Chapter 1

Being a Sinclair means living under a microscope. My family isn’t just wealthy; we’re the wealthiest Black family in all of Georgia. Everywhere I go, people are watching, whispering about us, expecting perfection. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live a life where people didn’t care who I was or what I did.

Savannah, Georgia, is my home—a city steeped in history, where white-columned mansions line the streets, and the magnolia trees seem to bloom year-round. On the surface, it’s picturesque. But for me, Savannah is a stage, and I’m expected to play my part perfectly.

I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t being prepared to carry the Sinclair name. While other kids were riding bikes and playing tag, I was in ballet lessons, etiquette classes, and academic prep courses. My parents didn’t just raise me; they groomed me.

I grabbed my schoolbag and headed downstairs. My mother was waiting in the foyer, her sharp brown eyes scanning me. She was always immaculate, her tailored dress and pearls a reflection of the image she expected me to maintain.

“You’re ready,” she said with a nod. “Don’t forget, the Debutante luncheon will be here in a few months. You’ll be sitting with the dean, so make sure to leave a good impression.”

“Yes, Mama,” I said, keeping my tone neutral.

“And remember to sit up straight this time,” she added before turning back to her morning coffee.

I exhaled quietly and stepped outside, grateful for the brief freedom of the drive to school. My parents didn’t believe in spoiling me—at least, not too much—but they had given me a car for my sixteenth birthday. It was a sleek black BMW, it’s understated but elegant.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I turned the key, and the engine roared to life. Driving to school was one of the few moments I had to myself, a tiny slice of independence in a life ruled by schedules and expectations.

Bellemont Academy wasn’t far, and as I pulled into the parking lot, the familiar sight of its towering columns and manicured lawns greeted me. It was a school that screamed prestige, where the children of Savannah’s elite came to prove their worth.

“Elle! Over here!” Jasmine’s voice called out as I parked.

She was waiting by the gate, her uniform skirt hiked up just enough to push the dress code boundaries. Her dark curls framed her face, and her smile was as mischievous as ever.

“Morning,” I said, grabbing my bag and walking over.

“Okay, so guess what?” she said, practically bouncing on her toes.

“What now?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Dylan’s throwing a party this Friday,” she said, lowering her voice like it was some big secret. “His parents are out of town on some business trip.”

I groaned. “Of course he is. What’s the theme this time? ‘Rich Kids Behaving Badly’?”

Jasmine laughed. “Come on, Elle. You know his parties are the best. Everyone’s going to be there.”

“Yeah, and last time someone ended up throwing up in my family’s fountain,” I said, crossing my arms.

“Okay, that was one time,” Jasmine said, waving it off. “But seriously, you need to come. You never let loose. You’re always so… perfect.”

“That’s because I have to be, Jasmine. My parents would kill me if they knew I went to a party like that.”

“They don’t have to know,” she said with a smirk. “Live a little, Elle. It won’t kill you.”

I sighed, knowing she wouldn’t drop it. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” she said, looping her arm through mine as we walked toward the school building.

𐦟𐦟𐦟

Classes at Bellemont were exactly what you’d expect at a place like this—rigorous, competitive, and full of kids trying to one-up each other. By the time lunch rolled around, I was already exhausted.

Jasmine and I found our usual spot under the oak tree in the courtyard. The warm Savannah sun filtered through the branches, casting dappled shadows on the ground.

“So, are you really going to come to Dylan’s party?” Jasmine asked, taking a bite of her sandwich.

“I don’t know,” I said, picking at my salad. “It just feels like a bad idea.”

“It’s not a bad idea; it’s fun,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Besides, Dylan’s been asking about you.”

I froze. “What do you mean, asking about me?”

“Oh, you know,” she said, her voice teasing. “He might have a little crush.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Yeah, right. Dylan’s just looking for someone to stroke his ego.”

“Maybe. But he’s cute, and you haven’t exactly been busy with any other guys,” she said, winking.

I sighed, leaning back against the tree trunk. Jasmine wasn’t wrong. My parents made it pretty clear that dating was off the table until I was “older and more responsible,” whatever that meant. And even then, whoever I dated would have to meet their impossibly high standards.

“Fine,” I said finally. “I’ll go. But only if you promise to cover for me if my mom finds out.”

“Deal,” Jasmine said, grinning.