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.
