My heart pounds under the waitress uniform. Every deep, dark thrum of my heartstrings pulsing under my chest vibrating below the button-down polyester shirt and the black apron pinned up to my collar. I adjust the straps of the badge of the girl I stole this uniform. The badge reads Phoebe and I glance at the dirty, smudged mirror on the corner of the locker room, wondering if I can pull off a 'Phoebe'.

Staring at me is a girl with blue-eyed contacts, a red-haired wig tucked in a ponytail with every strand of my real hair safely pinned underneath and soft pale skin I've bleached before transforming my disguise into perfection.

I've come so far in the last three years. From that grieving girl when the cops told her that her parents had died to the person I am now- someone who was willing to take action against the very people who deserve what was coming to them.

Two years of watching, planning, observing, gaining intel, reading them, knowing them, stalking them, reading them, studying them have led to this moment. They're objects of fascination- really. The way they live- the excess, the money, the parties, the beauty, the attention, the fame, the invincible feeling they must feel, the pedestal as if nobody could ever bring them down.

It gives me more pleasure to just take them down one by one. Orson Calloway and all his powerful friends, strip them power by power, skin by skin, and then finally deliver the coup de grace where it hurts the most- his heart.

Even if I'm fairly convinced Orson Calloway doesn't have a heart.

Today is the day I'm gonna see him up-close and personal. After so many years of observing through distances, I'll be the waitress serving him food on the table and launching my ultimate scheme of revenge into works, kicking off senior year with a bang. Before, all I did was watch from afar, sit at the table next to him or on a screen, scrolling through his Instagram feed, hacking his Facebook, studying him like a specimen. Now we'll be interacting, even. Talking. He won't know me, of course. But I would. We may even brush hands, touch for the first time and he won't know that he's rubbing skins with the girl who will be the worst thing that ever happened to him.

"Amory."

My cousin Hadley strides in as she knots her apron around the collar and waist. I didn't recognize her at first when I turned around to look but then I remembered she's in a blonde wig with blue-eyed contacts.

"It's time."

I nod. It means that he has arrived. I look at my watch. 7: 38. He always comes to this restaurant on a Friday around this time, a pattern I pick up after months of shadowing him and data collected from his Facebook check-ins and Instagram locations. These days, social media makes it too easy to snuff these people out especially if they're attention-seeking rich kids, who post their accounts so publicly out for people to follow upon, putting themselves up on pedestals as if they're celebrities, which makes them easier to track, easier to pick up patterns on their dislikes and likes and examine their attitudes from a sideliner standpoint.

As I tread out of the locker room, I scan the restaurant. This restaurant, which goes by the name of Floregilium, dresses itself up like it's back in the Jazz Age. Its decor is gaudy and old-fashioned with velvet chairs, dense red carpets, chandeliers, satin silk tables and gold trimmings everywhere, lacking the subdued grace of white and the modern aesthetics of silver, diverting from my tastes. I like clean, white places, clear of clutter. Less is more is my preference, which Floregilium goes in the opposite direction. The restaurant is too heavily saturated with the past- bronze frame pictures of important American revolutionary figures, too obsessed with making people feel dignified and important, reminding me of an old-money stuffy grandma who wears too much makeup. But I guess that's the idea.

I glance at my reflection in the glint of the chandeliers, making sure no stray hairs peeking out of the sleek red wig. I don't want any slip-ups before the fun even begins. I twirl a pen in my fingers, pull out the waitress pad of paper from the pocket of my apron and begin my way towards the open bar, where my target sits amply with his friends, enjoying a glass of Hennessy as he laughs at something his friend is saying.

Orson is only eighteen, barely the legal drinking age, but since Orson's dad is a hefty investor in Florigileum- a favourite amongst the wealthy and the dysfunctional, the managers are willing to turn a blind eye when it comes to serving Orson and his minor friends the alcohol. Especially when they keep tipping hundreds.

