When I get back from Paris, I make it a priority to contact Kai Hon with help on Georgina's phone.

I need you to help me with something. I've texted him from my Samsung, the phone I use to conduct all contact with Hadley, Helena and ANON420.

He hit me back almost immediately. Hahahaha what for?

Taking a deep breath, I text back after I layer a luxurious layer of Tatcha's water cream onto my skin. Do you know how to fake call and text logs?

Kai Hong's message hit back: Plans for your high school domination?

Annoyed at his deviation from my question, I say: Do you know how to do it?

Yes, Kai types back, I do. But it'll take me a whole day.

I'll pay for you. I can Venmo you ten thousand by tomorrow.

-

The day after Paris is a day that has gone my way: the unusual cold snap has allowed me to wear my brand-new Marc Jacobs pale blue wool coat, my Starbucks barista has made me a perfect double skim latte, I've completely aced French oral exam, and Kai Hong has come through before my set deadline- Georgina's phone is full of texts I've ordered my accomplice to send to Orson about Carlotta. And I've just got the perfect way for him to discover is the culprit behind all the threatening messages from Georgina.

As I walk into the cafeteria, there's already a pretty long line but since I'm an Elite, the three freshmen girls holding up the line immediately let me cut in front of them. I slide my tray along the metal counter, choosing a lemon yoghurt and skipping all the hot lunch selections until I arrive at the hot-water dispenser, where I fill up a cup with hot water and place an instant coffee bag in. Then I bring my tray over to the salad bar, where I fill up a plate with a pile of romaine lettuce and spinach and pour a small puddle of balsamic vinegar onto it.

After the indulgent French meal of chocolate croissants and red wine, I need to be more stringent with my diet. And the morning after pill has made me even more bloated than ever with hormones.

I walk over to the cafeteria table where Parker and Hanif are already sitting and where they see me come over, I notice immediately how Parker perks up. She brightens instantly when she sees me. Today, Parker's carrying a patent leather Chanel bag and a brand-spanking-new swingy tweed coat to match. Her long pale blonde hair has been held off her face with adorable iridescent pink butterfly clips.

She asks me the minute I sit down next to her: "Hey, so we're still on for today?"

"Of course, I owe you one."

"Oh great, I want to hit Saks! All the end of season sales is up."

"And since it's Friday, let's do it drunk," I suggest mischievously. Parker cracks up and we make plans to meet up at the courtyard after school, change out of uniforms at Parker's place and hit the sales. Parker wants new outfits for the next season as we hit closer to the warmer months. I say since we're all going out to the new club opening down by Soho I want a new dress that will make Orson want to marry me on the spot.

"We're here," Parker announces as her driver drives down a ramp into a spotless underground parking garage that seems curiously devoid of cars. Her driver veers to the left and approaches a white metallic garage door with a sign overhead that reads unit 01 mechanised car park (for residents only).

The door rises quickly and a green signal light begins to flash. As Parker's driver pulls forward into the brightly lit chamber, a digital sign in front of us flashes stop, parking position ok.

Then suddenly the ground starts to move. I gasp and Parker chuckles at me.

"It's a drive-in elevator," she explains to me as the rotating platform the car is in slowly pivots the car ninety degrees. When the car stops turning, the entire floor begins to rise. To our right is a wall of windows, and as the elevator continues to ascend, the full glory of New York's daytime skyline unfurl below us.

I remember reading about places like this in the property section of The New Yorker, featuring luxury apartments in West Chelsea and Tribeca. It's the first condo in America to boast biometrically controlled car elevators and "en suite sky garages" in every apartment.

Fifty levels up, the ground finally comes to a halt and we find ourselves peering into a sprawling living room. The living room is a modern, spacious circular room with a black and white palette, with its elegant French doors facing a huge tree that creates a green vale of light with the sun streaming in. It's something resembling the contemporary wing of a museum

"Parker, you're home!" Mrs Holtz greets us from the kitchen when she sees us.

Mrs Holtz, Parker's mother, is an austere-looking woman in a robe over her satin-trimmed La Perla chemise. Even though Parker's mother is wearing no makeup and dressed in all silk, she has accessorized with navy-and-oxblood pointy-toed Céline flats, a larger-than-life Rolex watch, and a bevvy of diamonds, including a massive emerald-cut Van Cleef and Arpels engagement ring. My eyes zero in on the massive rock as we walk through the living room. You know what they say on the Upper East Side: the larger the diamonds, the older the wife, the more the mistresses.

"Hey mom," Parker greets awkwardly, folding her arms across her Mitford blue Yves Saint Laurent couture overcoat. "I thought you'll be in Shanghai."

"Oh, I decided to come home early from my trip! Who's your friend?" Parker's mom turns towards me with a smile.

"Mom, this is Amory."

"Oh, nice to meet you, Amory!"

I make sure to put on my best meeting-the-parent smile. No matter how wild we are in private, we all turn into polite and courteous little angels when we're around the adults. "Nice to meet you too, Mrs Holtz."

"What are you girls up to today?"

