NYU Stern was basically a playground for rich assholes born with platinum spoons up their asses. Situated right in the middle of Manhattan, the whole glass-and-steel building was packed wall-to-wall with foreign diplomats’ kids, wall street nepotism babies, and international oligarch royalty. The vibe didn’t feel like college; it felt like a heavily air-conditioned, absurdly expensive club where the underground parking garage looked less like campus parking and more like an exotic hypercar showroom. And right in the dead-center of this whole circus sat one guy: Pablo Gavira Páez. Everyone called him Gavi. Gavi was straight-up the king of Stern. As the twenty-one-year-old son of Gerard Páez—the Spanish Ambassador to the UN—he walked around Washington Square Park like he owned the place, completely immune to NYPD bullshit or the Dean’s office. NYU didn’t just let him get away with murder; they treated him like a fragile, priceless artifact. The perks were utterly insane. He h...