My heart skips a beat when my gaze falls on him. God, he's just like I remembered. That dark hair combed slickly to the side a la 1930s fashion, cold soulless blue eyes, almond-shaped with thick dark eyelashes, pale skin gleaming in the soft chandelier lights of the restaurant, a straight nose, angled jaw, cupid lips full of wicked smiles, smug smirks and crooked grins. Good enough to stun your hormones from a mile away. But his beauty can't hide the fact for what he is- an insatiable homme fatale with a penchant for dirty deeds. There has never been a single person in human existence quite like Orson Calloway. Stunning to look at, and exciting to be near but cold as ice. He cares about absolutely no one but himself. This boy has elevated self-absorption into an art form. He believes in nothing and laughs in the face of sadness, faith, and sincerity. A person solely observing him and having seen the damage he's done to so many lives would most likely classify him as evil. He scoffs at any and every type of love all the while manipulating others by using the idea of being in love all to his advantage. He'll steal monetarily or emotionally from anyone who crosses his path, spend night after night in drunken, drug-induced debauchery, playing the cool, suave, playboy that everybody loves to get high with to hide the fact that he's a manipulative mastermind who use and destroy people to his own amusement. He's a narcissistic sociopath, who hates to let anybody win. He is in a sense brilliant, as evidenced by the fact that he has indeed completely fooled each person he has ever had to–except me, of course. He'll shower you with Patron, Gucci and enough drugs to get the whole Westboro Baptist Church twerking. He'll make you laugh, he'll make you admire him, he'll make you want to be him or fuck him. But I can smell his game from here. He can hide the slippage of his composure, the cracks in his game face by using darker tools like debauchery at his disposal, using it to wreak destruction and ruin other people's lives by the click of his fingers. It sickens me to the very core.

Orson Calloway is lounging lazily on the plush velvet chair, tucked into the corner of the restaurant. His table is at a spot where he and his friends can overlook the Manhattan skyline and the Hudson River from the window. He and his friends hardly spare me a second glance as I stop by his side. I can hear my heart pulsing hard and my hands quaking visibly.

"You should've seen the way she looked at me," Aidan Donovan is saying. Orson laughs. My skin crawls. It's that same self-assured laugh, snarky and cruel, ringing in the same jeering manner when he joked about how Atticus kept ignoring his taunts because the voices in his head were too loud, or when he and his friends watched Atticus discover crumpled heart-shaped notes on Valentine Day that said Maybe next year but probably not.

I clench my fists as I grit my teeth. I breathe hard. I must remain calm and compose myself. Myself is a thing I must compose now. I cannot afford cracks in my facade if not everything I've dedicated to this plan will come to nothing- two years will crumble before me. All that effort of changing my name, bleaching my hair a golden honey blonde, hacking into their database, training and tracking them- all of that will go to nothing. I owe this to Atticus. I owe this to my parents. I owe this to myself.

I must act fast, too. After all, soon 'Phoebe' will be looking at who stole her nametag and uniform from the waiters' lounge.

"Hello," I say, proud that my voice sounds out with confidence instead of a tremor. "How may I help you?"

His eyes flick up, landing on me for a short fraction of a second. I lose my breath and then switch to his friend- Aidan Donovan. Aidan Donovan is his right-hand man. They've been side to side since kindergarten- brothers bonded in privilege, not blood. A notion strange and rare by East Coast standards since Orson's trust funder pedigree would've normally frowned at the sight of Aidan and his background.

Compared to the rest of Manhattan's elite, Aidan Donovan's parents are relatively new money. His father came from the housing projects of Brooklyn, selling whatever he could get his hands on to support his single mother- usually crack. Eventually, Aidan's father made it big as one of the most influential hip-hop artists in the mid-90s and went on to become even more successful with the launch of various business ventures after he retired from the entertainment industry. He started a record company, his own fashion line, a chain of clubs across the country, and an extremely successful music streaming platform. He even married a former Miss USA and bought a billion-dollar townhouse in a classic prewar building in the West Village with Bob Dylan and Joan Baez as neighbors.

Despite all of this, the Donovans always had trouble infiltrating the old New York Establishment world, a group so guarded and exclusive that it didn't matter how rich you were. All that mattered was what kind of family you came from, the influence you had on the world.

This circle was a whole other level of society that was impervious to the flash of money, especially new money.

After all, they are some of the wealthiest people in this world- the one-percenters. Their families have roots so deeply embedded in the history of this nation. They could trace their lineage belonging to those that boarded the Mayflower and chiseled their family's legacies into Plymouth Rock. They came from people who not only built this country but tore it down for its own amusement.

