The taxi smelled like stale coffee and broken dreams.
I pressed my forehead against the window, watching as the scenery transformed from strip malls and gas stations into something that looked like it had been ripped straight out of a fantasy novel. Wrought iron gates loomed ahead, easily twelve feet tall, with an elaborate crest worked into the metal—an eagle clutching a shield, wings spread wide like it was ready to devour anyone stupid enough to challenge it.
Blackwell Imperial University.
My stomach twisted itself into a knot that would've made my high school physics teacher proud.
"This the place?" The driver—a man who'd spent the entire forty-minute ride in blessed silence—glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
"Yeah." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "This is it."
He pulled up to the gates, and I fumbled with my wallet, counting out bills and trying not to wince at how much of my carefully hoarded cash was disappearing. Behind us, a sleek black Mercedes purred impatiently. I didn't need to look back to know the price tag probably exceeded my entire scholarship.
"Keep the change," I muttered, shoving money at him before he could offer pity. I'd seen enough pity in the last two years to last a lifetime.
The crisp September air hit me as I stepped out, carrying two worn duffel bags and my backpack. Everything I owned for the next nine months, condensed into containers that had seen better days. Around me, students emerged from cars that cost more than my childhood home, trailing designer luggage and boredom in equal measure.
I squared my shoulders and walked through those gates like I had every right to be there.
Fake it till you make it, Stella.
The campus unfurled before me like something out of a movie. Gothic buildings with actual gargoyles perched on corners, their stone faces frozen in eternal judgment. Modern glass structures that probably cost more than a small country's GDP, reflecting the autumn sky. Lawns so perfectly manicured I was half-convinced they employed someone whose sole job was to measure each blade of grass.
Marble fountains. Actual marble fountains.
A girl walked past me wearing what I was pretty sure was a Chanel jacket, talking into her phone about "Daddy's yacht" and "the Hamptons house." She didn't even glance in my direction. I might as well have been invisible.
Which was exactly what I needed to be.
*You're smart enough for anywhere,* my father's voice echoed in my head, clear as the day he'd said it. Six months before the heart attack that took him from us. Before Mom started working double shifts at the hospital. Before I'd watched my fourteen-year-old sister learn what "broke" really meant. *Don't let anyone tell you different.*
I wasn't going to, Dad. I promise.
I pulled out my phone, squinting at the campus map that looked like it required a degree in cartography to decipher. Scholarship orientation was in the Administration Building, which appeared to be... somewhere in the maze of architectural excess ahead of me.
Great.
---
The Administration Building turned out to be one of the Gothic ones, all dark wood and stained glass windows that probably had their own insurance policies. I wandered through hallways that smelled like old money and older secrets until I found a door marked "Room 114."
No elegant sign. No welcoming banner. Just a number on a door tucked away in what was clearly the least impressive part of an otherwise impressive building.
I pushed it open.
The room was small—generous description—and filled with about fifteen students who all had the same look I probably did: trying desperately to appear like they belonged while knowing they absolutely didn't. We were a motley collection of diversity, carefully curated to make the university look good in their promotional materials.
I slid into a seat near the back, next to a girl with dark curly hair who was sketching something in a notebook. She glanced up, gave me a quick once-over, and returned a small smile that said *I know, right?*
At the front of the room, a woman in an aggressively professional pantsuit was organizing papers with the kind of precision that suggested she enjoyed making people uncomfortable.
"Good morning," she said, once the last student had filed in. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Welcome to Blackwell Imperial University. I'm Mrs. Patterson, and I'll be your liaison for scholarship affairs."
Scholarship affairs. Like we were a PR problem that needed managing.
"You're all here because of your academic merit," she continued, clicking through a PowerPoint presentation that looked like it had been designed in 2003. "Blackwell is committed to diversity and providing opportunities to students from all backgrounds."
Translation: You're charity cases, but we need you for the brochures.
My photographic memory kicked in automatically, cataloging every face in the room, every word she said, every subtle condescension in her tone. It's what I did—absorbed information like a sponge, filed it away for later. Useful skill for someone who couldn't afford to miss anything.
