The bronze bells of St. Jude University tolled, echoing across the manicured, emerald-green lawns.

By Thursday, the entire campus was buzzing with rumors. Not about the Gala, but about a sudden, catastrophic shift in the stock market.

Julian sat in the campus library, listening to the panicked whispers of the trust-fund kids around him.

"My dad was screaming on the phone this morning," a boy in a Gucci sweater muttered. "Someone is shorting our tech stocks. It's a bloodbath."

"Sterling Holdings took a massive hit today," another whispered. "Tristan looked like he was going to throw up in macroeconomics."

Julian turned a page of his textbook, his face a mask of serene indifference. Alistair was efficient. The Vance Dynasty didn't just participate in the market; they were the market. By subtly manipulating supply chains and pulling investments from shell companies, Julian’s family had erased 15% of the Sterling family's net worth in forty-eight hours.

It was a warning shot. A barely visible flex of the muscle Julian kept hidden beneath his cheap denim jacket.

Outside the library, Julian ran into Tristan. The King of Kingston looked uncharacteristically disheveled. His tie was loose, and he was furiously typing on his phone.

When Tristan saw Julian, his panic quickly morphed into misdirected rage.

"What are you looking at?" Tristan snapped, stepping into Julian’s path. "Enjoying the view? Soaking up the air of people who actually matter before you go back to your trailer park?"

Julian stopped. He looked at Tristan, not with anger, but with profound, devastating pity. It was the look a predator gives a wounded animal.