So you can see how everything changed the minute Aidan and Orson sat together during that one faithful lunch period. Aidan's mother, Kiara Henderson, a former pageant queen turned Manhattan social-climbing wannabee saw an opportunity to capitalize on an invitation into that world. She made all the right decisions- enrolling Aidan into Kensington Primary, bribing the coach to partner them together in lacrosse drills, and organizing sleepovers between the two boys to blossom a friendship stronger than steel.

Even before beginning my research into the Elites of Kensington, my observations from afar have noticed how Kiara Henderson's social-climbing schemes have truly paid off. Aidan and Orson have remained an unbreakable bond, a friendship no one dares question. Everything Orson did, Aidan followed. They tag each other in memes on Facebook, they have a Facebook page dedicated to them by a gaggle of freshmen girls who worship them and they've known each other for a lengthy eight years, attending my school- Kensington Prep- and ruling the social scene of Manhattan's elite side by side.

The Donovans surmounted their position in Manhattan's old guard through the unlikely friendship of Orson Calloway, a prince of the Old Guard, and Aidan Donovan, a boy whose grandparents bled in the slums of the Bronx. 

"Hey, are you guys ready to order?" Orson asks his friends. I recognize every one of them, their names matching with their faces from the date I've collected on each individual of their inner circle, organizing them according to the importance to my pretty little take-down list. Aidan Donovan. Hanif Rahim, Phineas Yeong and of course, leading the wolfpack is Oscar Calloway. Every one of them is rich, wealthy, attendees of the exclusive private school of Kensington Prep and the boys of Manhattan's upper-class elite. Every one of them in that limo that crashed into my father's car and ended my parents' lives. Every one of them is responsible for the misery that drove Atticus to kill himself.

"We should wait till the others arrive- you know how Carmen hates it if we start without her," Phineas Yeong advises Orson, only earning an eye roll from Orson.

"My sister hates if we start anything without her," he purses his lips, "So we'll just-"

"Orson!"

Suddenly, the scene is stolen by the entrance of the other Calloway, Orson's possibly more manipulative stepsister, Carmen Calloway. Beautiful, thin and rich, Carmen Calloway is the perfect embodiment of what everybody hates about socialites.

I'm surprised by how tiny she is in real life, standing at an average height of 5'5 when in photos she seems to be supermodel-tall. Ribbon-slim and small-chested with the carriage of a girl who has spent many hours toiling in ballet classes, she has glossy sleek straight hair in the same shade of black as her stepbrother and almond-shaped brown icy eyes that resemble snake eyes. Despite having different parents, both the Calloway siblings share similar characteristics of lean bodies, sharp angles and narrow features. They have their distinctions as well, of course. Orson is pale as a ghost and Carmen has inherited her caramel olive skin from her Armenian roots on her mother's side.

Eyes can't help but draw themselves towards Carmen's emerging figure as she leads a squad of unattainably perfect-looking girls, Luciana Santiago and Parker Holtz, her best friends forever. She smiles sweetly across the room as she flits through gracefully, daintily making her way through.

Carmen is every parent's dream and Orson's polar opposite. If my memory serves me well, she portrays herself as this perfect little Catholic socialite with a heart of gold, throwing charity balls, donating millions of dollars to meaningful causes, winning scholarship programs and going to church on Sundays. While Orson flaunts his debauchery and decadence with fast cars, hard nights, expensive booze, parties, daring death, fucking the whole town and living life on the edge, she wears a purity ring, claims to be vegan for the benefit of animals, dances ballet, an accredited scholar and speak five languages. She doesn't drink, smoke or take drugs, she doesn't swear and seems to be as pure as the silver cross hanging around her neck. But if there's anything I've ever know is that the nicer they seem to be, the more wicked they actually are.

Next to her, side by side, are Luciana Santiago and Parker Holtz.

Surprise always strikes me whenever I consider how Parker Holtz and Carmen Calloway manage to stay friends for so long, especially since they seem more like rivals than friends. Equally beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed with angelic Germanic features, and well-rounded, Parker seems to always be in competition with Carmen. Except whatever Parker did, Carmen did better and whatever Parker wanted, Carmen got. Parker lost out to Carmen for the lead dancer solo of the Nutcracker last year and she'd been on a year-long ballet binge to perfect her game. Parker Holtz is the type of girl who hates it when someone is better at something than her. Especially Carmen.

