The Audi’s engine was a muted purr as it navigated the streets back toward campus, a stark contrast to the roar of social combat Alexander had just left. Samuel’s presence was a calm, neutral force in the charged silence.“A difficult evening, Young Master?” Samuel finally asked, his eyes on the road.Alexander let out a short, humorless laugh. “You could say that. I was just informed my aesthetic is ‘shoplifting chic’ and that I should stick to taco trucks.”“A curious analysis from individuals who likely have never purchased their own clothing or cooked a meal,” Samuel observed dryly. “Their opinions are of no strategic consequence.”“It’s not about strategy,” Alexander sighed, leaning his head against the cool glass. “It’s about… existing. They look at me and see a list of everything I lack. They don’t see a person.”“A common flaw in those who define themselves by external validation,” Samuel replied. “It makes them predictable. And easily managed, should you choose to do so.”The

The news spread through the campus ecosystem not like a rumor, but like a shockwave. It didn't trickle; it detonated. The "pathetic liar" and "cake thief" was the secret heir to the Benedetti empire. The story was too insane not to be true, especially when corroborated by a sobbing, terminated Bradley Whitlock and a completely unraveled Lisa Williams.Alexander’s walk to his morning economics lecture was a study in shifting social dynamics. Where there had once been sneers and averted gazes, there were now stunned stares, hesitant smiles, and phones quickly raised to capture his image. He was no longer invisible; he was a landmark.He pushed open the lecture hall door. The usual cacophony of a hundred-and-fifty students died instantly, replaced by a breathless, anticipatory silence. Every head turned. He saw Grace Carson already in her seat, her posture rigid. She didn't look at him, but her entire body was angled away, a statue of pure, frozen mortification.He took his usual seat in

The Cooper estate was less a house and more a historical landmark, a sprawling colonial revival mansion set on manicured grounds. That night, it was ablaze with light, pulsing with music, and swarming with the university's most privileged.Alexander arrived alone, driving a sleek, gunmetal grey Aston Martin DB12. It was expensive, but not ostentatious. It whispered class, rather than screaming wealth.He handed the keys to a valet who looked at the car, then at Alexander's simple but perfectly tailored tuxedo, with newfound respect.The party was in full swing. Fraternity brothers in blazers and girls in cocktail dresses clustered around a massive outdoor bar and a swimming pool. Alexander moved through the crowd, feeling the stares and the sudden pockets of silence that followed him.He saw Steven Cooper holding court near the pool, surrounded by his usual sycophants, including a now-subdued Frank Collins. Steven was tall, blond, and possessed a relaxed, entitled confidence that was

The "Rivera Effect," as the campus paper had dubbed it, created a strange new normal. Alexander’s days were now a bizarre split between collegiate routine and corporate sovereignty. He’d solve differential equations in the morning and approve multi-million dollar acquisitions in the afternoon. The fear had mellowed into a profound, almost reverential respect. He was no longer just a student; he was an institution.This delicate balance was shattered one Tuesday evening by a frantic video call from Joseph. His face, usually so full of humor, was pale and slick with panic."Alex! You need to get to St. Jude's Hospital. Now!"Alexander’s blood ran cold. "What happened? Is it your dad?""It's my sister, Mia," Joseph choked out, his voice cracking. "There was a car accident. It's bad, Alex. It's really bad. They're saying she needs a specialized neurosurgeon and there's only one in the state who can do the procedure, a Dr. Evans, and he's booked solid for the next six months. My parents ar

The confrontation with Leo Finch had been a baptism by fire, solidifying Alexander’s resolve. He could no longer afford to simply react; he had to project power, to embody the "Young Master" so completely that no one would ever dare question his legitimacy again. The campus, he decided, was his training ground, and his first official act as its uncrowned ruler would be a demonstration of both his power and his vision.He summoned his inner circle—Joseph, Matthew, and a newly loyal Grace Carson—to his dorm room, which now felt less like a student’s quarters and more like a war room. A large blueprint was unfurled across his desk.“What’s that?” Matthew asked, peering at the complex architectural drawing.“The old student union building,” Alexander said, his finger tracing the outline. “It’s been underutilized for years. The university has been trying to fund a renovation for a decade.”Joseph grinned. “Let me guess. You’re writing a check.”“Not just a check,” Alexander replied, a glin