The thing about friendships in the Elite world is that most of them aren't real. Friendships in this glitzy-glam world are more fragile and sheer than a slip dress from Calvin Klein. Friendship in this world is buying matching Hermes scarves, popping champagne bottles at celebrity parties, globe-trotting in each other's private jets, marathon shopping at Barneys and Saks, and showcasing unbreakable loyalty to each other...all while secretly resenting each other from behind their backs.

Georgina's been reluctant in my attempts to coax her into my friendship. I understand why she's hesitant to trust me. After all, I am Orson's most recent ex-girlfriend. But I have a plan to change all that.

Georgina's been hanging with our small exclusive crew but not because she wanted to, it was out of desperation to seem like she has a crew to depend on. We'd play nice with her for her week with her. Parker calls it the "not-fun" phase of my plan. We'd invite Georgina to foot massages, cryotherapy, manicures. It does take her a while for her to warm up but when she eventually does, I ask Nadine and her underlings to do all the secret pranks we had planned.

For when she had gym with Parker, I ordered them to change her expensive coconut milk shampoo with purple hair dye so her blonde curls got all stained. Seeing her cry with purple hair on VieuxRiche made Parker and I cry with laughter over cocktails at Nitecap. Or destroying all her textbooks so she'll get in trouble with all the teachers. Or having an Elite all-girls sleepover at Nadine's and purposely uninviting Georgina to it. Little things like that. It's petty, small acts. Nothing too embarrassing yet. Parker keeps whispering in my ear, pestering me for my big reveal. I tell her to wait for it.

But Orson cornered me in the library before I can even do anything remotely damaging.

"I know you did this," Orson says, thrusting his phone into my face as I'm writing notes for Latin during my study period. The phone reveals Georgina coming out of gym class with purple-dye stained blonde hair.

I act annoyed. "What?"

"This has you and Parker written all over it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Orson's blue eyes glow with anger. Anger simmers below the surface, hot to the touch, even in the silence between us. "The little pranks, the fake-friend...wow, Carmen taught you well."

A harsh laugh sputters out of my throat. The librarian hushes me from a distance. I lower my voice, "Orson, I honestly have no time to mess with you and your girlfriend. I told you, I'm happy for you. Georgina's lovely," I clasp my hands together and let a wicked smile play over my lips, "And if I wanted to mess with Georgina, believe me, she'll be gone by now."

Orson narrows his eyes and he takes the seat opposite of me. "See, that's the thing, Amory. That's your favorite game to play. You act like you don't care but I know you do. You act like you never wanted me and yet..."

He trails off.

"You're delusional, Orson. Delusional." I say and start to pack my things to move from him. He grabs my hand, stopping me.

"Little innocent Amory," he tuts, "You like to act you're a little saint but you're a troublemaker, aren't you?"

I paint him a coy look. "I thought you liked that."

His phone beeps in his hand. He reads the notification. Blood drains from his face. I repress the satisfaction pooling in my stomach. The accomplice I've hired off the Dark Web has sent the text I've ordered her to send. And what impeccable timing too. Since he got the text in front of me, he'll never put together the idea it was me.

Catching the shock and fear on his face, I play the concerned martyr. "Did something happen?" I crane my head to look at his text but he hides it from me instantly.

"It's...it's nothing. I got to go."

-

The accomplice I hired pretending to be Carlotta, texting Orson threatening text messages from the grave never met me. This is good because it leads less of a trace of this whole plan to me. The person I've hired is some desperate wannabe actress attending Julliard wanting some fast cash to speed up her acting career. For the right price, she's willing to do whatever I asked her to do and not ask questions. Her fee is not cheap but it's worth it, I tell myself, as I scrape another ten thousand dollars in bitcoins to pay into her account.

The texts alone are just ten thousand dollars a week but they're worth it. Since I'm no longer Orson's girlfriend, I have no inner access to him and I can't torture him from the inside. So haunting him with memories of his past mistake is the best way I can think of right now while I work on Georgina.

