“Second biggest,” I correct automatically. “Don’t lie. The Wall Street Journal said so just a week ago.”

He shoots me an odd look, and it occurs to me a second too late that I definitely should not know this much about his father’s company. “As of now, yes,” he says after a short pause. Then the corner of his mouth lifts up in an expression so smug I have to resist the urge to punch him. “But not once I take over. Anyway,” he continues, as if he hasn’t just made the most arrogant statement in the history of mankind, “considering the role that awaits me, it’s important that I’m well-informed on a range of subjects, including commercially successful media franchises. Also makes it easier to connect with clients.”

“Right,” I mutter. “Forget I asked.”

“But back to your new power—”

“It’s not a power,” I cut him off. “It’s an—an affliction—a difficulty, a very major inconvenience—”

“Everything’s a form of power,” he says simply.

“Yeah, well, power implies some level of control,” I protest, even though a small part of my brain—the part not clouded by panic and my four-year grudge against him—agrees with the statement. In theory. “And I can’t control anything about my current situation.”

“Really?” He rests his cheek on one hand. Cocks his head to the side, just as another lazy breeze flutters in and ruffles his hair. “Have you tried?”

“Of course I’ve—”

“Have you tried harder?”

There’s something so patronizing about the question or the way he says it that the last thread of composure inside me—already pulled taut in his presence—snaps.

I grab the back of his chair and pull him closer toward me in one abrupt movement, an all-too-familiar rage bubbling under my skin. To my immense satisfaction, his eyes widen slightly. “Henry Li, if you’re suggesting this is about a lack of willpower, I swear to god—”

“I was only asking—”

“As if you could handle this shit any better—”

“That’s not what I’m saying—just calm down—”

“Do not tell me to calm—”

Two sharp raps on the half-open door make the rest of my sentence freeze in my throat. Henry goes even quieter, his entire body motionless beside me, as if carved out of ice.

Someone snorts on the other side of the door, and a second later, a lightly accented male voice drifts in through the gap—

“Dude, you got a girl in there or something?”

It takes me a moment to identify it as Jake Nguyen’s: star athlete, Harvard-bound, and, if the rumors are true, the cousin of a famous male porn star. I remember seeing his name a few doors down on my way here.

“Not at all,” Henry says smoothly, despite the brief delay in his response. “I’m on the phone with someone.”

“With your girlfriend?” Jake persists, and I can almost imagine the smirk on his broad-jawed face as he says it.

“No.” Henry pauses. “It’s just my grandma.”

I snap my head around and shoot him a withering glare—then, realizing the effort is wasted in my current state, hiss loud enough for only him to hear, “Seriously? Your grandma?”