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Irununtilthelights and sounds of the party fade into the darkness. I head to the south of the campus, staying on the smaller paths where I’m less likely to get caught, creeping in the shadows of colossal trees.
Wiping my tears with the back of my hands, I stop and rest against a tree trunk for a second. I know I should go back to the party. I should set my sights on another rich boy and wrap myself around him.
It’s not like I can’t—I’ve had other Young Kings before. I had the aristocratic French playboy Sev Montcroix, and I even had the cold-blooded Novus heir, Luca Fletcher-Lowe, who tied me to his bed and choked me with his belt. But just because I didn’t like them doesn’t mean I couldn’t have had them if I’d chosen.
I should do what I always do. Swallow back my emotions and fuck the sadness away with someone powerful just because I can.
Except I can’t bring myself to. Right now, I don’twantto go back. I don’t want to see Theodora Dorokhova, perfectly in control of her emotions, or Kayana Kilburn, glittering like a multifaceted gemstone, partying with careless glee because nothing ever gets to her. I don’t want to see the Young Kings—those rich, handsome assholes who think they can do whatever they like just because everybody else is too afraid to challenge them.
And most of all, I would rather throw myself off the top of the clock tower than see Sophie Sutton in her matronly black dress, not caring a bit what she looks like and yet still somehow capable of capturing the attention of the most desirable boy in Spearcrest.
I don’t deserve this. Life is too cruel to the beautiful.
I whimper softly in the darkness, letting the tears flow and the sobs shake my chest. Crying is a catharsis, I remind myself. It’s just the body’s way of processing negative emotions and releasing toxins. I need to let the sadness flow through me on its way out. Tomorrow, I’ll do my skincare routine, meditate and detox, and I’ll be back to my normal self.
Taking the long path back to the sixth form girls’ building, I use the time to let out the tears. My skirt catches on the bushes and thorns framing the overgrown path behind the Old Manor, the oldest building on campus.
I sigh. The destruction of my skirt feels appropriate right now—a metaphor for my plan.
I turn the corner and let out a strangled yelp of surprise when a figure suddenly appears from the shadow of the trees. I stumble back, my foot catching on a protruding root. My stomach sinks as I go flailing back, but a firm hand catches my arm, righting me.
“Oh, it’s you again,” comes a calm, deep voice.
My eyes widen, adjusting to the darkness. I make out details: dark hair, strong features and a thick frame.
The boy from the greenhouse.
Chapter 4
Lady Chatterley Fantasy
“Whatareyoudoinglurking around in the dark like a creep?” I ask, my voice shaking from the combined residual fear from first seeing him and almost falling.
There are still tears in my eyes, but hopefully, he can’t see them in the darkness. Our only source of light is a distant glow somewhere in the trees. He points towards it.
“I was putting my tools away in the old shed.”
“Oh.”
I know the old shed he’s talking about; everybody knows about it.
Whenever anybody new joined in Year 10 or Year 11, they had to spend a night alone in the old shed. It’s a creepy wooden shack in the middle of the trees, next to the old greenhouse. The roof is full of holes and tangles of ivy cover most of its walls. Being a day-one original—a student who started at the beginning of Year 7—I never had to spend a night there, but everybody in Spearcrest knows about it.
“Are you alright?” the boy asks suddenly, stepping closer to me.
The question immediately brings tears welling back up in my eyes. I can’t even remember the last time someone asked me this question. It’s just a shame it has to come from this dirt-streaked random.
I narrow my eyes at him, raking him with a dirty look. If he’s trying to be some sort of knight in shining armour, it would help if he actuallyhadshining armour.
“Yes,” I snap. “I’m absolutely fantastic, thank you very much.”
“Why are you crying, then?”
I step back, startled. My hands fly to my face and I hastily wipe the tears from my eyes, hoping my crying hasn’t ruined my makeup. This boy didn’t check me out when I was wearing next-to-nothing, so why would he check me out when my makeup is streaking and my skirt is all torn up?
Not that I care about him checking me out—I just don’t think my self-esteem could take one more blow today.
I glare at him. “I’m not crying.”
