The air smells like snow falling, the wood-burning and assando cakes. From the roof terrace of the Mandarin, the Central Park looks like an enchanted kingdom of silver and Park Avenue is a parade of lights. And yet it is all shattered when I push my phone towards Parker the following Sunday afternoon.

"Holy fucking shit," Parker crows as I reveal to her the footage. We are having afternoon tea at the Mandarin. It's the Sunday right after Hanif's party and I emerged from Orson's arms yesterday, feeling flushed and satisfied with what I've achieved.

And not to mention, the AV club got it all on film as well.

Two steaming pots of tea arrive, along with a tall silver stand overflowing with daintily cut triangles of sandwiches, scones, and a decadent array of sweet confections. As Parker begins piling glistening pastries and fluffy warm scones onto my plate, I retrieve my phone back and toss it into limited-edition bejewelled Prada nylon bag. 

"Phase two is officially completed."

Parker claps delicately and throws her hair back as she laughs. "You've officially outdone yourself, Scout. How did you get Orson to do it?"

I give her a look. "It's Orson."

"Okay, true. So now what do we do with it?" She leans eagerly.

"Patience, young one," I warn her, "We need to strike when the time's right. And I just got the idea."

Parker rests her chin on her hand as wicked smiles play with her lips. "Oh, do tell."

"Well, lucky for you, as Georgina's BFF-" Parker snickers, "-I know that Georgina's birthday is actually coming up next week. It's her eighteenth, big deal and all that. Major party, everyone who's anyone will be there."

"Oh, I see where this is going."

"You know Parker, I think me and Orson made a really beautiful movie right here. I wonder how Georgina would feel about her boyfriend cheating on her being played on the big screen on her eighteenth birthday in front of a live audience."

Parker cracks up in her hand. "Oh, I don't think she'd be too thrilled about it."

I clasp my hands together and sip into my warm tea. I know what you are all thinking- poor Georgina. What has she ever done to deserve this?

And honestly, after Bailey and Melissa, I've come to make my peace that there will always be collateral damage. Georgina has unwittingly ruined the progress I've made with Orson. I could spend all my time trying to feel guilty about wrecking her birthday but it doesn't change the fact that I've come too far to let her ruin my plan.

Atticus is dead. My parents are dead.

I didn't come this far to feel sorry for some heiress who gets everything and anything she wants with a click of her fingers.

-

Georgina is back on Monday morning and she announces her return by swooping over to Orson's locker, interrupting his conversation with Aidan and Phineas. She cosies up to him and he gives her a kiss on the cheek.

My heart twists a little more when Georgina takes his face and moves it so his mouth reaches hers. The whole room looks away from them, as if on cue. As if they've been doing this their whole lives. Which, I guess, they probably have.

My eyes alone stay on them and Orson catches me looking. I throw him a wink and smirk and that's when he slides Georgina off his mouth. Her whole forehead creases and he tries to kiss her cheek again, but she turns her face away from him and takes a step back, so full of hurt I can practically smell it.

Georgina catches me looking straight at them, as ill-advised as staring straight at the sun, and her face brightens. "Amory, hey! How was Hanif's party?"

Smiling, I glance over at Orson and shrug innocently, "Oh, it was average. You should've come, we could've really used you there. Right, Orson?"

Orson glare daggers at me. "Yeah, it was great." The tone of his voice sounds like a strangled parrot.

Georgina watches the exchange between us and frowns. "Did something happen between you guys?"

The laugh that rumbles out of my throat borders on mocking. Orson glares at me even harder and I cross my arms, "Honestly, Georgina, I don't understand what your boyfriend's problem is but tell him not to bring his soap opera drama with him to the weekend. It's almost your birthday, isn't it? What's the haps?"

Georgina straightens up and beams, "Clear your calendars because it's about to be the biggest event of the month. My mom booked out the whole top floor of the Carlton for us and I managed to get The Weeknd to play. He owes my dad a favour."

"No way!"

Georgina nods, "I'm arms-deep in planning it at the moment. God, do you know how hard it is to get a catering service that does ice sculptures? Honestly, these people."

"Hey, why don't I help?" I offer oh-so sweetly, watching the veins on Orson's temples bulge as soon as I said it.

