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“You can’t actually be serious.”
My eyes slide from my hands, busy buttoning up the front of my raincoat, into the mirror where they meet Charlotte’s. I smile curiously.
“Of course I’m serious. All the sports programs here arewaytoo competitive for me to have a prayer at getting into, and the math team doesn’t have its first meeting until halfway through the term.”
My roommate pales, shaking her head. “No, you need to find something else. Seriously. Look, I know this is all new to you, but I’m telling you—”
“Char, it’s just tutoring. I’ve done it a million times before.”
Okay, I’ve done it a million times before in public school, in North Carolina and then DC after we moved there. I’ve never done it at the single most exclusive, prestigious private preparatory school in the world.
But just the same… tutoring is tutoring, isn’t it? And apparently, even attheOxford Hills Academy, which guides the world’s most elite, connected, and—let’s be real—richstudents get into whatever higher education best suits their perfect pedigrees, there are still ones who need a leg up.
And tutoring looksamazingon pre-college resumes.
“Tenley…” Charlotte’s lips are thin, and the color has fully left her face as it shakes back and forth. “You can’t tutorhim. You can’t gonearhim.”
My brow furrows as I turn with a smirk. “Charlotte, I helped with SAT prep in some of the most dangerous schools in DC.” I glance around at the stunningly gorgeous living area—complete with Tudor-style paned glass windows, curved, intricate ceiling beams, wood inlay shelves of books, and a fireplace that would fit right in at Hogwarts. “I mean, look where we are. I’m sure I’ll be—”
“They call him ‘The Wolf’ for a reason, Tenley,” she hisses quietly.
I swallow. It’s not the first time I’ve heard the nickname.
In the three days since I moved into the student housing with Charlotte, I’ve heard the moniker whispered like a curse, or maybe a prayer, throughout the common areas of campus.
Ilya Volkov: The Wolf of Oxford Hills.
I’ve looked him up online. I mean how do younotafter a nickname like that. I’ve never even met him or seen him face-to-face. But one Google image search later and I fully understood why he’s the Wolf.
Because when that man looks into a camera lens, it’s like a predator ready to pounce on his prey.
Well, that and the fact that his last name is literally Russian for “wolf”, I guess. His last name is also as synonymous with organized crime in Russia as “Capone” would be in the states. In fact, his uncle istheYuri Volkov, head of the notoriously brutal and cold-blooded Volkov Bratva family.
My face flushes as I think back to the face of Ilya spread across the search engine page. Dark hair, green eyes, and the chiseled good looks and bone structure of an aristocratic model. But the whole visage is washed in a brooding darkness that you can’t help but shiver at.
Just like I do, right now, even thinking of it. But I steel myself and shake that shiver off. Ilya Volkov might be “The Wolf.” He might—allegedly—be heir apparent to one of the most dangerous, powerful, and wealthy crime families in the world. He might, bewilderingly, be on academic probation after some issues last year.
But I won’t let any of that affect me or throw me off. Because all of this is part of The Plan.
Okay, so The Plan has been slightly edited by the media and consulting team surrounding my father’s anticipated political moves. But it’s still mostly The Plan I’ve had in my head since I was twelve.
Graduate valedictorian, then Columbia for undergrad where I will, of course, graduate with honors. After that, it’s right to Harvard Law, and interning at the renowned Welsley and Kane who will make me a Junior Associate. From there, I’ll make moves to the even more prestigious Lancer, Stein, and Ramirez firm back in DC, where I’ll make partner within two years. After a few years there, I’ll climb the ladder into a judgeship for the District of Columbia. And by the time I’m forty, I’ll make the push to the final goal: Supreme Court Justice Tenley Chambers—the youngest Justice in history.
Lofty? Perhaps. Impossible? Not with The Plan, which is why I have it.
In the last year, though, The Plan has changed. Sort of. It’s been “recolored,” as Jill, my father’s new PR chief, put it. Because The Plan now involves a lot more than me.
The Plan now involves my father possibly becoming the next Vice President of the United States.
Currently, my dad is the US Secretary of State. Which, I’m under zero illusions, is almost entirely why and how I’m at Oxford Hills. It’s the power and prestige he wields, not the money. We were never struggling when I was growing up. My dad did well as a Naval officer and lawyer with the military courts.
But there’s “doing well” for normal people, and then there’s “doing well” for the kind of people whose kids go to Oxford Hills.
And Oxford Hills is in a class entirely its own.
The students here are the upper echelon—the elite of the world’s elite. The sons and daughters of billionaire tycoons, oligarchs, and royalty—literal, real royalty. I’m from an upper-middle-class suburb and public school. The other students here are from actual castles, or houses with their own zip codes, and have never washed a single teaspoon.
But six months ago, my dad was approached by Senator George North. The New York Senator is highly speculated, by the entire political media spectrum, to be the next President of the United States. He’s already gotten a thumbs-up from the soon to be exiting current POTUS, and his team has picked my father to be his potential running mate when he announces.