On the other hand, notoriously infamous for a twerking striptease video to the Weeknd's song 'Often', which went viral last year, Luciana Santiago is known for all the wrong reasons. Wild, easy-minded and a frequent party-goer, my sources have told me Luciana and Orson have been fuckbuddies since the eighth grade. It makes sense, of course. Luciana is mind-numbingly gorgeous with her almond-shaped brown doe eyes, caramel skin, silky chestnut hair, athletic figure and pouty lips dipped in scandalous red. And Orson likes scandalous women and men.

I keep my eyes glued on her. At this moment, Luciana Santiago is the key member to my plan. The weakest link. If I crack her, I get in.

"What took you so long?" Orson grumbles. I step away from the table, fading into the background as the boys greet the girls. Carmen pecks a kiss onto her brother, leaving a pink stain on his cheeks, and smirks at his annoyance.

"We were getting ready," reply Carmen in her airy, sweet-pitched voice, "And besides, you knew I was doing Bible studies. The pastor's loving me. He might let me lead a sermon next week."

Orson rolls his eyes. "Right, okay."

A dainty hand strikes out in front of my face, waving towards me. "Waitress?" Carmen snaps her fingers at me. I rouse into motion, a facial expression indicating that I'm listening. She's on her phone as she talks, barely registering me as she orders me around: "Get us three lime cucumber waters."

Bitch, I think. So much for being a God-fearing Christian with a 'heart of gold'. But I swallow it with ease and smile for the sake of maintaining appearances while sketching a picture inside my head about how pretty she'll look with her head on a pike. I think about my plan, the outline of my ideas of revenge and jerk my head into a nod, forcing myself to spit out the words in a tenor of reverence: "Of course, ma'am."

It's time to move in.

I saunter back into the kitchen, keeping my head down so nobody will look at my face and realize I'm not part of the staff. I go towards the shelf where glasses are kept, symmetrically lined with each other. Grabbing three glasses, I fill them with water and head further into the kitchen, where Hadley has informed me that they keep the fruits and vegetables in a stored compartment within the refrigerator. Plucking out three slices of cucumber and lime, I place them in the water and then, quickly doing a quick sweep of who's around me- there's a frenzy of chefs working around, preparing drinks, barely noticing me as they work around the clock to prepare their customers food- I unbutton my waitress shirt on top and pull out a small vial from my bra.

I unscrew the cap of the vial swiftly and sprinkle it into the glass, then I drop the vial into my pocket like it's hot. The vial contains a slow-acting tranquilliser, sort of a weaker form of GHB, which will react spontaneously once alcohol enters the bloodstream and meets with the chemical, leading the victim to become immobile and lack control of their motor skills. The perfect little way for me to introduce myself into their ranks. I scoop up the glasses, place them on a tray, memorize their places, and carry them back out.

I see them, talking amongst themselves upon the plush chairs, as I walk towards them. Orson Calloway stands out like a pinprick light in the middle of darkness. I smile at him, just wondering if he knows, but he doesn't see me looking at him, blissfully unaware. Oh, how quaint. The table is now occupied with every person I've painted as a target, every one of them beautiful, members of Manhattan's aristocrats and Kensington Prep's monarchy. The boys are gorgeous in that glowing, healthy, just-stepped-out-of-an-Abercrombie-catalog way and the girls are reasons for the rising numbers of eating disorders and unrealistic body expectations amongst teenage girls. They carry hundreds in their pockets like it's nothing and wear designer clothes like models, spending more money in a week than what most middle-income earners make in a year. They are made out of old, noble bloodlines, older money, and practically ancient scandals.

I don't hate every one of them because of the class system. It's not a story of hate-the-rich and bringing down the one-percenters. I hate them because of what they did to me, how they tore my family to shreds and leave me as an orphan, being from aunt to aunt, reducing me into someone who screams at night for my parents to come back, tears at the regret of not being there for Atticus when he needed me the most.

I could've been a happy teenager, with a regular family and a simple life. But they took that from me, robbed it from my very hands, got away with it unscathed without a scratch, still wealthy and privileged as ever. It's not fair. Life isn't fair- I know- but they don't deserve to get away with it. It's time, more than time, that justice needs to be served.

They did this to me. And God will punish the wicked but before he does, I will.

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amory literally dateraped luciana in the first chapter and y'all thought this girl was a good girl?! 

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please vote + comment! <3 :)