The sky has slipped out of its silky purple dress into a basic black by the time Parker pulled up by my apartment's entrance.

"You look amazing," Parker gushes as I exit out of the pair of sliding doors that flank the front steps.

"Thank you!" I say back, feeling pleased with the compliment. After all, I've plucked and trimmed every inch of my body to make sure I look perfect. 

I've squeezed a few more extra hours in the gym to get that flab on my stomach to disappear and my butt pumped. I've even head over to the John Barrett salon to get new honey-toned highlights, as well as spending four hundred dollars at the Frederic Fekkai Beaute de Provence spa on Fifty-seventh Street for a Dead Sea mud facial and milk-and-honey foot and hand treatment and painting my paint nails a deep navy colour I've picked up at the Chanel counter at Bendel's yesterday. "You too. I told you the dress was worth it."

Parker has came in her Helen of Troy inspired costume as per my advice. I try not to smile to myself, thinking of the fury that's going to overwhelm Carmen when she sees Parker comes in a historical figure inspired costume when she was specifically told not to.

"Thanks," Parker laugh. She gestures at the driver to start driving as she wordlessly hands me a whiskey glass and begins to pour Ketel one and tonic into it. "Let's take a photo!"

I nod enthusiastically and shift over to Parker as she holds up her camera and snaps a photo of us. I really like my costume- a black and white ballerina costume fashioned from real ostrich feathers; it cinches at my waist and hangs at all the right places, pushing my new boobs up. Black feathers adorn my blonde hair as well as the hem of my tulle skirt. On my ears hang a pair of exorbitantly expensive Lynn Nakamura's Tahitian black pearl drop earrings.

After Parker uploads the photo onto her Instagram story and sitting through Manhattan's eight-o'clock traffic, the driver arrives at One57- Luciana's highrise building that overlooks Central Park. According to Luciana at lunch yesterday, her parents are in Majorca, filming their anniversary with the television crew, so she has free reign over the whole penthouse for the weekend. Luciana has told us not only is the space of the penthouse is going to be the ultimate hotspot for tonight's party playground but she has booked the rooftop deck as well for three hundred of her closest and richest friends.

When Parker and I clamber out of the car, familiar faces from Kensington are climbing out of their Ubers, Bugattis and McLarens. A group of girls from Chapin Academy, another private school in Manhattan, gather by the glossy frontier of the building, dressed in matching all-red Dior devil costumes, taking cigarettes out of their chainlink quilted bags and lighting up, their eyes trained on Parker and I the minute we step out. Envy and respect scream in their stares as their gazes follow us, whispering furiously.

I mimic the way how Parker holds her head high, despite of the obvious ogling.

"Hanif!" Parker squeal as she spots the heir to a multimillion-dollar company at the concierge, clearly waiting for the rest of the group to arrive. The Malaysian born boy is spotting a fabulously luxurious Versace red rope, a sailor's cap, and tailored Armani trousers. He is drumming his long fingers nervously against his super long legs, tapping his shiny black Christian Dior dress shoes against the marble floor.

"Finally," Hanif grumbles as he walks over to them. Hanif gives me a long, lingering look when he notices me trail behind Parker. "What took you guys so long? Everybody's already upstairs."

"Oh well, nothing's wrong with being a little fashionably late," huff Parker, shouldering her simple Givenchy cream coloured crocodile clutch with dainty Grecian-inspired gold detailing.

Hanif laughs, "Well, fashionably? Definitely. Both of you look fucking hot. Emphasized on the fucking."

"You're disgusting," snort Parker but she's smiling widely. Hanif escorts them into the lift. As the doors closes, he reaches into his pocket and pull out a flask before tipping some into his mouth. "What's that?"

Hanif smirks and passes it without hesitation. "Absinthe."

"Fuck yeah," Parker laughs, tossing it back without even wincing. Before I know it, Parker presses the flask into my open hand.

My hand curl around the glass. Absinthe is like a step up from alcohol- it fucks you up in one go and I need to be sharp like a hawk tonight, especially with what's going to happen at this party but Hanif is silently watching me, reading my hesitation, missing nothing. He raises an eyebrow in sardonic amusement.

Fuck sake. I gulp down a massive swallow.

"Thanks for the little starter," I say, handing it back to Hanif.