Georgina is a difficult case. She hasn't really warmed up to me yet. She sits at our table in school but her smiles are guarded and her conversations are surface-level. She's only hanging out with us out of desperation, not by choice. I need a way to make Georgina want to be my friend, not the other way round. I need a way for her to want my loyalty.

So I hunt around her Facebook and Instagram for inspiration. I notice how Georgina loves and breathes and adores fashion. Pictures of her flaunting her influence can be seen at London and Paris Fashion Week, having lunches with designers at Mariage Frères and Davé, and dinners with socialites at Le Grand Véfour and Les Ambassadeurs. And with New York Fashion Week quickly descending upon us, my mind begins to speculate.

There's one fashion party that's the most coveted in New York. It's the Couture Benefit. Celebrities, start-up business owners, artists, socialites, bored heiresses, and some of the most important people in fashion will be in attendance. Rumour has it, the party boasts private fashion shows from Bouchra Jarrar and Alexis Mabille and Prada goodie bags. The problem? An invite is harder to score than sex with the Pope. But thanks to the skills Kai Hong has bequeathed me at our latest meeting, getting invites shouldn't be a problem.

In less than five minutes, I'm able to hack into the Couture Benefit's mainframe and add myself to the guest list, along with the option to bring a plus one. When the invite is emailed to me, I make sure to take a screenshot and post it on my story with the caption:

My aunt just scored me an invite to the Couture Benefit with a plus one. Who wants to come along?

Sure enough, every clout-hungry social-climbing attention-seeking Elite on the Upper East Side floods my DMs, begging me to take them along. I ignore my phone, put on a loose t-shirt and jeans, and head to the Four Seasons for my spa appointment.

The trap has been set and now all I need to do is wait for my victim to take the bait. So I decided to give myself a little treat.

With my ploy to scare Orson and Georgina causing all these complications, I can see the stress starting to take a toll on my body and make me look less pretty. Dark circles are starting to develop under my eyes and acne breakouts are appearing in small spots across my forehead.

You need to take care of yourself, I tell myself. And it's true. So the minute I come out of the Four Seasons, I feel taut, loose, and glowing. I just had a lemongrass body wrap, an 80-minute massage, and a Kissed by the Sun tanning treatment, all in a row. The pampering has made me feel less stressed and when I turn on my phone, Georgina hits me back with a reply to my story.

georginacarltonofficial: omg!!! how did u get in????

amoryscout98: my aunt is close friends with oscar de la renta. she gave it as a late christmas present.

georginacarltonofficial: that's insane omg. I'm so jealous

I take a deep breath. Here goes all or nothing.

amoryscout98: you should totally come with me! could use a champagne buddy

georginacarltonofficial: omg!!!! are you sure? You're positive????

amoryscout98: of course b x let me know your address so my driver could pick you up next weekend.

You might ask me how it's so easy to climb up the ranks of the Elite, to ensnare Georgina and put them all under in my spell. I'm lucky enough to be born in a family that enables me to have some wealth but I was never invited to these parties, to the circle. I was some uncool, unseen nobody in a private school. But I did grow up in this world and saw something others didn't. I look into the soul of New York and recognize that if you distract people with shiny objects, exclusive party invitations, with large wads of cash, with the indicia of wealth. If you show them the money, they will be virtually unable to see anything else. And the thing is: It's so easy.

Just throw a pretty smile on it, flash them a hundred-dollar bill, and anybody could be yours.

-

The Couture Benefit starts at 9 pm and it's being held at the Whitehot Gallery downtown in Chelsea, which is just a ten-minute ride from Georgina's East Seventy-second Street townhouse.

I'm still getting ready! Just come on up and wait here, the doorman will let you up. Georgina messages me when I tell her that I and my driver are already downstairs. Sighing, I inform my driver, Nicholas, to just go round and round the block until Georgina and I are ready to head to the party. I slip him a fifty for his extra time before I exit out of the car.