"Shopping and then dinner with the rest of the gang," Parker answers simply.

"Oh, cute. Is that boy you're dating coming along, the one from Dalton?" Her mom grins at her knowingly and I arch an eyebrow at Parker, who blushes.

"Yeah yeah, um, anyway we're gonna go to my room now to get ready," Parker drags me over to the hallway, which features a treasure trove of Tiffany lamps, botanical etchings, a Monet watercolour, and a vast collection of valuable porcelain and glass. 

"So you're dating somebody?" I snicker at Parker the minute we are out of earshot. 

"It's just-" Redness is now overpowering Parker's pale face, "-my family is pressuring me to date."

"And why make up a person? You're Parker Holtz, you can literally get anyone you want."

Parker's cheeks are rosy and splotchy, even under a generous coating of Nars blush. And I notice how she looks at me when she says this like she's admiring me, confirming further suspicions she has a crush on me.

"It's just- it's complicated."

Parker's bedroom pavilion has a wraparound glass wall and a sunken circular lotus pond at one end of the room. The only other objects in the lusciously minimalist space is a cloud-like king-size bed in the middle of the room and beeswax pillar candles flanking one wall.

"Whoa," I say, admiring her place. Adjoining the bedroom pavilion is a structure four times its size- Parker's bathroom and closet. Parker pads into the bathroom and I followed her. My jaw drops when I enter her closet, which has two rooms. The first room is an entire floor covered in Hermès bags and matching boxes, and displayed on top of each box is a Birkin or Kelly handbag—in every colour of the rainbow, in every possible variation of exotic leather. Along every wall are custom-built cabinets that displayed rows and rows of Hermès handbags, all illuminated by soft accent lights. There are more than a hundred handbags in the room, and the calculator in my brain starts going into overdrive.

"Holy shit."

"My mom and I are trying to start a collection," Parkers says nonchalantly as she picks out a handbag dyed in the chocolate, beige, and white tones of a Himalayan cat, which has to cost at least a hundred thousand dollars.

"You should borrow this for tonight," she offers to me.

"Oh my gosh, thank you! You're so cute," I coo at her, watching her blush. I smush her in a hug and land a kiss on Parker's smooth left cheek, a little too close on her lips. Parker's lips smell like chapstick and strawberry gum. Parker jerks back, flinching as I grin at her.

A fall from grace is not always the path for revenge. Sometimes, just the sweet slow torture of unrequited feelings is enough.

-

Shopping at Barneys is always a treat. The buzzing, brightly lit ground floor, its glass cases filled with unique jewellery, gorgeous gloves, and one-of-a-kind purses, and its countertops littered with sleek beauty products, make every day feel like Christmas. At the Creed counter, I admire the pretty glass perfume bottles as Parker is by the Kiehl's counter trying out a jar of deep-cleansing natural clay face masque.

We both parade through the city, shopping bags brimming with taffeta and silk. I sweep her up in my exuberance too, in the tiny space of warmth and friendship, like a square of sunshine falling on the cold winter floor. Our hands are looped together when we arrive at dinner.

Dinner is on the 15th floor of Hotel Indigo. We walk into the bar. Solange is playing, candles glimmer, I see the back of Orson's head, glossy black and tousled. Then I drink his whole form at a distance: he's smoking a Backwood, passing between him, Hanif and Phineas. Wearing a Sartoria Ripense suit, he never looks more polished with his new Corthay squirrel suede chukkas. On his wrist is his newest horological acquisition—a rose gold A. Lange & Söhne Richard Lange "Pour le Mérite". He sees me walking from afar, hand in hand with Parker, and I smirk at him- a look that's a prerequisite for an Elite.

He meets my gaze and the tension in the room intensifies all of the sudden. I know I look hot in my new black silk halter top, with my blonde hair straightened and hanging between my bare shoulder blades, and my skin-tight leather pants hugging my hips. The whole look is amplified by the only colour on my whole body- a pair of red five-inch Gianvito Rossi heels.

The woodsy, slightly idiosyncratic bar area of the restaurant is filled with sleek, grey-toned furniture you usually find in the lobby bars of grand, recently constructed international hotels. Orson plays footsie with me under the table as we indulge in a fiendishly delicious wintertime cheese-course creation that combines the warming pleasures of stodgy bread pudding, classically light cheese soufflé, and a faintly boozy, New Age beer fondue in a single bite.

Parker's eyeing both of us as Orson's foot plays with mine. I smile at her sweetly and she looks away immediately, fighting a blush creeping up her neck. I know what's tossing and turning in her mind- that cheek kiss I gave her in her closet. I think she has been into me since our threesome together- I can't believe I never realized how throughout the whole time she never really engaged with Orson and just fooled with me.

We go top-shelf on the liquor and the maitre-de pours us all their finest whiskeys for a slip of a crisp hundred dollar bill. My fingers warm up the cold highball glass filled with Campari, gin, and red vermouth over ice with an orange peel elaborately curled over the rim. As Orson finishes his drink, he gazes at me and in the most cavalier way, he says, "bathroom?" He goes first, and I follow, knocking twice.

