We drive in silence. The car takes the long way, looping around the outer roads before snaking through the residential lanes where the legacy families live. Their houses are lit up, poolsglowing in the dark, every window a perfect square of yellow. I count the seconds between streetlights, force myself to breathe even and slow.
After fifteen minutes, we pull up to the front of Harrington Hall.
I’ve never seen anything like it. The facade is all columns and gargoyles, lit by floodlights that turn the stone yellow. The entrance is lined with actual torches—no shit, flaming on real iron stands, like we’re in a cartoon about evil boarding schools. The door is oak, two stories high, with a gold knocker shaped like a bird of prey.
There’s already a crowd on the steps. All girls, all in black or navy, some with pearls, some with furs, some with jewelry that probably costs more than my entire hometown. Their laughter is sharp, edged with the kind of meanness that never gets punished.
I force my feet to move. I climb the stairs, shoulders pulled back, arms folded under my coat. They see me coming, and the laughter drops off. One girl—tall, blonde, with perfect teeth—steps out of the pack.
“Nice dress,” she says, voice lazy and loud enough for the group to hear. “Is it vintage?”
I swallow. “It was my junior prom dress.”
She nods, not unkindly. “Red is a bold choice.”
“It’s the only one I had.”
That gets a ripple. Not mocking, exactly. More like they’re trying to decide if I’m a threat or a toy.
The doors open, spilling heat and light onto the steps. An older woman in a silver suit beckons us inside. The foyer is even more obscene than the outside—high ceilings, crystal chandelier, marble floors that reflect every movement. There are portraits on the walls, men in robes, women in stiff Victorian dresses, all staring down with the same pale blue eyes.
We’re herded into a reception room. The walls are red velvet, the windows framed with gold. There’s a table at the far end, stacked with bottles of champagne, and a staff of servers in white gloves pouring glasses for the guests. I’m the last to enter, and I stand by the door, unsure of where to go.
Blondie finds me again. She’s joined by two others, one with hair so black it looks blue, the other a redhead with skin like porcelain. The trinity of mean girls.
“Eve Allen, right?” Blondie says, holding out a hand.
I take it. Her grip is hard, fingers like ice.
“I’m Vivienne. This is Astrid, and that’s Poppy.”
“Hi,” I say, voice thin.
“We heard you’re here on scholarship,” Vivienne says, swirling her champagne. “How’s that going?”
I want to lie, but I don’t have the energy. “I’m surviving.”
Astrid laughs, high and sharp. “That’s all any of us do.”
Vivienne studies me, eyes narrow. “You know, you might actually be good for this place. It needs some new blood.”
I nod, not sure if it’s a compliment or a warning.
“We’re all supposed to mingle before dinner,” Vivienne says, herding me toward the center of the room. “Try not to spill anything. These carpets are older than your entire family tree.”
Poppy snorts into her glass, champagne fizzing up her nose. I stand in the middle, exposed on all sides.
The rest of the girls cluster in small packs, watching me with sideways glances. Some are curious, some bored, some outright hostile. I recognize a few from the breakfast table, the ones who laughed at me this morning. Now, they just watch.
A staff member offers a tray. I take a flute, hold it by the stem so my hands don’t shake. The glass is so thin I worry it will shatter if I squeeze too hard.
Vivienne circles back. “Don’t let them get to you,” she says, low enough that only I hear. “They’re scared you’ll make them look bad.”
“Why would I do that?” I say.
She shrugs. “Because you’re here, and you weren’t supposed to be.”
We drink in silence, watching the room fill. I notice the cameras now… subtle, mounted in the corners, and the occasional flash of a phone lifted behind a clutch purse.
