My uniform—and my dignity—are in tatters.
My eyes scan the gathered crowd, but there are three faces in particular that catch my attention. Cold, cruel, beautiful. An ugly sort of beautiful, I think as I meet a narrowed silver gaze and catch the faintest edges of a smirk. Tristan Vanderbilt thinks he's beaten me; they all do. But what they don't understand is that I'm not the nervous, eager little charity case I was when I first started at Burberry Prep.
Lifting an arm up, I swipe a bit of blood from my mouth. My bra is showing through the torn remnants of my white blouse, and it's the pretty red one I wore just for Zayd. He made me believe he cared about me. Flicking my eyes in his direction, I can see quite clearly now that he doesn't. He isn't smiling, not like Tristan, but the message in his green eyes is clear: you don't belong here.
"Had enough yet?" Harper du Pont purrs from behind me. I don't bother turning to look at her. Instead, I let my attention slide to the last of the three guys. My three biggest mistakes; my three greatest betrayals. Creed is frowning, like this whole confrontation is a necessary evil. Get rid of the lower-class trash, clean up the school.
The wind picks up, the ragged red pleats of my academy uniform billowing in a salty breeze. In the distance, I can hear the sea. It crashes against the rocks in time to the frantic beating of my heart. A storm is coming.
Tristan moves toward me with predatory grace, his expensive loafers picking up droplets of dew as he comes to stand toe-to-toe with me, as close as he was that first day when he insulted me and then laid out the challenge: how long do you think you'll last? Well. It's the final day of freshman year, and I'm still standing here, aren't I? Tristan, though, he thinks that while I've won the battle, he's going to win the war.
I stay stone-still as he lifts his fingers and tangles strands of my paint-splattered hair through them, giving the short rose gold locks a light tug. Red paint smears across his perfect skin as I meet those gray eyes of his with a defiant glimmer in my own.
"I take it you won't be coming back next year, will you, Marnye?" he whispers, his voice like whiskey over ice. Tristan thinks he's the master of this school, a veritable god. The other boys think of themselves like that, too. I'd like to be a fly on the wall when a confrontation finally comes. They think their money will buy them the world. Maybe, in a way, it will.
But it won't buy them true friendship, and it won't buy them love. It definitely won't buy them me.
I glance past Tristan to Zayd and Creed, and then I refocus my attention back on the asshole that started it all. From day one, he went out of his way to make my life a living hell. He succeeded. And Zayd and Creed, they loved every horrible, filthy second of it.
"Just go home, Marnye, and it'll all be over," Tristan says, the softness in his voice edged with cruelty. He's like a predator who's too cute to be afraid of. I made the mistake of letting him get too close, and now I'm cut and bleeding—physically and emotionally. I'm fucking shattered. "You don't belong here."
Zayd listens to the whole conversation, and then slides his tattooed arm around Becky Platter, putting the final nail in my coffin. He's chosen her over me. He's chosen her and her cruelty and her mocking laughter over me. My hands curl into fists so tight that my nails dig crescents into my palms.
I meet Tristan's haughty, self-assured stare. There are tears on my face, and when he removes his fingers from my hair, he touches one with his knuckles, bringing it to his lips for a lick. It's a derisive, awful move, like a knife in the back. I can feel the blade beside my heart, but it's just missed. I'm not broken yet.
"I've already enrolled in my classes," I state, and the entire courtyard goes silent. Nobody is expecting this, the poor girl, the lamb in a pack of wolves, standing up for herself. What they don't know is that the hardest hearts are forged in fire. With their cruelty and their jokes and their laughter, they've forged me into something spectacular. "Come September, I'll be the first in line for orientation."
"You wouldn't dare," Tristan says, still cold as ice, still full of wicked triumph for what he thinks he's done. His dark hair flutters in the breeze, softening some of his hard lines. It's all an illusion though. I know that now, and I won't make that same mistake again. "I'll make your life a living hell."
"You can try," I retort, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my registration form. I'll be back at Burberry Prep come hell or high water. This is my opportunity, and I won't let three handsome faces, three pairs of hot hands, three sets of ardent lips destroy that. "Because what you don't know …" I take a deep breath, and then bend down to grab the handle on my ratty, old duffle bag. Everybody else here has hired help to carry their luggage. Not me. Straightening up, I lift my chin in defiance and Tristan scowls. "Is that my life outside of these walls was already a living hell. This is just another level of Dante's inferno, and I'm not afraid." My gaze flicks past Tristan and back to Zayd and Creed. "Not of any of you."
I move around Tristan, intent on the school gates and three months of freedom from these jerks, but he puts his hand around my arm and holds me back. Glancing down, I stare at his fingers pressed against my flesh, and then look back up at his face. He's smiling, but it's not a pretty smile.
"Challenge accepted," he purrs, and then he releases me.
As I head down the path in my torn uniform, I keep my chin up and my fears pushed back.
Challenge accepted is right. I won't be driven away from the best opportunity in my life. Not by Tristan, not by anyone.
As I walk, I can feel three sets of eyes on my back, watching, waiting, plotting.
I'll have to make sure I stay one step ahead.The impressive stone façade of Burberry Prep hides a host of wicked souls with pretty faces. I don't know that yet, standing at the bottom of the wide, worn steps with my heart thundering in my throat. My school schedule is clutched in my right hand, wrinkled and well-loved; I've been staring at it since the fourth of July.