He laughs in approval, "We're all going to need a little something if we want to have a bomb ass time. It's going to be a night to remember."

With what I have planned tonight, it'll definitely be a night to remember.

The elevator dings and slides open, allowing them to slip into a world of some of the most beautiful and well-dressed teenagers in the whole state of New York.

The tranquil, seductive vibe of Luciana's Balinese holiday-inspired apartment has been shattered as she has transformed her mother's modern tropical chic palace into an al fresco ballroom, decked in Halloween decor of black and orange streamers and dark lighting with a dark red undertone casted by LED lights. There was a wide space consisted of a neon dance floor that changes colors and Spanish marble tiles sparkling across the whole room as girls in Jedediah Angel's crazy-sexy party dresses and boys in Tom Ford costumes flocked about, quaffing down Veuve Clicquot cocktails and mini bite-size caviar-inspired treats. A gigantic ball made of black and white roses hung from the ceiling as music blared from the speakers. Posters of dead movie stars splattered with fake blood are plastered all over the place. The whole place even contain a slick sushi bar at the back of the penthouse that looks like it has been transplanted straight from Tokyo's Roppongi district.

Parker, Hanif and I stride in confidently to the room. As if the Kings and Queens have arrived, everyone turn to look and part for us, making space for us to walk through. Girls glare at us- envy dripping from their stares as they inspect our outfits from head to toe. Boys notice me- their mouths wide open, practically gawking as I slide through. Through the mass of people, we notice the VIP section fenced off by red velvet ropes near the sushi bar. The VIP section is several see-through glass tables with a sushi chef in a black kimono serving members of the Elite thin slices of raw fish on an obsidian plate while his young apprentice sits at the bar carving radishes into cute little kitten faces. Bottles of Veuve Clicquot and Belvedere vodka flank them in ice-cold buckets. Boys roar vivaciously as they hoot at underclassmen sashaying past them while the girls of VIP are talking over the blaring music and drinking tall glasses of rum punch with orange slices, maraschino cherries and paper umbrellas.

"Oh my God! You guys look amazing!" Luciana shriek when she sees us and envelop Parker and I into a massive hug. As Wonder Woman, Luciana's dark brown waist-length hair is held back by a glinting gold band with a gigantic red ruby embedded in the middle. A tiny navy blue Agnes B mini skirt is tucked into her custom-made red velvet corset, which has been emboldened with the signature Wonder Woman logo on her cleavage. Her makeup is kept natural except for the Bendel bought rich red Estee Lauder lipstick I remember her buying a week ago. "Especially you, Parker!"

Carmen nods appreciatively at me, smiling slightly. Then her eyes shift over to Parker and her smile tightens. "Wow, Parker. You look fantastic." The smile is etched over Carmen's face but her eyes scream bloody murder as she scans the gold accents of Parker's costume, mimicking the Grecian inspirations of her Helen of Troy outfit.

To rival Parker, Carmen is in her Azzedine Alaia custom-made Cleopatra figure-hugging gown of iridescent silk crepe de chine with delicate knife pleats that fan out over the fitted bodice and a column skirt that drapes across the front in romantic cascading folds. Jewels and peacock feathers dust the top hem of the dress and a front slit rides itself all the way to Carmen's mid-thigh, revealing a strappy pair of three-inch gold Ferragamo heels. With her long, luxuriant hair worn down in loose curls and pinned on the sides with a pair of feather-shaped art deco diamond clips, Carmen epitomizes Queen of the Nile in an insanely effortless manner.

"Thank you," Parker says tentatively, taking the space next to her.

"Have a drink!" Luciana insists, handing both of us the glasses of rum punch to ease the tension.

"So Parker," Carmen says, sweetly poisonous, "I thought I said no historical figures."

Parker sips her rum punch and shifts slightly in her seat. "Yeah...but it's not like we're wearing the same dress."

That's not the point, Parker.

Carmen's lips curl. "Yeah, true. But historical figures were supposed to be my-"

"Look, more drinks!" Luciana declare loudly as waiters in all black appear with fresh glasses of vodka lemonade. "Amory, do shots with me!"