Nothing like making the man sweat by befriending the wife while being the mistress.

"Oh, that would be great!"

"Let's meet up at 3 Guys Coffee Shop after school. We'll discuss it then."

Georgina grins at me. "Okay great, anyway I need to get to calc," she pivots on her red-bottoms, pecks Orson on the cheek and strides off. The minute Georgina's out of earshot, Orson grabs me by the arm and drags me over to a corner.

"Ouch," I groan at the force of his grip, "Babe, this is not what I meant when I said I like it rough."

"What kind of game are you playing at?" He hiss at me.

I smile at him, all innocent and doe-like. Like a cat toying with a mouse, using his own games against him. I think I almost have Orson all figured out. The idea of a challenge will pique his interest but to hold his interest takes a little bit more work.

"What games? I'm not playing at anything."

He narrows his eyes. "I know you, Amory."

I flutter my eyelashes and stick my bottom lip into a little pout. "Oh do you?"

"Yeah, I do," he releases his grip from my wrist the minute other students are looking at us inquisitively in the hallway. "And I don't need you dangling what happened last weekend, I already have enough going on my plate with these texts I've been-"

He stops himself, eyes widening when he realises he almost let it slip about Carlotta. The texts I've been asking my accomplice to send him from an unknown number have definitely been getting to him.

Playing clueless, my eyebrows raise. "Texts? What texts?"

His jaw clenches. "Nothing, it's nothing."

In order to measure my progress with Orson, I know that him confiding in me about the Carlotta thing is the only way to know he fully trusts me. Nonetheless, we're not really there yet so I roll my eyes at him being tight-lipped and turn away.

"See you around, Orson."

I feel him watching me as I leave for my locker. His eyes burn the back of my baby blue cowl neck sweater, grazing my legs as my Kensington skirt swish behind me. I love that I have that effect on him, still. Even with perfect little Georgina as his girlfriend. I hold my breath. It's like training a tiger to be loyal to you- that's what it's like to seduce guys, especially guys like Orson.

I could see it in Orson's face; he never felt this kind of lust with Georgina. Georgina is an icy, untouchable blonde. She has that going for her, all icy and unreachable- it's what attracts Orson to her in the first place.

It was what got Orson's attention for me too. But I know the Ice Queen act can only last so long.

Georgina and Orson are that unattainable, golden couple everyone reads and gossips about. Orson is a debonair, dressed in black and suits; a James Bond-like quality to him when he stands next to Georgina, his fair queen. They make sense together- heirs of the most powerful families in America, scions of a generation that America loves to watch but couldn't relate to.

And when they broke apart, Orson made somewhat of a spectacle of himself. The Playboy of New York, the Devil of Manhattan- they call him. The wagging tongues followed him from freshmen year all the way to senior. Spotted with models at Le Cou, having long intimate lunches at the Ritz with bored married housewives. And perhaps the most sensational rumour so far was that he had become involved with one of the daughters of Aga Khan, convincing them to forego their conservative Muslim lives and live in sin with him in America. 

Orson's romantic adventures post-Georgina brought him international allure, the press hounding his every  move to keep up with the most recent #1 equestrienne of his romantic merry-go-round. When the world first caught wind of him dating me, the first question on everyone's lips was "Amory who?" A complete unknown to New York society, a nobody. The comments on VieuxRiche just called me some dumb LA social climbing wannabe-influencer that somehow managed to snap up the most eligible teenager on the planet. 

Georgina and Orson is a couple drenched in silver and gold, ice and ice, draped in their rags of American royalty. But Orson and I exist between the lines, in shades of grey and black, in the darkness Orson and I thrive in. And I know when he looks at me he sees that.

I know he misses me. Or in the very least, he misses the sex- especially. I can't imagine what prim and proper Georgina must be giving him in the bedroom; all that boring, frigid, missionary sex and no foreplay. Georgina doesn't seem like the girl who gives blowjobs, mainly because she seems to think she's too good to give them.

With me, I know Orson likes to pull my hair out of its perfect little bun and snap the dress off my body. He likes to grab the curves of my body and watch the flesh multiply in his fingers. He likes the fact that I'm not scared and that I order him to cross boundaries, or that I don't care about how far he's willing to go. He likes me with a wild streak.

