She gave me a sideways look. “Jade. Come on. You look like a summer goddess. Like a J.Crew ad from 2006. You’ve got that whole ‘I’m fresh and mysterious and probably dangerous’ vibe. You’ll kill it.”
I hesitated. “I don’t want people picking up on... stuff.”
“Like your world-ending anxiety?”
“Exactly.”
She smiled, softer this time. “Then don’t let them. Just come. We’ll hang out, get a little buzzed, maybe kiss someone stupid. You need this.”
I wanted to say no.
But the truth was, Ididneed this.
So on the night of the bonfire, I slipped into a pair of worn denim cutoffs, a breezy white seersucker cami, and leather sandals that made me feel taller. I let my hair down—salt-curled and glowing in the golden hour—and for the first time in a long time…
I felt beautiful.
Not curated.
Not filtered.
Real.
Aunt Susan dropped me off at the Polo Barn where Shani and I would sneak out later down to the beach.
Shani handed me a cherry soda and whispered, “Welcome to your new life, Jade Bryan.”
And I believed her that it could be.
The sun was low and gold as we sat on the bleachers by the polo fields, legs stretched out, sweating soda cans clutched between us. The barn cats darted in the grass, and somewhere off in the distance, you could hear the ocean crashing against the cliffs.
Shani pulled her sunglasses down just enough to side-eye me. “Okay. So before you decide to dive headfirst into the shallow end of hell, I need to tell you what to expect tonight.”
I raised a brow. “Is this the part where you give me the ‘don’t talk to strangers’ speech?”
She snorted. “No, this is the part where I tell you how not to get eaten alive.”
I took a slow sip of cherry soda. “By who?”
“Everyone.”
She flopped onto her back dramatically. “The Royal Oaks bonfire is basically the Met Gala for rich, hot people who peaked in junior year. You’ve got TikTok girls doing thirst traps in crop tops by the fire. Trust fund babies pretending they’re edgy because they snuck in tequila. You’ll see Snap streaks being updated every ten seconds like it’s oxygen.”
“Sounds… amazing,” I deadpanned.
She grinned, teeth sharp. “Then we’ve got the socialite wives-in-training—girls named Caroline, Kendall, and Brynlee—who wear matching linen sets and pretend they’re seventeen going on Senator’s wife. They’re all secretly hoping to land one of the golden boys tonight.”
“Golden boys?”
She nodded grimly. “The holy trinity:Leo Holt, Tristan Vale, and Xavier Blackwell. Seniors. Loaded. Shredded. Alpha-holes with egos bigger than their trust funds.”
I blinked. “Wow.”
“Leo’s the ringleader. Captain of everything. Looks like a Calvin Klein ad and knows it. His dad owns half the coastline and wants him to marry someone whose family tree is basically a hedge fund.”
I laughed. “You’re not selling me on this school.”
“I’m not trying to.” She sat up and pointed a finger at me. “I’m warning you. Girls like us? Scholarship girls? We’re not part of the game. We’re the game pieces.”
