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That means Kayana Kilburn, sparkling like a diamond and smelling sweet as caramel, her brown skin catching every light in its luxurious gleam. It means Theodora Dorokhova, the ice queen herself, untouchable and unattainable from the height of her beauty and intelligence. It means Cammie, my best friend, with her curves and her night-black curls.
Still. As beautiful as they are, none of them can compare to me.
I enter the Peace Garden to audible gasps. When I left my room, I didn’t even need to check my reflection to know I would have this effect—I still checked it, though. I adorned my vintage corset with so many roses that my chest looks like a bouquet. My skirt, yards of pink tulle ruched and gathered by hand, floats around my legs and trails behind me like ethereal wreaths of mist. Because my outfit is so decadently feminine, I’ve balanced it with white fishnets and black combat boots.
Eyes follow me as I make my way through the peace garden in graceful steps. I trained in ballet dancing until I moved to England to start at Spearcrest, so I know how to walk like I’m not bound to the earth by gravity. I know how to make an impression.
Ineedto make an impression tonight.
My plan depends on it.
Cammie finds me as I’m pouring myself a flute of champagne. She’s wearing see-through trousers embroidered with hundreds of tiny crystals, vertiginous heels and a black bustier. Her hair is a garment all of its own, a luxurious black cloak on her shoulders. She’s already tipsy, and she stumbles into my arms when I see her.
“Well?” she slurs into my ear. “Did you fuck the gardener?”
My mind flies straight to the mystery boy from the greenhouse. How could Cammie know about him?
“P—pardon?” I ask, nervous for no reason.
“Mr Morton!” she exclaims with a giggle. “Did you fuck Mr Morton?”
I roll my eyes and push her off me. “Would someone who looks like me ever need to sink so low?”
“Hey, don’t come for Mr Morton like that,” she half-yells through the music. “He might be a good time, you know.” She leans in, almost falling into me, to whisper-yell into my ear. “I heard poor people fuck harder than rock stars.”
Once more, my mind flies back to the boy in the greenhouse—what was his name again? I think about his big hands, broad shoulders, easy strength and calm demeanour. How does someone like him fuck?
Then, from the corner of my eye, I spot a familiar face. I turn and follow him with my gaze. Evan looks like a Calvin Klein model, effortlessly gorgeous in a white T-shirt and blue jeans. He pushes the loose blond curls from his forehead in a distracted gesture as he lurches across the peace gardens.
I try to catch his eye but he’s facing slightly away. He’s striding with determination, his eyes fixed on a point. I follow the direct line of his gaze, and my heart sinks.
Standing by a cluster of trees, penniless prefect Sophie Sutton is dancing with her little friend, Araminta Wilson-Sing. Araminta isn’t poor and nameless like Sophie is. She could be one of us if she wished, but I suppose she’s a more charitable soul than I am. Why else would anybody spend so much time with someone as boring as Sophie?
Judging from the way Evan is staring at Sophie, she might as well be the most beautiful creature in the world. But when I look at her, all I see is a tall, gangly young woman, with thick dark eyebrows and a serious face and the kind of dress someone might wear to an old relative’s funeral.
Maybe Cammie was right about poor people fucking harder than rock stars. Why else would Evan look at Sophie like that? It’s not even like they get on, after all. If anything, they hate each other.
And yet he’s walking towards her like he’s being drawn to her by a force too great for him to fight. I can’t let him get to her. My plan doesn’t involve Sophie Sutton, and that meddlesome little shit of a prefect will wreck all my careful planning and hard work.
Extricating myself from Cammie’s embrace, I discard my coupe of champagne and launch myself across the peace garden. I’m not one to run—it’s a perfectly vulgar thing to do—but desperate times call for desperate measures.
I run across the glossy lawns and towards Evan, and then all but throw myself into his path. He finally tears his gaze away from Sophie, looking down at me with some surprise.
“Won’t you dance with me, Evan?” I ask with my most innocently alluring siren smile. “It’s my favourite song.”
I don’t even know what song is playing right now—I didn’t intend to say this. My mouth is on automatic, my brain still catching up as my heart rate drops slowly back down.
“Uh, I’m busy right now,” he says with a shrug. “Maybe later?”
This is typical Evan behaviour. He would never be rude to anyone other than Sophie Sutton, but this is still a dismissal. This is his sweet, non-confrontational way of getting rid of me.
But I know how to handle men. Evan doesn’t know what he wants, not really, but I can show him.
“Oh, you’re busy?” I draw closer, looking up at him through my eyelashes. “Anything I can help with?”
If there weren’t so many people around, I’d try something bolder, but I don’t want to end up on social media, filmed with the caption “desperate socialite grabs star athlete’s dick.”
“Uh, no,” he says distractedly.