Just for you to understand how influential and loaded Georgina's family is, she has a house in Manhattan. A feat that's pretty much impossible for the rest of the Elite. While all of us are pretty comfortably ensconced in our penthouse apartments, nothing beats living in an actual house with an entire wing of one's own and a back garden with a fountain and cherry trees in it, within walking distance of Serendipity 3 and Barneys.

I shake my head as the maid leads me into the grand foyer, with its checkerboard floor and a sweeping double staircase. I notice a cream-colored envelope beside the Spode china milk jug of white roses on the side table of the foyer. The envelope had a big angry red sign on it that says: EVICTION NOTICE.

Oh my God, I think to myself. No fucking away.

But before I could even take a second look at the letter, three golden-haired Pekingese run into the room, their high-pitched yaps echoing loudly against the marble.

"Pablo, Monet, Degas, no!" Georgina's voice commands from the top. She's descending down the staircase, gleaming, and I am once again reminded that in terms of the looks department, I will never measure up to Georgina.

Her hair's this pale gold color I try so hard to achieve by spending four hours in the hair salon on the top floor of Bergdorf Goodman getting my highlights done. But Georgina's natural, effortless. I scrutinize her outfit and immediately pick apart every item. Her gold heels are handmade in Capri by Da Costanzo. Her white patent-leather clutch is vintage Courrèges. Her gold Etruscan-style cuff bracelet with the facing lion heads is Lalaounis. Her outfit isn't extremely Avant-garden but is chic and polished- silk embroidered Alexis Mabille white peasant blouse with slim black cigarette pants.

"Babies, be nice," Georgina says warningly to her three dogs, bending down to gesture them towards her. Like clockwork, the yapping dogs switch their attention from me to her.

"They're so cute," I remark.

"They're a little grumpy because they're so jet-lagged at the moment."

I blink, not sure if I heard right. "They're...jetlagged?"

"Yes, they just came from the jet. My mom flew them on the plane to see a famous dog psychic in California."

What?

"Anyway," Georgina says as she's assessing the tea-length gown from its reflection in the rococo mirror leaning against the wall, "I love your outfit! Especially the top, that color against your tan? Revolutionary."

I look down at the clothes I've picked out for the event: high-waisted cream silk trousers, an iridescent orange blouse with billowing organza sleeves, my trademark Chanel gold belt, and a pair of oversize champagne pearl earrings that dresses up the whole look. "Thank you," I flush, "We should really get going."

"Oh of course!"

My mind is swirling at the eviction notice I see sitting in the foyer. Is Georgina Carlton of the Carlton Hotels broke?

It could be the reason why all of the sudden she reignited a passion for her former billionaire boyfriend. There must be some trouble happening, so bad to the point where Georgina's willing to swallow her pride, trudge back to Manhattan and ask Orson to take her back. Hmm...

"I'm so excited!" Georgina squeals as we skip out of my house and into the back of the limo I've ordered.

The gallery is swarming with paparazzi and celebrities the minute we arrive. The door of my Benz opens and Georgina's long bare, perfectly shapely legs emerge, sporting those gold sandals. Then the rest of her pour of the car to a burst of flashbulbs and excited shouts: "Georgina! Georgina! Georgina Carlton!"

Georgina, a natural, takes a few steps to let me come out before giving her best over-the-shoulder smirk. Shutters click furiously. "You guys should meet my friend, Amory."

Being an Elite and Orson's girlfriend for two weeks condition me properly for mass attention on me at all times. I've come used to the fact that I'll attract numbers and people's stares and whispers, simply because this is the character I need to become to be part of this world. But nothing could've prepared me for the moment I step out of the car and lightbulbs are blinding me as I shoot the crowd my most alluring, picture-perfect smile.

I hold my head high and pivot my toe in my Louboutins. Georgina and I pose next to each other, like two blonde sisters.

Flashes- dozen of them- explode in bursts of brilliant light as we make our way up to the gallery. "Georgina, what are you wearing?" one of them asks and she ignores them, turning me to say instead.

"I like to keep them guessing a little bit," she shares with me. "It leaves a little mystery, you know."

