start of a plan that's gonna go very, very wrong.
I step out of Montag Hall, and the campus is still alive: a group of students passes, laughing, a guy on a skateboard nearly runs me over, and the smell of coffee from a nearby kiosk mixes with fresh-cut grass. My phone buzzes in my pocket—another text from Morgan: "Pledge meeting in 10. Show up late, and you're cleaning the whole damn house, Whitman." Fuck, he's still on that. But between the scholarship, this lie I just cooked up, and the damn committee, I'm one step from crashing. A boyfriend? Seriously? This is gonna be a disaster, but if I'm going down, might as well do it with style.