St. Jude Academy was not merely an educational institution. It was a gilded fortress.

The morning air at Edenbridge Preparatory was crisp, carrying the scent of Pacific saltwater and freshly manicured manicures. Serena Sterling stood at the apex of the grand marble staircase, overlooking the circular driveway like a monarch surveying her kingdom. She wore a custom-tailored crimson blazer that cost more than the average American’s annual mortgage, her blonde hair cascading in deliberate, flawless waves.

To her left stood Mason Vance, heir to a tech conglomerate, scrolling through his portfolio on a platinum-cased phone. To her right was Chloe, Serena’s most loyal lieutenant, holding two matcha lattes with trembling perfection.

The morning procession was a choreographed dance of wealth. The Valet, a man named Henderson who had signed a six-page NDA just to park their cars, rushed to open the doors of a pristine white Rolls-Royce.

"Tragic," Serena murmured, watching a junior step out wearing last season's Gucci loafers. "Someone tell Madison the archives called; they want their shoes back."

Mason snorted. Chloe nodded vigorously, making a mental note to text the entire junior class about Madison's faux pas.

Then, the rhythmic purring of the V8 engines was interrupted by a sound that did not belong at Edenbridge. It was a low, aggressive, mechanical growl.

Every head turned.

Instead of a sleek European import, a 1969 matte-black Ford Mustang rumbled up the pristine slate driveway. It wasn't a pristine show car; it had character. The paint was dull, the engine was loud, and it came to a halt right in the spot reserved for the Sterling family’s Maybach.

Serena’s perfect smile hardened into a razor-thin line. "Henderson," she snapped, her voice carrying over the courtyard. "Tow that piece of scrap metal immediately."

But before the valet could move, the driver’s side door opened.

A girl stepped out. She didn't look like Edenbridge. She wore a faded vintage leather jacket over a simple white silk camisole and tailored black trousers. Her dark hair was cut in a sharp, messy bob, and she wore a pair of dark aviator sunglasses. She slung a canvas messenger bag over her shoulder and kicked the heavy car door shut with a scuffed combat boot.

She walked past the valet, past the staring heirs and heiresses, and began to ascend the marble stairs.

Serena moved to block her path, standing two steps higher to maintain the physical high ground. "I think you’re lost," Serena said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "The public high school is three miles down the coast."

The girl stopped. She slowly lowered her aviators, revealing piercing, storm-gray eyes that completely lacked the one thing Serena was used to seeing: fear.

"Serena Sterling," the girl said, her voice smooth and entirely unbothered. "Your father’s stock plummeted four percent this morning after the failed merger in Tokyo. I’d focus less on my car, and more on your trust fund. It's shrinking."

A collective gasp echoed across the staircase.

The girl slipped her glasses back on and walked around a paralyzed Serena, pushing open the heavy mahogany doors of the academy.