Arnold Sinclair sat alone on a weathered wooden bench outside the Ravenwood University library, the chill of the late afternoon air cutting through his secondhand coat. The campus, with its gothic spires and manicured courtyards, looked like a painting: beautiful, expensive, untouchable. Around him, students strolled past in small, laughing clusters, draped in designer coats and cashmere scarves. Luxury cars lined the stone path ahead, their sleek bodies gleaming under the sun, as though they too belonged to the elite.
Arnold didn't. Not really.
He was a scholarship student—a ghost in the land of kings and heirs. He kept his notebook clutched tightly to his chest, the worn leather cover a thin barrier between him and the world that barely acknowledged his existence.
He checked his watch again. 4:07 p.m.
Rose was late.
She was never late.
His foot tapped anxiously against the cobblestone. Maybe she was just caught up in class, or maybe she was changing outfits like she sometimes did when she was nervous. But the silence on his phone—no texts, no apologies, not even a read receipt—gnawed at him.
He caught sight of her before he heard her—heels clicking on stone, posture elegant, hair shining auburn in the sun. She moved like someone who owned the space she walked in. And maybe she did. In a place like Ravenwood, people like Rose didn't just belong—they were born to rule.
She reached him without a smile, her arms folded neatly across her tailored white coat.
"Rose," he said, standing up with a hopeful smile. "I thought maybe you got caught up in—"
"We need to talk," she said, voice clipped and cold.
His smile faltered. "Okay. Sure. Let's sit—"
"No." Her eyes scanned the courtyard as if even standing still too long with him might damage her reputation. "This won't take long."
The bench stood between them like a chasm. Arnold felt it—felt everything—tilt off balance.
"What's going on?" he asked, keeping his tone light even as his stomach tightened.
She took a breath, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I'm ending it, Arnold. Us."
The words landed like a slap—clean, sharp, immediate. For a few seconds, he just stared at her, certain he had misheard. "What?"
"I'm breaking up with you."
His voice barely found its footing. "But... why?"
Her expression didn't waver. "Arnold, let's not pretend. You're sweet, sure, but you don't belong in this world. I need more than late-night ramen dinners and textbooks with coffee stains."
"That's not fair," he said quietly. "I've been doing everything I can to make this work. I thought we cared about each other."
"I cared about what you could do for me," she said, and for a moment, something bitter flickered in her eyes. "Tutoring, help with papers, moral support when I needed it. But I've grown past that. Past you."
His chest tightened. "So I was just... a project?"
"A stepping stone," she said coolly. "Don't take it personally."
He took a breath, steadying himself. "There's someone else, isn't there?"
She didn't blink. "Martin."
Arnold's jaw clenched. Of course. Martin Whitmore. The smug heir to a real estate dynasty, always surrounded by sycophants and shadows of future senators.
"He's—" Arnold started.
"—Everything you're not," she finished.
There was no hesitation. No remorse. Just the calm, calculated cruelty of someone raised to view people as tools.
"You're making a mistake," Arnold said softly, though the tremble in his hands betrayed the storm building inside him.
"No," she said, tilting her head with that familiar, pitying smile. "I'm making the smart choice."
She turned, her heels echoing off the stones as she disappeared into the crowd without a backward glance.
Arnold stood frozen. The cold that bit at his skin now settled deeper—in his bones, in his chest. Around him, a few students watched, some with mild curiosity, others with mocking amusement. One girl even whispered something behind her hand, followed by a laugh that rang too loud in the quiet space.
He forced himself to move, grabbing his notebook and walking away, head bowed.
That evening, Arnold sat in his tiny apartment on the edge of the city, the silence thick and heavy. The room was dimly lit, with peeling wallpaper and a leaky radiator that groaned every hour. A single bed sagged against the far wall, and his desk was littered with notes, textbooks, and instant coffee cups.
His phone vibrated endlessly—group chats, social media, gossip feeds.
He didn't look.
Instead, he sat at the desk, his fingers pressed against his temples, Rose's words looping in his head:
You're just a poor scholarship student.I've grown past you.Someone like me deserves more.
He stared blankly at the table. At the chipped mug. The cracked phone screen. The worn floor.
All his sacrifices—all his efforts to live humbly, to understand the world, to earn respect through effort and intellect—it felt like none of it had mattered.
To them, he was still nothing.
He reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a thin chain. At the end of it hung a ring: old, heavy, gold, etched with a lion crest.
He hadn't taken it out in years.
He traced the engraving with his thumb, the weight of it familiar, grounding.
A knock broke the stillness.
He turned sharply. The knock came again—measured, precise.
Arnold opened the door.
A man stood there in a black suit, posture rigid, expression unreadable. His gloves were black leather. In his right hand, he held an envelope sealed with wax and gold.
The crest on it glinted in the light.
Arnold's breath caught.
"Mr. Sinclair," the man said with a formal nod. "This is for you."
Arnold's voice was tight. "Who are you?"
"I am only a messenger," the man replied. "My instructions were to deliver this to you personally. Congratulations, sir. Your family trial is complete."
Arnold took the envelope, numb with disbelief. The man gave a final nod, then turned and walked down the hallway, disappearing into the night without another word.
Arnold shut the door and stared at the envelope in his hand.
The crest was unmistakable: a lion rearing atop a crown, sword in one paw, flame in the other.
The Sinclair family.
His breath hitched.
He tore the envelope open with shaking fingers. Inside was a single letter, written in flowing, practiced handwriting.
Arnold,
The trial is over.
For five years, you have lived among them, stripped of title, wealth, and influence. You have seen their struggles, their strengths, and their flaws. You have learned humility. Endured betrayal. Felt hunger, rejection, and loss.
Now, it is time to return.
The world must remember who you are—and what you are destined to become. You are no longer a student among wolves.
You are a Sinclair.
Come home. Your place awaits.
—Victor Sinclair
Arnold sat down slowly, the letter trembling in his hands.
He remembered it all—the estate with its towering halls, the garden mazes, the foreign tutors. He remembered the day his father brought him into the study and explained the tradition. "A true heir must understand the weight of the world before he carries it."
And so, at sixteen, Arnold had agreed to disappear. To bury the name Sinclair. To live without safety nets, without power.
To become nobody.
Until now.
The coat hanging by the door suddenly felt foreign—small, fake. The peeling wallpaper like a stage backdrop. None of this was his reality. It had only been a lesson. A test.
He rose and walked to the window, the city lights stretching out before him like a sea of stars.
They think I'm nothing.
His reflection stared back at him, calm now. Focused.
He slipped the ring from the chain and slid it onto his finger. It fit perfectly.
Let them laugh, he thought. Let them whisper.
Soon, they would remember the name Sinclair.