"Before we begin today's discussion," Professor Lurther announces, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, "I'd like to introduce a returning student who will be joining us for the remainder of the semester."
"Class, meet Mr. Stan," Lurther continues, gesturing toward my stolen seat. "He's been completing his studies abroad and brings a unique perspective to our discussions."
My stomach drops. Stan?? as in President Stan.
As in the guy currently smirking at me from MY chair is the university president's son.
"No way," I breathe, loud enough that the girl next to me glances over.
Isaac Stan - because of course that's his name, something that sounds like it belongs on a trust fund - gives a modest nod to the class. "Thank you, Professor Lurther. Looking forward to it."
Even his voice sounds expensive. Like he grew up with private tutors and summer houses.
"Excellent," Lurther says, and I swear I see him smile. Actually smile. At a student. "Mr. Stan, perhaps you'd like to share your thoughts on our discussion of *The Great Gatsby*?"
Of course he gets called on immediately. Of course Lurther is already playing favorites with Campus Royalty.
Isaac - I refuse to think of him as Mr. Stan like he deserves respect - leans back in his chair. My chair. "Well, Nick spends the whole book telling us how honest he is, but he's basically lying to himself the entire time. He acts like he's better than everyone else while doing exactly what they do."
That's... actually a really good point.
"Go on," Lurther prompts, leaning forward with interest.
"He judges all these rich people for being shallow and fake, but he's fascinated by them. He wants to be part of their world even while he's criticizing it. At the end, he acts all superior, but he spent months enabling their drama because it was entertaining."
Several students nod appreciatively. Jennifer Walsh, who usually dominates class discussions, looks annoyed that someone beat her to the good insights.
"And what does this tell us about the story itself?" Lurther asks.
Isaac's eyes sweep the room before landing on me. "That maybe the real problem isn't just that rich people are terrible - it's that we all want to be them, even when we know better. Nick gets to feel morally superior while still getting all the benefits of hanging out with them."
The entire class is hanging on his every word. Even I have to admit it's smart - the kind of insight that cuts right to the heart of things without all the academic jargon.
Show off.
"Fascinating perspective, Mr. Stan," Lurther says. "Class, I want you to think about how this applies to other stories we've read."
Isaac settles back in his seat - my seat - looking perfectly comfortable. Like he belongs here. Like everything comes naturally to him.
I realize I've been staring when he catches my eye and raises an eyebrow in question. There's something challenging in his expression, like he's waiting to see what I'll do next.
I force myself to look away, but I can feel his attention on me for the rest of class. Every time I glance up from my notes, he's watching me with this small, knowing smile that makes my skin feel too tight.
When class ends, I gather my coffee-stained belongings as quickly as possible. I need to get out of here before-
"Excuse me."
Too late.
Isaac is standing beside my desk, looking down at me with those unsettling dark eyes. Up close, I can see they're not actually black - they're dark brown with flecks of gold, like expensive whiskey.
"I believe we got off on the wrong foot this morning," he says, his voice smooth and controlled.
"You mean when you knocked me over and didn't apologize?"
"I mean when you weren't watching where you were going."
The audacity. "I was walking in a straight line."
"So was I."
We stare at each other for a long moment. Students file out around us, probably sensing the tension crackling between us like a live wire.
"You're in my seat," I say finally.
"Your seat?" He glances back at the third-row chair like it's a foreign concept. "I wasn't aware the university had assigned seating."
"It's called courtesy. Most people understand the concept."
"Most people adapt when things change."
God, he's infuriating. Standing there in his perfect sweater with his perfect posture, like he's never had to fight for anything in his entire privileged life.
"Look, Princess-"
"It's Isaac."
"I don't care what your name is. That's been my seat since the semester started, and I'm not giving it up just because Daddy runs the university."
Something shifts in his expression. The smooth confidence cracks just slightly, revealing something sharper underneath.
"My father has nothing to do with this," he says quietly.
"Doesn't he?"
We're standing too close now, close enough that I can smell his cologne - something expensive and woody that probably costs more than my textbooks. Close enough to see the way his jaw tightens when I mention his father.
"See you tomorrow, Faith," he says, and my name sounds different in his voice. Like he's tasting it.
Wait. "How do you know my-"
But he's already walking away, leaving me standing there with my mouth half-open and my heart doing this weird racing thing that I absolutely refuse to analyze.
I watch him go, noting the way other students step aside for him in the hallway. The way conversations quiet when he passes. The way he moves through the world like he owns it.
Because he probably does.
Isaac Stan. The university president's son. Campus royalty.