Deep breath, Marnye. My red, pleated skirt is freshly-pressed and fluttering around my thighs as I move across the old brick walkway towards the front entrance. According to the orientation email, I should be meeting my guide just inside the inner courtyard. I wonder if I look poor? I swallow hard against my own paranoia, but it's not easy. The dean assured me that my scholarship status would not be advertised; that doesn't mean nobody knows about it.
I hear the trickle of a fountain before I see it, a soft tinkling sound, like wind chimes. As I come up the last step, the sound's matched to a bronze statue of a stag, water spouting from the rocky base he's standing on. There's a boy sitting on the edge of the fountain, wearing a uniform that matches mine. So he's a first year, too, I think, reminding myself that most of the students here have been attending the academy since preschool. Different buildings, same campus. So a first year guide isn't totally out of the question. In fact, only two percent of new students enroll during their first year of high school.
Good for me, I muse as the boy stands up and I catch a glimpse of how incredibly handsome he is: silky chestnut hair with blond highlights, bright blue eyes, full pink lips. Always working outside the box. Now if I can only keep the rest of the students here from finding out just how outside the box I really am, like wrong side of the tracks sort of out.
"Tristan?" I ask hopefully as my new loafers clack across the intricate brick patio. I'm already holding out my hand in invitation, a bright smile tracing its way across my lips. I've decided that if anyone asks me about my family, I won't lie. No, I'm not shamed of where I come from. Actually, I'm proud of myself. Not only am I going to be the first person in my family to finish high school, but I'm going to do it at a prestigious academy usually reserved for the filthy rich.
"Actually, no," the boy says as he takes my hand with a smooth, dry palm. He smells like coconuts and sunshine, if that's even possible, to smell like sunshine. "I'm Andrew Payson. Tristan should be …" Andrew trails off for a moment, and I catch the briefest flick of his eyes in the direction of a janitor's closet. "Around here somewhere." Andrew's gaze switches back over to me and for a split-second, I see a flare of interest before he blinks, and it's gone. Or maybe I just imagined it? I wonder, realizing for the first time that my dating life here … is probably gonna be pretty slim.
Guys might show interest at first, but no loaded teen wants to date someone without two nickels to rub together.
"I'm guessing he's your student guide?" Andrew adds, dropping my hand. He gestures for me to take a seat on the fountain beside him, and I oblige, hissing a little at the cold of the bronze against my thighs. Wearing a skirt like this is going to take some serious getting used to. But I asked about wearing pants and was given a very firm no. Like in many elitist endeavors, there's a very prevalent sense of gender roles regarding uniforms.
"Yep," I reply with another smile, flipping up the tag around my neck. My name's on one side; the name Tristan on the other. "I'll be shadowing him all day." Andrew smiles back at me, but there's a slight grimace to his expression. Uh-oh. I have a feeling Mr. Payson doesn't much like this Tristan guy. "Why? Is there something I should be worrying about?"
"You'll see," Andrew says, leaning back on his palms as he studies me. In the rafters above, a flock of birds lands, scattering feathers. The wind catches them and sends them dancing around my face along with the brunette waves of my hair. "He's an interesting sort of guy." Andrew cocks his head slightly, chucking under his breath. "He's damn lucky to be paired with you though."
"Sure thing," I say with a laugh, holding the handle of my new leather book bag in my left hand, being careful to keep it from falling into the water. This thing not only holds my new laptop and tablet, but it also cost the scholarship foundation a small fortune. Frankly, it's worth more than my dad's car. I nod my chin in Andrew's direction. "What's your girl's name?"
"Girl? Nah." Andrew shrugs. "I'm not quite that lucky." He reaches up and flips his badge over, revealing the name Rob. Ah. I grin as sunlight streams between the four bell towers that surround the courtyard, turning Andrew's hair a generous gold. "And I'm definitely not that gay—unfortunately. Between you and me, most of the girls here are already engaged." I raise an eyebrow, but Andrew just smiles. "Old money, you know."
Right.
"How about you?" I ask, and even though I don't mean to, I end up flirting with the guy. Great. My mother's daughter, I guess. "Are you engaged?"
"I," Andrew begins, his eyes twinkling, "am perfectly single."
We both pause as a boy in the red pants, black jacket, and white shirt of a first year comes up the steps and pauses awkwardly, raising his hand in a hello. After he introduces himself as Rob Whitney, I step back and lean against the cool stone walls of one of the bell towers, excited that classes are actually still held in these narrow buildings. I'm trying to give the boys a little space, so I tug one of the books from my bag, crack it open, and wait for my guide to show up. Normally, I'd be all over my phone, but the academy is super strict about electronics: school-issued laptops and tablets only.
Before Andrew and Rob even get a chance to start their own tour, the door to the janitor's closet flies open and a girl in a fourth year uniform—black skirt, black shirt, black jacket—comes out, one shoulder of her top falling down, her lipstick smeared.
A boy comes out behind her, a boy with silver eyes and an awful, awful smirk. The moment I see him changes everything. Hell, it changes my whole life, rearranges my past, dictates my future. When I first lay eyes on Tristan Vanderbilt, I become a different person.
Heat rushes through my body, and it feels suddenly hot, like I should take off my jacket and loosen my tie. Tristan's fixing the buttons on his white first year shirt as he makes his way over to me with long, confident strides, his hair glossy and raven-black, his mouth too dangerous to be tempting. My fingers curl tight around the side of my book bag and my heart races, sweat beading at my temples.
What a reaction.