Chapter 4

The next morning, my phone buzzed me awake, vibrating more than a dozen times in a row.

Groggily, I tapped the screen. My teammate had spammed me with messages, topped by a link.

The headline read.

"EXPOSED: The Truth Behind Logan Vance's Dorm Room Lapdog"

My sleep vanished instantly.

I clicked the link. It was posted on the anonymous campus forum at 3:00 AM.

"Remember that guy Flynn Vance who follows Logan Vance around like a lost puppy, acting like his personal butler since day one?"

"You think they're just roommates? Don't be naive."

"He's literally the Vance family's live-in dog. Basically a servant."

"What kind of service? If you know, you know~"

Below that was a bulleted list of my so-called "crimes" since the semester started.

"This guy only cares about latching onto the wealthy and looks down on anyone from a normal background. Having classes with someone like this makes me sick."

At the very bottom of the thread was an anonymous comment claiming to be an "insider".

"I'm his roommate. He never speaks to the rest of us in the dorm because he thinks we're too poor. With Logan Vance backing him up, why would he care about us?"

That tone, that exact phrasing. I'd recognize it anywhere.

The post had already blown up, sitting at the very top of the trending board with endless comments.

"Makes sense. No normal dude would be that submissive unless he practiced it in bed."

"People like him disgust me. Acting superior just because he's a rich guy's pet."

"Wait, isn't he Serena Hughes's boyfriend? A spineless loser pulled a campus queen? LMAO."

"Lowest GPA in the department, carrying bags for billionaires every day. How does he even look in the mirror?"

Someone deliberately tagged an account. I clicked on it. It was Serena's handle.

She had replied directly under the tag.

"We broke up. Thanks everyone."

"He was the one chasing me and begging all along. He has zero character, no backbone, and his grades are an absolute disaster. I cut my losses early."

Scores of comments liked her reply, praising her for "dodging a bullet."

Then someone asked, "So what's the deal between you and Tristan?"

She replied with a shy emoji and wrote.

"Tristan might not come from money, but he is genuinely exceptional. Top student, great morals, and unbreakable pride. A million times better than people who survive on handouts."

"Spineless." "Disaster." "Practiced in bed."

"Unbreakable pride." "Exceptional." "Great morals."

I stared at those contrasting phrases for a long time.

Whatever.

I locked my phone and sat on the edge of the mattress, gazing blankly out the window at the dreary morning fog.

Before I could even process it, my phone rang. It was the Dean of Student Affairs.

"Flynn Vance. Get down to my office. Right now."

Dean Sullivan spun the thick stack of papers around and shoved it across her mahogany desk. It was a printout of the forum thread, with dozens of vile comments highlighted in bright yellow ink.

Dean Sullivan frowned, tapping her manicured fingernail against the paper.

"The entire university is talking about this."

"Flaunting wealth, toxic elitism, and harassing poor students. It reflects horribly on our institution. The department head is already asking questions."

"Here is what's going to happen: you will issue a formal apology to Tristan Miller, and we can put this matter behind us."

I rolled the word around on my tongue.

"Apologize?"

"He threw his dirty underwear into my laundry basin. He spread slanderous lies on the campus board and incited a witch hunt against me."

"And you want me to apologize to him?"

Dean Sullivan's expression darkened.

"With that attitude, are you trying to escalate this further?"

I stood up, the legs of the chair screeching sharply against the tile floor.

"Dean Sullivan, you don't need to stress yourself over this."

"When my parents arrive, you can discuss it directly with them."

Her eyebrows knotted even tighter.

"I'd love to see what kind of parents raised such an entitled brat!"

I met her gaze, every syllable steady and deliberate.

"Arthur Vance. Dean Sullivan, would you like me to dial his personal line for you?"

The pen slipped from Dean Sullivan's fingers, clattering onto the glass desk. Her lips parted, and she frantically flipped open the executive donor registry on her computer, stopping dead on a single name.

Her face drained from crimson to ash-white, then settled into an expression of sheer terror.

"You're... Arthur Vance's son?"

"Why on earth didn't you say so earlier?!"