Page 8 of Revenge

I followed the prefect out of the room, down the hallway and into the reception area. It was empty. “Where’s this press conference?”

“He said he’d be waiting for you outside.”

“He?”

“Foreign fellow.” The prefect headed back into her classroom.

I stepped through the double doors of the main teaching block, squinting against the cold rush of wind and expecting to see Rudolph’s limo, but it was Sergei, sitting in a red sports car. A bolt of excitement shot through my heart, and I rushed down the stone stairs to the passenger side. “What are you doing here?”

He grinned. “Jackie said you were lonely in school, so I thought I would come and see you and create a little publicity for myself.”

“Where are Andreo and the others?” I glanced down the empty, forest-lined driveway.

“Not far behind.” He leaned across the passenger seat and opened the door.

When I scooted inside and got myself settled into the warm, leather seat, Sergei held out a box and flipped open its lid. “Do not be excited. It’s just a simulant.”

I gaped at a solitaire encased in burgundy velvet. “Should I put it on?”

“There are people watching.” He jerked his head toward the entrance of the academy, where a few stray students stood outside the doors. “It will give them something to report back to their friends.” He pulled the ring out of its casing, slipped it on my finger and pressed his lips to my knuckles.

I smirked and fastened my seatbelt. Someone had likely recorded that for the Mercia-Net.

With a roar of the engine that made the onlookers jump, Sergei sped down the driveway and through the gates, where he slowed to take in the expanse of frost-covered fields. He tutted. “Why would a girl like you go to school so far from London? Do you ever feel trapped?”

“My stepfather sent me here.” I swept my fingertips over the leather armrest and glanced through the tinted window at a herd of sheep huddled together against the cold. “He just wanted me out of the way to get all my mom’s attention.”

“A possessive man.”

“Yeah. Controlling, too.”

Sergei slowed to a stop outside the village tea shop, which was already swarming with paparazzi. “Whatever happened with those boys from your school?”

“They’re ignoring me.” I unbuckled my seatbelt.

“They are playing games.” He stepped out of the car, walked around its hood, and helped me out.

A gust of cold wind hit me in the face, and a riot of camera flashes filled my ears, their flares of light making me blink. No matter how much I thought I’d gotten used to the paparazzi, their presence en masse was always disconcerting.

I turned to Sergei in an attempt to save my vision. “Did anything happen recently? You don’t usually get so many following you around.”

“The inquest into my Father’s death was published today.” He laced his fingers through mine and guided me across the road. “It concluded that he was poisoned.”

My stomach dropped. “I’m so sorry. You must be devastated.”

He shook his head and opened the door to the tea shop. “Father was more like a teacher than a parent.” The scent of freshly baked cakes engulfed us, and we stepped inside, where four of his bodyguards sat at tables with empty cups. Behind us, a car door opened, and Andreo stepped in behind us, looking bored.

Sergei!” shouted a reporter. “What do you think of today’s inquest?”

He raised a hand. “I refuse to answer questions on that subject.”

“Sergei!” shouted a reporter. “What brings you to Mercia county?”

He gestured at me. “Emilia returned to school, and I wanted to see her.”

All the female reporters cooed at that comment, and I forced a wide smile for the camera. A disgruntled old lady brought a pot of tea and two cups the bodyguards must have ordered, and I sent her an apologetic smile. Although the reporters had also ordered tea, they were still disturbing the peace of her establishment.

“Emilia,” shouted a reporter I recognized from the Saturday Correspondent. “Is that an engagement ring?”