Georgina isn't really like that. Rough sex and sex on drugs crashes with her pink Burberry cardigans and her Chanel tweed skirts. So you know, Georgina might have him twisted around her little finger but I don't think Georgina knows how to give him what he wants and I don't think she ever can.

-

Three Guys is a cupcake and coffee shop that resembles a Candy Land game board. The walls are painted with pink glitter. Bright-coloured prints hang everywhere, with sayings like LET THEM EAT CUPCAKES! and LIFE IS SWEET! in simple fonts. Two vintage bistro tables sit under frosted-glass sconces, and a warm, buttery aroma set my mouth watering. In the glass case counter, a handful of beautiful frosted cupcakes sit in long rows. The "flavours" all have names like "The Fat Elvis" or "The Cherry Bomb." The cupcakes are pretty picked-over—it looks like they have almost sold out over the course of the day—but the leftover ones still look scrumptious. My stomach growls but I turn my nose up at it. I really can't afford the calories now. 

So Georgina and her merry band of followers have convened over salads and Iced teas in a booth at 3 Guys. I've invited Parker and a few of girls who I know are definitely on my side. We have to make sure Georgina allows me to handle organising the DJ, the sound systems and the projector in order to broadcast that little video I have of last Saturday's events.

Georgina's explaining to us how she wanted an all-gold theme so that none of the girls there would wear that colour. "Of course girl, we wouldn't dream of taking away the attention from you."

Parker chokes on the beetroot she pops in her mouth and everybody stares at her. She's trying so hard not to laugh. "Sorry, I just-" she gasps for air as she slaps her chest, "- I just didn't chew properly."

Georgina informs how she had ordered approximately two hundred over gold balloons to decorate the whole ballroom as well as a cake dusted with twenty-four karat gold. She has flown in a renowned chef from France- because her favourite was a French chef from a restaurant so exclusive that even celebrities had to be on the waiting list. For flowers, Georgina says she'll get them from Takashimaya- over four hundred and fifty yellow dendrobium orchids and white camellias to be placed in onyx vases rimmed with peacock feathers. And she has confirmed a guest list of over a thousand people- from her early days of Constance, to the friends she made over the pond and notable socialites she was on good terms with.

To me, the excess of how the Elite live never ceases to amaze me. In fact, Georgina has said the next few days leading up to her birthday will be strict pre-birthday protocol. Which means private shopping parties at Saks and Barneys and Georgina adds that just in case she doesn't find the perfect dress there, she'll make sure the private jet is on hold for us to jet off to Paris to check out the boutiques on rue Saint-Honore and L'Eclaireur.

"We can also do like a projector moment," I tell Georgina sweetly, "I'll talk to your parents into giving me some home videos of baby you, put it on the screen, have a little moment of your childhood before you turn eighteen."

"Ooh, I like the sound of that. Very coming of age," Georgina taps her notebook with her black Montblanc pen.

Parker nods along, aiding me into convincing Georgina to let me handle all of this. Convincing Georgina to unwittingly aid us into creating her downfall. "Yeah, it'd be super cute. Besides, you're turning 18  so it'll be a good way to look back."

Georgina thinks about it, weighing the pros and cons of the idea before finally nodding. "Yeah, that sounds really good. I'll let you guys handle it with the DJ and the sound guy, okay?"

Parker and I exchange looks before nodding, "Of course!"

"Well, then that's that. I guess we have our game plan for my birthday. So tomorrow, wake up bright and early to be ready to skip school. We have a long day of shopping ahead of us."

And Georgina turned out to be right because somehow word got out Georgina Carlton, heir to the Carlton empire, was looking for a birthday dress for her eighteenth. Emissaries from the top boutiques of New York had hand-delivered invitations to all of our penthouses that morning, all offering exclusive perks and dedicated suck-up time.

Georgina texted me she would be waiting outside of my place with a motorcade of SUVs and told me excitedly all her friends from Europe had finally arrived. Luckily, I ended up in a car with Parker and Anabelle Mcleod, who gave me a quick lowdown of all the girls Georgina has in her entourage. There's Theresa Mussolini, who hails from a top political family (yes Mussolini as in that Mussolini). Yolanda Liechtenburg's father is the Private Banking King, and Katy Pratt, whose cheekbones and nose is apparently new, also possesses the newest fortune, since her father started Europe's equivalent of Amazon in their family's living room nineteen years ago.

