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Maverick grinned, slow and lethal. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t need to know. You’ll do it either way.”

And that was it.

No legalese. No handshake. Just a card, a promise, and the unspoken threat of Maverick Lexington cashing in.

It was supposed to be a joke. A party trick.

Until word got around.

Until people started asking nervously if they could get one, too.

When he graduated and I got into law school, he handed me the reins with four words:

“Keep the system alive.”

And I didn’t just keep it alive.

I turned it into a kingdom.

One favor at a time.

Now, the IOU Network spans campuses across the country. Collectors report to me. Debts flow upward. I don’t need influence. Iaminfluence.

Princeton. Yale. Even Columbia tried to start their version last year. It collapsed within a semester.

I’m the reason it works here. Because I don’t flinch. I don’t negotiate. And I never offer what I’m not prepared to revoke.

There’s no records.

People call it a secret society.

It’s not.

It’s a meritocracy. Just one they don’t teach in class.

I slide my chair back and rise, movements crisp and quiet. I smooth my jacket and check the cufflinks I don’t need but wear anyway. The image matters, but the armor matters more.

Class starts in seven minutes.

Property law.

Professor Sarin. The man eats second-year students for breakfast and uses third-years as floss. The room is more of a trap than a classroom. A crucible designed to burn off the weak and humiliate the overconfident.

It’s perfect, really.

I take the east corridor, walking with purpose because hesitation reads as guilt in this building.

My stride is steady, my breath controlled, yet my pulse stumbles.

I don’t need to see her.

She’s here.

Transferred into Havemeyer Law several weeks ago. I made sure of it the moment her name showed up in my inbox again.

Tessa Whitmore.

Disaster in a hoodie. A hurricane wrapped in courtroom ambition.