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Dad had never smiled so bright.
Darren swallowed, the weight of his phone and the ghost of his unanswered call to Dad heavy in his pocket.
Yeah, he’d counted on the program being his, all right.
He wanted to be angry at the change of rules. Wanted to be as mad as Jenkins clearly was that disgruntled students had filed complaints to the agency that oversaw Harrison’s academic status.
And he was frustrated, and worried about having to compete for the program, but in the same breath, he got it.
He’d just spent the afternoon at the impound lot dealing with a prime example of bias toward people with the “right” last names. Like his.
Jenkins smiled grimly, and Darren disliked him for all his apologies. Disliked him for being put out by what was a fair-enough accusation.
His great-great-grandfather may have intended for his heirs to get first dibs on the trust, but that wasn’t how it was written. To be honest, this couldn’t be the first time someone complained about the program being suspended while a Gage attended the university.
Guess it was the first time someone was smart enough to complain to the right channels. Good on him. Or her. Whoever it was.
“As I said, it’s unfortunate it came to this, but the running of the Gage Scholar Program is under review . . .”
So Jenkins needed to make it look like no such thing as entitled bias existed.
Darren suppressed a snort.
Jenkin’s mistook his expression, because he nodded. “I understand how you feel. Instead of being grateful for the opportunity to attend Harrison—and on scholarship—these students feel they are owed more.”
These students?
The fuck?
Jenkin’s continued, “We’ve given them an incredible opportunity. We pay for their quality education, and they get to make connections that will serve them well for a lifetime. And it’s never enough.”
“But they’re right. The university treats them different from those of us who come from money.”
Jenkins’s eyes narrowed, and he squeezed the arm of his leather chair. “This university treats everyone the same.”
Darren didn’t try to hide his contempt this time. “Everyone knows the university will shit-can anyone who causes a wealthy parent to complain—or worse, withhold a check. Even professors. But since you pay them well above the standard pay for a school this size, they know not to bite the gilded hand that feeds them.”
“I think this conversation is over.” Jenkins stood and kept his gaze on Darren.
Darren rose to his feet, voice tight. “I think that’s the first right thing you’ve said.”
Isaiah
By the time Isaiah was due for his meeting with President Jenkins, he was bursting with nerves. His foot tapped against the marble floor, and he forced himself to stop when the assistant delivered him a tight look over her glasses.
It was just . . . he hadn’t expected to create this much of a ruckus. What if his complaint got him thrown out of Harrison? How would he finish school? Or worse, be able to help his mother?
He hauled in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
No, he’d done the right thing.
He’d go in there. He’d be polite, and he’d be insistent.
He pushed off the velvet-cushioned bench and strolled around the opulent waiting room.
He’d never been anyplace this classy before. Even in his suit he felt underdressed.
He clasped his hands behind his back and took in the array of plaques, trophies, and awards celebrating Harrison University. Dozens of pictures studded the walls, almost all of President Jenkins shaking hands with distinguished politicians and other people of importance. Dominating the wall opposite the fireplace was an enormous portrait of a man in early twentieth century clothing. Moving closer, he read the inscription: Darren Josiah Gage.
He reached out and ran his fingers lightly over the heavily carved frame.
A burst of air signaled a door opening. Isaiah glanced across the room, and froze. Time froze, too.
That was not the president.
The guy was his age, and tall. Nicely pressed khaki shorts stretched across a pair of lean hips, and his pale blue oxford showcased perfectly sculpted shoulders and a tapered frame. His collar had flicked up on one side as if he’d been in a rush to dress, the corner teasing the column of his throat. His square jaw had an angry line to it, like the guy was biting back a curse or three. His thinly pressed lips and the blaze in his eyes confirmed it.
Holy shit.
The guy’s presence thickened the air.
Isaiah’s fingers twitched against the frame, knocking the painting askew.
The motion caught the guy’s attention, and his eyes snapped toward him.
Some funky sound wobbled up Isaiah’s throat.
The guy’s startled expression flickered over Isaiah. His anger softened, but it didn’t stop the electricity bursting out of him.
Suddenly, Isaiah was met with a hesitant grin, perfect teeth peeking between dark pink lips. In four measured steps, the guy closed the gap between them. Soulful brown eyes glittered like he found something amusing.