"Alright," I acquiesce, allowing her to grab my wrist and pull me towards the main bar. The main bar is flocked with familiar faces- Phineas's terrifyingly beautiful sister, Nadine Leong, is resplendent in a high-necked turquoise silk charmeuse dress and a single opera-length strand of cultured pearls, holding a pink drink with a paper umbrella, as boys from Legion Academy attempt to coy her number out of her, Jack- my physics partner appearing lost and out of his depth, Katherine Pickard doing tequila shots with her best friends. But they all stop what they're doing when Luciana and I pause by the bar, whispering fervently among themselves as they inspect our outfits. I swear I see Katherine secretly snap a photo with her iPhone X hiding behind her Long Island Tea.

"What is she wearing?"

"I love her dress!"

"The feathers are so chic."

I give my head an impatient toss and the earrings dance. catching all the glorious colors of my hair as if lit from within. The feathers on my ballerina skirt has started falling off, leaving a little trail on the floor.

"Four shots of Tequila," Luciana request from the bartender with a winning smile. Then she return to me. "Thank God, we got out of there quick."

"Why?" I ask innocently, even though I know the answer.

Luciana sighs. "Parker and Carmen are bound to have a bitch fight. I thought Carmen specifically said no historical figures and Parker disobeyed."

"Oh come on," I pretend to scoff, "It's not like Carmen is going to make a big deal out of it. It's just a Halloween costume and it's not like Parker bought the same dress."

Luciana arches her eyebrows at me. The bartender plop four shot glasses in front of us and messily spill it with fiery tequila. "Amory, you're not that stupid. You know what's Carmen like."

Exactly, I say mentally but instead just choose to shrug. I sneak a peek at the VIP section where Carmen and Parker are talking but their faces are snarled. Parker ends up grabbing her purse and storming off to the dance floor.

I lick the salt off the rim on my tequila shots and toss them down- two all at the same time. Right after, I squeeze the lime my phone buzz from my purse.

"Anyway, I have to go to the bathroom," I tell Luciana after she had thrown back her tequila shots, "Do you know where it is?"

Luciana nod and point to the far left corner of the room. I say I'll join her soon and she nods wordlessly, squeezing my gloved hand tight before she dashes back to the VIP section.

-

"So when do I come in?" Helena whispers into my ear through the ancient Nokia I've bought as a burner phone.

I snuck a peek at the locked door of the bathroom and see if it anyone has rattled on it. No one. "In five minutes. Go straight to the back, near the VIP section."

"Understood."

"Do you have the documents I sent you?"

"Yes," Helena says eagerly.

"And your costume?"

"Done."

"Good," I say. "Thank you, Helena."

"No, thank you. Without you, I wouldn't have been able to afford a school in Manhattan or even a place to live here. Seriously, Amory."

I allow my shoulders to relax. "No problem. Now send those documents to VieuxRiche. Then you'll come in and announce your return back to the Manhattan social scene. Don't forget that my uncle is still your Dad's boss if you ever decide to mess up."

"Yes, of course," Helena reply hastily, defensive all of the sudden. "I'm ready to fuck them up, Amory. Are you doubting my loyalty?"

Yes, I want to say. "There's no harm in making sure you remember where your heart lies."

"Um hello! What's taking so long? We're all waiting here!" A girl growl from the other side of the door, knocking loudly to get my attention.

Crap. "I have to go," I hiss into the phone and hurriedly shove it into my purse not before smacking my ruby red-lacquered lip to distribute the lipstick evenly across my lips.

"Sorry, I was retouching my makeup." I stumble out of the bathroom and come face to face with a petite freshmen.

The girl blink at me unexpectedly, her lips begin to quiver when she seems to realize who she's talking to. "Oh, uh, I didn't know it was you! Oh my gosh...um, I'm so sorry!" She runs off into the crowd.

Oh right. I'm an Elite, I remember as I sashay through the group of gaping sophomores eyeing my ballerina costume and the earrings that glow against my hair like twin stars with envy, as if making quick notes on to buy the items I'm wearing later. It has happened before. Once I was photographed on a night out in a black strapless Donna Karan dress and it was posted onto VieuxRiche, the next thing I know is that every basic rich bitch in Manhattan was wearing it.

"Amory, you look lovely." A figure lurking behind me announces coolly. If the smooth, suave voice of Orson Calloway did not give away to who it was, it's definitely the sharp clacks of Orson's Prada shoes that will.

