“And when we find them?” Tristan asks.
I look away, toward the gray ocean.
My voice drops.
“We make sure they never do it again.”
Rosalie’s parents rented a mansion on Bellevue that looks like it was stolen from French royalty.
Eighteenth-century stone.
Original marble floors.
Gold-leaf ceilings that glitter like someone tried to recreate Versailles out of boredom.
Even the driveway screams money. Imported gravel. Valet. Fire pits. Two limos in the circular turnaround.
And because nothing surprises me anymore, a B-list pop star is literally sound-checking on the upstairs landing like this is a casual Sunday night.
I park down the street.
Tristan and X hop out, both staring up at the mansion like it’s a tourist attraction.
Inside, the foyer is bigger than the Royal Oaks cafeteria—sixty-foot ceiling with a chandelier the size of a small planet. The upstairs hallway wraps around the room like a balcony, and already there are kids leaning over the railing, drinking, filming, gossiping.
Tristan gives a long, slow whistle.
“And I thoughtyourfamily had money.”
I grit my teeth. “Shut up.”
Because he’s right.
And I hate it.
Everyone is here.
Everyone.
Every single face from the homecoming disaster.
Laughing. Drinking. Dancing.
Like nothing happened.
Like they didn’t destroy someone’s life last night.
And absolutely no one got in trouble.
Of course they didn’t.
Tristan slips on his shades indoors—he says it’s so people don’t “clock his soul,” whatever the hell that means.
X walks straight to the bar, grabs the top-shelf whiskey like he owns the place, and pours a drink without asking. Then he pours another. He doesn’t offer me one. Probably smart—my hands are already fists.
Rosalie is at the center of it all.
British.