"It's a crime not to fuck you in those pants," he murmurs to me and tries to pull me close but I duck his embrace.

"You don't get to touch me, Orson Calloway," I tease, my voice all heady and buttery, "Until I get what I want."

"And what do you want?"

"I want a top-up."

"Already?" He smirks at me. "I already gave you a whole bottle of Addy last week."

"Blew threw it."

"Chill with the pills, babe." His voice drops a decibel, his breath hovers on my ear: "A shame for such a pretty face like yours to die."

"Like you're the preacher," I say, smiling slantily in that way that feels like new trouble. I'm resplendent in my silk and black; it makes me look leaner and thinner and less like a girl and more like a God. 

Or a demon, if you prefer that. 

It's soon before we're wildly kissing and it's soon before we're fucking in the bathroom of the bar; he has to gag me with his hand so we don't get caught but the fear of getting caught set our nerves alive. The sex is quick but intense and this time, he comes inside but it's alright because my birth control is regular again.

When I zip my pants up, I say casually: "I think Parker has a crush on me."

Orson laughs, "Even I had known weeks ago."

"Since when?"

"Since that night."

"So you knew this whole time Parker was into me?" I ask him, amused.

"It was pretty obvious. She wouldn't even touch me but she was definitely dying to fondle those amazing natural D cups."

I give him a crossed look, shoving him a little. "Fuck you."

He smirks at me. "You certainly did." He brings me closer and kisses me on the forehead, "Come back to mine tonight."

And the second part of my plan for tonight is set in motion.

-

Champagne hangovers are the worst. I am groggy and disgusting, wearing Orson's rumpled school button down when I find myself woken up by a shrill chirping outside the window. Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting gauzy shadows onto the white walls. Rolling out of the four-poster bed I walk toward the window and discover a bird's nest tucked in the eave of the gabled roof. Three hungry little chicks arch their tiny beaks skyward, eager to be fed breakfast by their mother, who flutter around the nest protectively. It's in these moments I savour the silence in the midst of all this chaos- glass splintering, head-bleeding chaos.

My shopping bags from yesterday are scattered all over Orson's room, my school bag- my Prada nylon bag- is laying by his bedside table. It's the bag that has Georgina's phone in it, along with the incriminating texts pinning her as the perpetrator behind the threats to Orson about Carlotta.

Orson nudges me in the neck with kisses when he realises I'm awake. "Good morning," he whispers, all croaky and dry. We're rustling about in turns of messy morning sex and dirty talk.

I'm on top of him, legs cradling him when we finished, kissing his neck when a maid in a smart modern uniform of a navy blouse and white cotton slacks from J. Crew, knocks on his door and enters it. "Mr Calloway, your father is requesting your presence in the dining table."

I remove myself from his body. "I should probably go," I declare awkwardly. Orson and I are still such a new couple- we don't know the protocol around parents and serious things like that. I look in the mirror by the bathroom; I'm wearing Orson's crisp men's button-down shirt, which I quickly tuck into an exquisitely cut navy-and-white gingham cigarette trousers I bought yesterday from Barneys with Parker.

"Yeah, I'll see you at school?"

"You too."

"You've got all your stuff?" I've strategically gathered all my things, except for my bag with Georgina's phone in it. I'm gonna play the I forgot my bag here card, leaving him with my things. Knowing he'll search through it, he'll come to find Georgina iPhone and see that this whole time she was behind the texts.

We untangle ourselves from each other and he opens the door, revealing the corridor leading to his formal sitting room, an aggressively modern space with floor-to-ceiling windows and backlit onyx walls.

Orson's father has his back to the skyline when we pad into the kitchen space. Carmen's mother and Orson's stepmother, Maral, is seated on the chaise lounge sipping her morning cappuccino, coolly elegant in a sleeveless kelly green silk faille top with matching faille pencil pants from Rosie Assoulin.

Orson's father turns and I'm struck by how unalike he looks like his father- his father is a thin, tall man with sandy hair. The only they share is the same cruel glimmer of light in their pale blue eyes. He smells like red wine and rare steak and the angry kind of sweat, even in the morning, and he's holding a letter in his hand. "Next time, Orson, please tell me the truth about how your interview has gone."

The cheer in Orson's face drains. "You should just go," he says to me and I speechlessly nod.

His father catches it. "No, I want this tramp of yours to stay." His father doesn't raise his voice. Not ever. It's more powerful all low and practised anyway, and he knows it. Even when the vowels are long and loose and the words slip on top of each other, he stays in control of the volume. They're Elites; they don't shout.

I'm caught between two men- Orson and his father. "Amory, just go," Orson instructs me, and I follow that instead, quickly darting out before I hear Orson's father's words as the maid opens the main door for me.

"You think this girl of yours is gonna stick around with all that poison inside of you?" There's a derisive snort, and Orson doesn't answer. I can see him still stinging from the last remark, teeth-gritting at his father's words.

"Ten thousand says you'll get her killed by next week." 

-