Orson Calloway is leaning by the bathroom wall, carrying a magnum bottle of Cristal- his favourite- and looking like dark, deceptively handsome devil in a Hugo Boss zoot suit with red pinstripes. A red mask covers the top half of his face but his arrogant-tinted bright blue eyes are still shining like diamonds in the dark, piercing me with a kind of white-hot intensity that makes it hard to hold his stare. "You too," I compliment him.

"Someone betted forty thousand dollars and a Rolex that no one can finish this in one go, I betted that you probably could. Help me win?"

I roll my eyes at him. "Are you just trying to get me drunk?"

His smirk grows wider. With the red mask and the black horns crowning his dark head, I'm convinced this is the night I'm selling my soul to the devil. "So you're saying you can't do it?"

People are starting to surround us, making a small little group around the entryway of the bathroom. I narrow my eyes at him, yank the bottle out of him and tilt it all the way into my mouth, starting to chug the frothy gold liquid down my throat.

The crowd watch in sheer amazement as I guzzle down every sip of the bubbly, the fizzy liquid sloshing uncomfortably in my full stomach as I lift the rim of the bottle from my lips and tip the bottle over, proving there's nothing left. The crowd erupt into cheers and Orson shakes his head at me, amused. I smirk at him. "I'll take the Rolex and half of the forty thousand, thank you very much."

"You're crazy," Orson murmur, stepping towards me. His breath smells like whiskey as it ghosts over my ear. I'm aware that everybody is looking at us, aware that everybody is taking notes of the distance between us and how intoxicating it is- more intoxicating than the amount of champagne I just swallowed.

"You love it," I shoot back at him in a whisper as quiet as his so only he can catch it. I make my words slow, baiting him in. It's uncharacteristic for me to give in so easily to his advances, especially with the game I'm playing, but the excuse of alcohol can allow me to create a trap where I lure him a little, tease him a little and then shove him back into the cold, where he becomes a bitch in heat begging for another taste of me.

His smirk grow even wider and I feel his hand flying up my wrist, his delicate tendons wrapping around it, and tugging on it. Champagne slosh uncomfortably in my stomach. It's starting to get into my head. "Follow me."

He pulls me into the bathroom and closes the door behind us. "What's with this?" I laugh at him, pouring coyness into my words.

"I got a little something that will make this night a little more fun," he says, clearing the marbled crystal countertop free of mini bottles of fragrant soaps and shampoos. He takes out a baggie of white powder and my breath sharpens.

I try not to seem as if my fingers are trembling, like I've done this all the time and I'm used to this lifestyle. I don't want to seem inexperienced and innocent around it as that would automatically make him think I'm weird or something. I've never done something like this before but I don't want to lose my spot in this, not now so I maintain a straight face, coolly watching him dry the slightly wet surface and spill the white powder onto it. 

He separates the lines with a credit card before rolling up a hundred-dollar bill. "You first?" He smiles lazily at me as I lower down onto the counter and sniff it lightly. The powder enter my nose and make my eyes water but I blink it back so it won't ruin my makeup. I lean back nonchalantly as it means nothing at all.

"You mind if I try something?" He asks, reaching for the lock of hair that has tumbled out of my bun and tuck it in my ear. He's peeking down the cleavage created by the dress. I nod and jut out my chest. He pour the remainder of the baggie and I pass him the hundred dollar bill. He moves forward towards my boobs and I feel the powder disappear, snorting up his nose. His fingers dust the remaining white snow from my chest and I shiver at his touch, inching closer to him. The air is thickening with moisture and unbearable heat, my pulse is fastening with anticipation as he clasps his hands are on my hips, admiring my lithe form, as he looms over me and smothers me with his mouth.

Our mouths are devouring each other in our coke-and-champagne fuelled haze. My mind is addled as his tongue roams my mouth and I'm wondering holy shit Orson is a fucking good kisser. He's stealing every one of my breath as his hands roam down my body.I could taste the alcohol in the walls of his mouth and he's on the verge of unbuttoning his pants when suddenly a caustic ring cut through our heady silence.

Orson's phone is buzzing, screaming at him to pick it up. Ripping ourselves apart, Orson grabs his phone from his pocket. I sneak a look at the Caller ID on the screen. Carmen.

"What?" he snaps at the phone.

Carmen's voice rings out. She sounds frazzled and alarmed. "Come outside now. Helena Marx is here." 

-

longer chapter but heya!