THE BROKEN DREAMS

The sun rose angry and red over the marina.

Fred staggered off the yacht just after dawn, his head pounding, his mouth dry, his soul feeling heavier than ever.

His tuxedo was wrinkled.

The polished shoes were scuffed.

There was a faint bloodstain on the cuff of his white shirt — not his blood, but he didn't know whose.

Around him, rich kids lay sprawled across the pier — girls in torn designer dresses, boys passed out clutching bottles.

A broken tiara glittered in a puddle of vomit.

Fred tightened his grip on his cheap phone, blinking back the dizziness.

He needed to get out of there.

Away from these monsters.

Back to his small, cheap dorm room, where the paint peeled and the windows rattled when it rained.

Back to somewhere he could breathe.

But fate wasn't done with him yet.

---

As he stumbled toward the road, a sleek black Porsche 911 with a custom plate — I4IVY — slid to a stop in front of him.

The passenger window rolled down.

Ivy Callahan leaned out.

Still stunning.

Still real.

Her hair was tied back now, her green eyes fierce.

> "Get in, Fred," she said simply.

No flirtation.

No games.

Just a command.

Fred hesitated.

Everything inside him screamed: Don't trust anyone here.

But he got in.

Because he didn't want to walk back alone.

Because, deep down, he was tired of being alone.

---

Ivy drove fast, reckless, weaving through the early morning traffic like she owned the roads.

For a while, they didn't speak.

The leather seats smelled of expensive perfume and cigarette smoke.

Finally, Ivy said, voice low:

> "You were brave last night."

Fred scoffed bitterly.

> "I was a coward."

Ivy smiled — a small, broken smile.

> "No. Cowards pretend they're strong. Brave people admit when they're scared."

Fred stared at her.

Was she... different?

Really different?

Or was this another trick?

Another rich girl playing with the poor boy?

Ivy's hands tightened around the steering wheel.

> "Sebastian Holt is scum. You don't have to take his shit. Ever."

Fred said nothing.

Because fighting Sebastian meant war.

And Fred had no army.

---

They pulled into a quiet parking lot behind a cheap diner.

Ivy killed the engine.

Turned to face him.

Her green eyes burned into him.

> "Fred... I want to make you an offer."

Fred tensed.

Here it comes.

The price tag.

Ivy took a deep breath.

> "I have a sponsor. A real one. Not the disgusting kind most girls here have."

Fred's heart thudded.

> "His name is Elijah Monroe. He owns shares in almost every major company in the city — hotels, clubs, real estate, tech. He's powerful. Dangerous."

Fred had heard the name whispered in hallways.

The Man with No Face.

Always pulling strings.

Always watching.

Ivy leaned closer.

> "He's looking for someone new to mentor. Someone clean. Someone desperate."

Fred's stomach twisted.

> "Why me?"

Ivy's voice softened.

> "Because you're real, Fred. You're not like them. Yet."

Yet.

That tiny word stabbed deeper than any insult.

Ivy placed a small black card in his hand.

No writing.

No numbers.

Just a silver phoenix etched into it.

> "If you accept, call the number I'll text you tonight. Say the code word: 'Ashes.' They'll find you."

Fred stared at the card.

It felt heavy.

Like it already knew too much about him.

Ivy reached out, touched his hand briefly.

> "Think about it. But... be careful."

Then she was gone.

Just like that.

---

Unbeknownst to Fred, back at the White Pearl yacht...

Sebastian Holt sat in the private lounge, an ice pack on his jaw and murder in his blue eyes.

Next to him, his father — Senator William Holt — spoke coldly into his gold-plated phone:

> "Blackmail him. Destroy him. I want that boy begging on the streets by Monday."

Layla Monroe lounged on the leather sofa nearby, sipping champagne, her silver dress glittering in the dim light.

She smiled lazily.

> "Oh, don't worry, Senator. I have... plans for Fred Kane."

Her long red nails tapped her glass rhythmically.

One. Two. Three.

The sharks were circling.

And Fred didn't even know he was bleeding.

---

When Fred finally returned to campus later that morning:

Posters of the upcoming Spring Prom were plastered everywhere: "Biggest Night of the Year! Elite Guests Only!"

Rumors buzzed about a new sponsor program offering "special scholarships" — scholarships that, everyone whispered, involved selling more than just grades.

Rich kids strutted around with their new luxury cars — a girl named Tiffany showed off her customized pink Range Rover with a plate that read PRINCESS1.

Professors turned a blind eye to cheating, bribery, and scandals — too afraid or too greedy to care.

Fred walked through it all like a ghost.

Invisible.

But somewhere deep inside, something was waking up.

A rage.

A hunger.

A silent promise:

> "One day... I will destroy all of you."

---