In a world built on wealth and status, Ethan Cross has learned one truth people like him don't belong here.
The lecture hall smelled like expensive cologne and entitlement.
Ethan Cross sat in the back row of Economics 201, his worn notebook open on the desk, pen poised but motionless. Around him, the children of CEOs and politicians scrolled through their phones, half-listening to Professor Hartley drone on about market equilibrium.
No one sat next to him.
They never did.
It wasn't personal—or maybe it was. Either way, Ethan had stopped caring somewhere around week two of his first semester at Silverbrook University. The empty seats on either side of him had become as familiar as the weight of his scholarship hanging over his head.
Full ride. Don't screw it up.
His mother's words echoed in his mind every time he walked through the iron gates of this place. Silverbrook wasn't just a university—it was a monument to wealth, a playground for the children of the elite. Gothic architecture stretched toward the sky, manicured lawns sprawled between buildings, and somewhere in the distance, the private lake sparkled under the autumn sun.
It was beautiful.
It was suffocating.
"Mr. Cross."
Ethan's head snapped up. Professor Hartley stood at the front of the room, one eyebrow raised, marker still pressed against the whiteboard.
"Yes, sir?"
"Perhaps you'd like to explain the concept of price elasticity to the class? Since you seem so… absorbed in thought."
A few snickers rippled through the room. Ethan felt eyes on him—curious, amused, dismissive.
He cleared his throat and stood. "Price elasticity of demand measures how sensitive the quantity demanded is to a change in price. If demand is elastic, a small price increase leads to a significant drop in quantity demanded. If it's inelastic, demand remains relatively stable despite price changes."
Silence.
Professor Hartley blinked. "And the formula?"
"Percentage change in quantity demanded divided by percentage change in price."
The professor's lips twitched into something that might have been approval. "Correct. Sit down, Mr. Cross."
Ethan sat.
The snickers stopped, replaced by an uncomfortable quiet. He didn't look around. He didn't need to. He already knew what they were thinking.
Scholarship kid. Nerd. Tryhard.
Let them think it. Grades were the only currency he had in this place.
The lecture ended twenty minutes later, and the hall erupted into motion. Designer bags were slung over shoulders, car keys jingled, plans for lunch at some upscale bistro were made in loud, carefree voices.
Ethan packed his notebook slowly, deliberately waiting until most of the crowd had filtered out. It was easier that way—less chance of awkward eye contact, fewer reminders that he didn't fit in.
He was halfway to the door when he heard it.
"God, did you see him? So desperate to impress Hartley."
Ethan's jaw tightened, but he kept walking.
"Probably spent all night memorizing the textbook. What else does he have to do?"
Laughter followed. He didn't turn around.
The hallway outside was worse—a current of expensive jackets, luxury watches, and effortless confidence. Ethan moved through it like a ghost, shoulders hunched, eyes forward.
*Just get to the library. Finish the problem sets. Stay invisible.*
That was the strategy. Keep his head down, get perfect grades, graduate with honors, and get the hell out of here. Four years. He could survive four years.
He had to.
The library was quieter, though not by much. Silverbrook's library looked more like a five-star hotel lobby than a place of study—marble floors, vaulted ceilings, leather chairs positioned near towering windows that overlooked the campus gardens.
Ethan chose a corner desk on the second floor, far from the clusters of students who treated the library like a social club. He pulled out his laptop—a five-year-old model held together by sheer willpower and electrical tape—and opened his coding assignment.
Programming was the one place where wealth didn't matter. Code didn't care if you wore last season's sneakers or drove a decade-old sedan. It either worked, or it didn't.
And Ethan's always worked.
His fingers flew across the keyboard, lines of Python appearing on the screen in rapid succession. The problem was complex—a simulation algorithm for predictive market trends—but he'd already mapped out the solution in his head during Professor Hartley's lecture.
Time slipped away.
An hour passed. Then two.
He was so focused that he didn't notice her until she was standing right beside his desk.
"Is this seat taken?"
Ethan looked up—and froze.
Vanessa Monroe.
Everyone knew who she was. Daughter of Gregory Monroe, the real estate mogul whose face appeared on billboards across the city. She was president of the student council, captain of the debate team, and, according to campus gossip, had turned down three modeling contracts to focus on her degree.
She was also, objectively, the most beautiful girl Ethan had ever seen.
Long dark hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders. Her skin was flawless, her eyes a striking shade of green that seemed almost unreal. She wore a cream-colored sweater and jeans that probably cost more than his entire wardrobe, and she carried herself with the kind of effortless grace that came from a lifetime of confidence.
"Uh…" Ethan blinked, his brain short-circuiting. "No. I mean, it's not taken."
She smiled—polite, distant—and set her bag down on the chair beside him.
But she didn't sit.
Instead, she pulled out her phone, typed something quickly, and glanced around the library as if searching for someone.
Ethan turned back to his screen, heart pounding for reasons he didn't understand.
*Why is she here? There are literally fifty empty tables.*
A minute passed.
Then another.
Finally, a girl appeared—one of Vanessa's friends, judging by the expensive handbag and perfectly styled blonde hair.
"There you are!" the girl said, slightly breathless. "Come on, we're meeting the others at the café."
Vanessa glanced at Ethan—just for a second—then picked up her bag.
"Sorry," she said lightly. "Changed my mind."
And just like that, she was gone.
Ethan stared at the empty chair beside him, his chest tight with something he couldn't name.
She hadn't even sat down.
Of course she hadn't.
Girls like Vanessa Monroe didn't sit next to guys like him.
By the time Ethan left the library, the sun had dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the campus. He checked his phone—4:47 PM.
His shift started at six.
He walked quickly toward the campus gates, pulling his jacket tighter against the autumn chill. The bus stop was a ten-minute walk, and if he missed the 5:15, he'd be late.
And he couldn't afford to be late.
Not when his paycheck was the only thing keeping the lights on at home.
As he passed the student center, a group of students spilled out onto the lawn, laughing and shoving each other playfully. Ethan recognized a few of them from his economics class.
One of them—a tall guy with slicked-back hair and a varsity jacket—caught sight of him and smirked.
"Yo, Cross! Heading to your job?"
The others laughed.
Ethan didn't respond. He kept walking.
"Don't work too hard, man!" someone called after him. "Wouldn't want you to miss out on… oh wait, you're already missing out on everything!"
More laughter.
Ethan's hands curled into fists inside his pockets, but he didn't look back.
Invisible, he reminded himself. Stay invisible.
The bus was crowded and smelled like rain and old upholstery. Ethan stood near the back, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other clutching his phone.
A text from his sister lit up the screen.
Lily: Mom's feeling better today. She ate soup! :)
Ethan's chest loosened slightly. He typed back quickly.
Ethan: That's great. I'll bring her medicine after work.
Lily: You're the best big bro ever.
He smiled faintly and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
The bus rumbled through the city, leaving behind the pristine streets near campus and diving into the older, grayer parts of town. By the time Ethan stepped off at his stop, the sky had turned a deep bruised purple.
The restaurant loomed ahead—a mid-tier establishment called Harlow's, popular with university students looking for a place to drink and unwind.
Ethan pushed through the back entrance and clocked in.
"Cross! You're early for once!" his manager, Danny, called from the kitchen.
"Traffic was light," Ethan replied, tying on his apron.
Danny grinned. "Good. We're expecting a big crowd tonight. Some university event letting out. You're on tables five through ten."
Ethan nodded and grabbed his order pad.
Another shift. Another night of serving people who'd never see him as anything more than the help.
He could do this.
He'd done it a hundred times before.