Page 38 of The Bargain

William Sutton-Knight: Don’t put us on the detention register again, D. Please.

William Sutton-Knight: My grades have gone up in history btw.

Austen Sutton-Knight: I don’t get it, are you dating Noxie or not?

Austen Sutton-Knight: I mean Elias.

That’s none of their business, and besides, the question of whether or not I’m dating Elias Lennox is one that’s so complicated I wouldn’t even know how to answer it to myself.

I scroll down.

Blaise Blackwood: Benji’s party? Of course I’ll be in attendance. Someone needs to keep Dimitri in check.

Blaise Blackwood: You bringing Lennox? The twins have been texting me non-stop about your little love affair.

I make a mental note to have their heads for texting Blaise about my private business, and I keep reading.

Blaise Blackwood: Still, I’d rather you be dating Elias Lennox, for all his elastic sense of morality, than that spineless pissant, Julian.

Blaise Blackwood: No offence.

Blaise Blackwood: What are you dressing as for Halloween?

I roll my eyes. Like I don’t have more important things to think about.

I keep scrolling through the notifications, my annoyance mounting with every text I scroll past.

Dimitri Kavinski: Saw what the inquisitor posted

Dimitri Kavinski: Bout you and Lennox.

Dimitri Kavinski: Hah

As if the Inquisitor isn’t posting photos of Dimitri passed out in a pool of his own vomit and/or blood every other day.

Why bother? I don’t even respond; I swipe his messages straight off my screen. I know for a fact Dimitri doesn’t even like the Inquisitor—he’s probably just happy my situation is drawing more attention than his toxic betrothal drama.

Benjamin and Emerald both replied, texting me back within a minute of each other. Each more useless than the last.

Benjamin Montgomery: ?

Which, from the star orator of Spearcrest, feels like avoidance pure and simple.

Emerald Carver: God, I know, how embarrassing. It’s like he’s trying to convince the rest of Spearcrest that he’s not a bookish loser weasel with his head stuck all the way up his asshole. Pathetic, truly.

Predictable, but hardly informative.

Still nothing from Ophelia. I don’t want to think it’s because of Birnam—I saw his texts, that night in the boathouse, before I smashed his phone. What he didn’t say in those texts is the gaping chasm that seems to stretch ever wider between me and Ophelia. She knows what Birnam did, and I know that the twins would rather have killed him than let him show other people.

The thought is so crushing I have no choice but to run away from it. Birnam is gone, still in hospital, still unconscious. Maybe Ophelia’s just keeping her head down and working hard, giving herself a fresh start. I can only hope—what else do I have?

With a defeated sigh, I swipe through my phone and get to the bottom of the pile of messages, finally. My heart skips a beat when I get to the last text.

I’ve been too busy to think about him, and that might have been a blessing, because the moment I allow myself to do so, my body is flooded with a disorienting rush of heat.

Leaning back against the wall, shoulders resting against the glass display cabinet behind me, I let out a sharp breath, bite my lip and open his text.

Unknown: Meet in your office at eight, love. Be a good girl, now, and don’t ignore this text.