"However," and there it was, the catch, "maintaining your scholarship requires a GPA of 3.5 or higher. Additionally, you'll be required to complete forty hours of community service per semester. These are non-negotiable terms."
A guy a few seats over raised his hand. "What about work-study programs?"
"Available, but limited. You'll need to apply early." Mrs. Patterson's expression suggested she thought we should be grateful for the opportunity to work for our education. "Remember, you represent Blackwell's commitment to accessibility. Don't squander this chance."
Don't squander it. Like we'd somehow won the lottery instead of worked our asses off to be here.
I felt my jaw clench and forced it to relax. Getting angry wouldn't help. Anger was a luxury I couldn't afford.
The presentation droned on. Financial breakdowns that made my head spin—$75,000 per year for tuition alone. Room and board another $20,000. Fees and expenses that added up to numbers that shouldn't exist outside of national budgets. And there, in small text at the bottom: Full Scholarship - $95,000 annual value.
Nearly a hundred thousand dollars. That's what I was worth on paper. That's what I could lose if I slipped, if I failed, if I proved them right about charity cases not belonging here.
My chest felt tight.
The girl next to me caught my eye again, and this time I saw the same tight anxiety around her mouth. She knew. We all knew. We were walking tightropes without nets, and the fall would hurt.
"Any questions?" Mrs. Patterson asked with the air of someone who desperately hoped there wouldn't be.
Silence.
"Excellent. Your orientation packets contain all necessary information. Welcome to Blackwell." She smiled that non-smile again. "Make us proud."
We filed out in silence, clutching our thick packets of rules and restrictions. In the hallway, the girl with curly hair fell into step beside me.
"Maya," she said.
"Stella."
"Scholarship?"
"Scholarship."
We shared a look that needed no translation: *Here we go.*
---
I spent the afternoon exploring, because my dorm check-in wasn't until four and sitting in that tiny room thinking about hundred-thousand-dollar price tags seemed like a fast track to a panic attack.
The library was my first stop. Of course it was.
It rose before me like a temple to knowledge, all soaring ceilings and endless rows of books that smelled like paper and possibility. Students lounged in leather chairs that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, laptops open, looking like they'd been born to occupy space in beautiful buildings.
I walked through slowly, trailing my fingers along spines, feeling something in my chest unclench slightly. Books didn't care where you came from. A well-crafted argument was a well-crafted argument whether you delivered it in designer shoes or thrift store sneakers.
This, at least, I could do. This was the playing field where I had a chance.
The student center was less comforting.
I grabbed coffee—regular, not one of the fifteen-dollar specialty drinks that seemed to be the standard—and found a corner table to people-watch. My favorite pastime, my best skill. Observation had kept me alive in a small town where being "smart" was synonymous with "target." It would serve me here too.
At a nearby table, three girls who looked like they'd stepped out of a fashion magazine were discussing spring break plans.
"Daddy's villa in Santorini," one said, examining her nails. "Though honestly, Greece is so last year."
"We're doing the Maldives," another chimed in. "Private island, obviously."
Private island. Obviously.
I took a sip of my coffee and tried not to calculate how many shifts my mom would have to work to afford a trip like that. The answer was depressing enough without the math.
A guy walked by wearing a watch that caught the light. I didn't know much about luxury goods, but I knew enough to recognize a Rolex when I saw one. On a college student. Casual as a t-shirt.
Different world. Different universe, really.
I cataloged the social hierarchy like I was studying for an exam, because in a way, I was. The Legacy kids—moved with the confidence of people who had buildings named after their grandparents. The New Money crowd—trying just a little too hard to fit in, designer labels slightly too obvious. International students in their own clusters. Athletes with their team jackets and easy camaraderie.
And then there was us. The scholarship students. The ones who checked price tags and did mental math before ordering food.
My phone buzzed. A text from my mom: *How is it? Are you settling in okay? Emma says hi and misses you already.*
I smiled despite myself, typing back: *It's beautiful. I'm good. Tell Emma I miss her too. Love you both.
Short. Simple. True enough.
What I didn't say: I feel like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life. I miss Dad so much it physically hurts. I'm terrified I'm going to fail and prove everyone right who said I didn't belong here.
She had enough to worry about.