I suddenly understand Georgina's reason for not needing to be friends with me, even though Parker and I have engineered the whole female population of Kensington to shut her down. It's because Georgina isn't an It Girl like Carmen is, ruling a school with an iron fist with a fear of anybody overstepping her rules. It's because Georgina defies the It Girl status by being everything she's not supposed to be. She's not a straight-A student, she's not a rule-abiding Christian girl and she's not gonna marry the same white-buttoned down, suit and tie wearing Wall Street banker. She's a true It-Girl, never needing anyone to make her It because she already is It. Her name is known, by everyone who's anyone. Her photos will always be on Page 6, her name will always be on top of your invite list and the more notoriety she gains the bigger her fame.

A line of French waiters in black Napoleon-collared jackets welcomes us with French Blonde cocktails served in vintage Lalique stemware. Everywhere I look, the gallery is full of influential, artsy-type people in couture, drinking free martinis and admiring notable art on the walls- Warhols, Picassos, and Bacons.

French pop music bubbles out of invisible speakers. Photographers and media people from Art Forum, Vogue, W, Harper's Bazaar, and the New York Times flock to us, asking questions about who I am and my relationship with Georgina, how we meet, and all that.

After five minutes of Georgina answering questions and me being blinded by the flashes of the camera, Georgina excuses us and drags me to the bar. "Wow, is a night out with you always like this?" I joke.

She shrugs, "Being a Carlton has its perks, I guess."

Ask her about the letter but subtly. "Oh, I imagine. So how come you're back in New York all of the sudden? I ask innocently as we stop at an absurdly well-appointed bar with a patio overlooking the garden courtyard outside where guests mingle around the massive fashion show set-up.

"Oh, my Dad. He wants the whole family back together, I guess." She waves down a bartender and orders us two tequila shots. She grins as she hands me the other one, clinks it with me, and together, we down it. The liquid tastes like gasoline going down, making me wince as I squeeze the lime down my mouth. It hits my tongue, pungent and acidic.

"Cocktails, ladies?" The bartender asks us kindly.

I look at Georgina. I could get her drunk. My tolerance for alcohol is iron-clad. "I'll have a Moscow Mule."

"Negroni, please," Georgina says.

"Anyway, what's the situation with Orson like?"

Georgina eyes me—the perfect skin on her forehead scrunches. "Isn't that weird?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he's your ex. Like...are you finding it weird?" Georgina watches me carefully, like waiting for a reaction.

I laugh lightly. "Georgina, Orson, and I were never really dating. Honestly, it was just part of a deal of a stupid bet. You know how he is."

The expression on her face tells me she didn't. Huh. I wonder if Georgina ever really got to know the real Orson. The dark, scheming Orson that I know. I think Orson likes Georgina because she's untouchable. She has that It Girl, Ice Queen factor to her, and the fact that she's always running from him, saying no to him makes him want her even more. And when she ended things with him, it broke something in him. She made the most powerful boy in New York feel powerless. So he grabs for power and dominance every chance he gets.

He changes into something darker, hungrier, fully aware of his cold blue eyes and even colder heart that makes him renowned for leaving a trail of broken hearts all over the tri-state area. A diplomat's daughter at Constance once famously became so obsessed that she attempted to overdose on Benadryl just to get his attention.

"Orson and I were never real," I explain to her, pressing on, "I lost a bet, in which the consequences were to date him for a month. I was never really into him, to be honest. I'm kinda more into..." I trail off and the light in Georgina's eyes sparkle.

"Oh my God, who!"

I sigh. "I literally can't tell you. It's big...like if someone knew who it was, I'd be dead."

Georgina plays with the black steel straw of her Negroni. "Come on, your secret's safe with me."

Time to plant a few bombs. "Okay, okay, I'll tell you," I laugh, leaning in and whispering in her ear. I watch her eyes widen. Her jaw drops. I retreat back.

And watch them detonate. 

-

please vote + comment, it'll mean the world to me!