With these girls and their noble bloodlines descending upon New York like locusts in a plague, it's no surprise every designer store is doing their best to make sure we would shop there. That morning, Chanel opened early for us and hosted a sumptuous breakfast in Georgina's honour. Then it was time for lunch at Saks, followed by tea at Dior.

You see, I can afford to shop at these stores with Parker but never have I ever served food there. I imagine the reason why these stores go to such lengths is that they know Georgina's eighteenth is an event every media company will be dying to cover and they're willing to go to such lengths because they're hoping any of us would be photographed or filmed wearing them.

It's safe to say my black credit card has been doing a splendid exercise after that day, so much so that when I return with over four massive shopping bags, Veronica raises an eyebrow at the bill.

"Fifty-thousand dollars at Balmain?" Veronica gasps.

"What?"

"What the fuck are you buying at Balmain?"

"Just some couture items, Veronica."

"Christmas is already over."

I smile wanly, "Well, some of them are for you and Hadley too."

She eyes me warily. "Never thought you were the type honestly."

"For what?"

"The type that spends fifty thousand dollars at Balmain," Veronica huffs, "Putting your trust fund to good use, huh?"

"Parents sure died for a real noble cause, Aunty V."

-

The day of Georgina's birthday is game day. We each get a suite of our own since Georgina's mom booked out all the rooms of the top two floors at the Carlton. Everything in my ginormous suite is done in splendid shades of cream and celadon, and there's the prettiest dressing table with a three-way folding mirror that Parker and I make sure to take a million pictures of from every angle.

In a vinyl black Giuseppe di Morabito number I bought from the shopping trip, I look edgy and severe- especially since I pair the short mini dress with a Zac Posen clutch inlaid with pearls and six-inch Christian Louboutin heels. My makeup is classic and simple- a signature swath of black eyeliner, a swipe of matador-red lipstick and glossy skin crafted by a visit to an expensive gold facial. Parker decides to match me in black with an Alessandra Rich ruffled jumpsuit, blue suede ankle boots, and casually slinging on her shoulder is the sort of handbag that I'm sure has a three-year waiting list.

The thumping bass of the music shudders the whole hotel by the time PM rolls around. A$AP Mob is screaming over the speakers and Parker and I walk in the minute the A$AP Rocky spits out "I put New York on the map". 

Boys dripped in diamond chains and Versace jackets flock to the front where DJ Snake is spinning records on the DJ booth. Girls shimmy by, decked out in jewels and tiny dresses. The world around me swirls in all the glitz the Carltons could offer- fifty-foot ceilings, vintage mirrors, expensive art, chandeliers.

The smell of liquor hangs heavy in the air as Parker and I stride through the throng of spectators. We say hi to a few people and ignore the rest. As usual, I can feel all of them looking at us. Everybody knows who we are. I swear one girl holds her phone to me when I'm not looking and snaps a photo of me- probably to send it to VieuxRiche or something.

The VIP table is the one nearest to the DJ booth. Georgina's already drunk when Parker and I arrive at the table since she squeals in delight and clambers onto us in a flurry of blonde and glitter. I recognize the dress she's wearing from the Alaia couture collection- a very one-of-a-kind metal mesh gold dress off the runway.

"Your present," I say as I give her the iconic black Saks shopping bag.

"Thank you so much!"

The whole night rages on in champagne showers and a string of musical shows by a line-up even more impressive than Coachella's. The skyline burns bright behind the scene- almost every building seems to be putting on some kind of light show. A few towers look like they've been edged in Day-Glo, while others pulsate neon lights like giant boom boxes. There's a cut of the cake and soon enough, it's game time.

"And now, I'd like to present to you a video we've created to celebrate Georgina's 18th," I announce proudly, standing on the podium and bracing the crowd. With a knowing smirk to Parker, I nod to the DJ.

And then he presses play.

Happy Birthday, Georgina.

--

vote and comment, loves! don't we love a sinister, manipulative queen?

amory be damn sure to be dancing out to 'i can take your man' on tiktok x