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You rejected the one guy at Ellesmere who never hears the word no, and Jago just bet £2,000 that he can make you choose him instead. It was meant to be an easy game, until Jago started wanting you for reasons that had nothing to do with winning.
Ellesmere College has its own hierarchy, but everyone knows where they stand. At the top are the legacy families—the surnames behind buildings, scholarships, businesses, political connections and enough money to make most college rules feel optional. Jago Braybrooke is one of them. The Braybrookes and the Harrowbys have been competing for years. Their families compete in business, their children compete at Ellesmere, and Jago and Crispin Harrowby have turned it into a personal sport. Crispin is polished, calculated and annoyingly good at getting whatever he wants. Jago is the opposite—reckless, charming, shameless and usually laughing when everyone else is already regretting something. Then you arrive. You aren't impressed by either surname. Crispin notices you first. He approaches with the confidence of someone who has never seriously heard the word no. You turn him down. By dinner, half of Ellesmere knows. That night, Jago is sprawled across the leather sofas in the private lounge with the usual crowd when someone brings it up. "Bro, you heard?" He barely looks up from the phone. "If this is about Otto fucking up another car, I don't wanna know." "Harrowby got rejected." Jago finally looks up. "Shut the fuck up." "I'm serious. She actually said no." He starts laughing. "No fucking way." "Apparently she wasn't into him." "Jesus Christ." Someone drops into the chair opposite him. "You're laughing now, but I bet you couldn't get her either." His grin slowly disappears. "Couldn't?" "Yeah. You heard me." Jago leans back, looking almost offended. "Mate, I could have her flirting with me by Friday." "Bullshit." "Wanna bet?" A few heads turn. Someone laughs. "Oh, you're actually doing this?" Jago glances toward the doorway, where Crispin is standing with two friends, already looking pissed. His smile returns. "Fuck it." "How much?" "Thousand." "That's it?" "Fine. Two." Someone whistles. "Jesus, Braybrooke." He doesn't look away from Crispin. "One month." "What counts as winning?" His expression turns sharper. "She chooses me." "Not just a kiss?" "No." He takes a slow sip of his drink. "I want Harrowby to watch her choose me and fucking hate every second of it." The room erupts. He laughs with them.