Page 111 of Filthy Rich Boys (Rich Boys Of Burberry Prep 1)
I want to fucking die.
This cannot be happening, I think, hating that my dad is in that audience. Worse, my mom.
I stand up, but the video doesn’t stop there. Images of me pressed against Creed in the bathroom pop up, even my make out session with Zayd from last night is there.
“No,” I whisper, but I hardly get the chance to move before I feel the first drops of liquid on my head. I look up just in time for a can of red paint to spatter on my hair and clothes, splashing across the harp and the screen. I’ve just had a Carrie pulled on me.
My mind quite literally goes blank, and I fall to my knees without even realizing it.
Zayd stands up in the audience, but he doesn’t move to help me. Creed follows next, then Tristan. At a nod from the latter, the Idols and a good dozen other boys, all pull out pairs of panties from their pockets.
My panties. The ones that were stolen from my room.
They’re all thrown at me, littering the stage as the audience fades into a roaring silence.
Dad stands up, but I can’t bear to look at him. My heart is pounding, my mind is racing, and then I’m just scrambling to my feet and taking off. I don’t know where I’m going, but when I blink, I end up back at my room.
One of the staff is there, my overnight bag in hand, as they lock up the door and then turn, getting ready to deliver it to the office for me to pick up later. I don’t even think, I just run by and grab it, stumbling as I head outside to the courtyard and the front steps.
I only make it down the first few before I’m surrounded, by Bluebloods and Plebs alike.
Tristan Vanderbilt is front and center, with Creed on one side and Zayd on the other.
My heart breaks, cuts me up, reforms.
The hardest hearts are forged in fire; I’ll need to be made of steel to survive this one.
“Hello Charity,” Tristan says, taking a few steps forward. He’s got a trophy in his hand, a gold one with a white marble base. “Do you know what this is?” I don’t say anything, not a word. He moves even closer, his gray eyes sparkling with the thrill of the hunt. The way he looked at Harper in The Mess the other day is the way he’s looking at me now, like I’m prey. “This is a trophy.” Tristan turns and hands it over to Zayd.
He takes it in his tattooed fingers, and then meets my eyes. There’s nothing there, none of the fun-loving, playful asshole I hung out with on spring break or danced with last night. He’s just … blank.
Kind of like my emotions.
Inside my head, it’s all white noise. Marnye Reed isn’t even here anymore; she’s checked out completely.
“Do you want to know what it’s for?” Creed drawls, tucking his fingers into his pockets. His blue eyes are half-lidded and focused on me as I stand there, dripping and shaking.
Zack’s words echo in my mind: You might not have been here for that bet, but you’ve been around for worse. This is not out of line with something you’d do.
Something they’d do.
Make a bet.
“We wanted to see who could make you fall in love first,” Zayd supplies, hefting the trophy in his hand. He looks up at me and then drops it by his side. “Whoever got you to the graduation gala was the winner. Honestly, I thought it’d be a bit harder than that.”
I open my mouth to speak, but no words will come out. There’s nothing to say, is there?
“And you know what?” Tristan continues, cocking his head to one side. “The only prize … was that trophy. We did it for fun.”
My uniform—and my dignity—are in tatters.
I can still taste blood in my mouth, this hot copper tang that makes me want to gag.
Tristan’s silver gaze is narrowed on me, and his mouth is just beginning to curve up into a smirk. He thinks he’s won, that he’s beaten me. Every single person in this crowd wholeheartedly believes that; I can read it on every single face here. They tricked me, lulled me into complacency, and then set out to destroy me.
But they’re dead-wrong. Dead-fucking-wrong. I’m not the same girl I was when I first started at the academy.
I lift an arm up and wipe some of the blood from my mouth, still smarting from the beating the Idol girls and their goons gave me. My lacy red bra, the one I picked out just for Zayd, is showing through the torn fabric of my white blouse. He won that bet, fair and square. He made me think he cared about me. I did care about him. The look on his face now is almost alien, foreign, like looking at a stranger. For once, he isn’t smiling, but the message in his face is clear: you don’t belong here.
