A week after Orson and I announce our status of dating comes Carmen's recital. As the days of Carmen's big day begin to drift closer, I see her less and less at school.

Since it's her first-ever debut as a junior principal dancer for her school, Carmen is spending over six hours a day at the dance studio making sure every leap and spin lands perfectly. Due to me secretly nicking her clothes and sewing them smaller, Carmen's plate is shrinking day by day. She doesn't even really touch food anymore. Yesterday, her tuna remained pretty much cold as she'd just cut it up and moved it around to different places on her plate.

"Good luck," I squeal, hugging her. Orson, Aidan- Carmen's boyfriend, and I have been allowed to visit her backstage as she warms up before the show.

I take a good look at her as I retract back. She's already in the white feathery bodice, which has a plunging back that highlights each protruding vertebrae and jutting collarbones. She looks positively green and sickly even with all the heavy stage makeup they've piled on her and I'm not sure if it's from nerves or the fact that she has barely eaten.

"Thanks, baby," Carmen laughs. She's sipping a grapefruit flavoured LeCroix with a straw; she tugs on it and the sound grates on me. She turns the Aidan and brightens when he showers her with a massive bouquet of hydrangeas- her favourite flowers- from her favourite florist off Madison Avenue and a box of Laduree macarons.

"Babe, here's a good luck snack."

Her eyes widen as he plops it at her dressing room table. "Oh my God, did you get the chocolate ones?"

He grins up at her. Their interactions are actually quite cute. While Orson is the Golden Boy, Aidan is his second in command, his trusted lieutenant and he and Carmen have known each other since they were little kids and have been pretty much dating since kindergarten. They were each other's big firsts- first kisses, first touches and rumour have it, first times. Aidan and Carmen have been so set in stone they're pretty much gospel. "Of course. I want you to have a little snack before you go up on stage and then after we have reservations at Bedoin."

"I love you." Carmen is a stone-cold bitch but there is a way she's so soft around Aidan; her intimidatingly beautiful sharp fox-like face melts and becomes buttery and suddenly she isn't so scary anymore.

"I love you too." He declares lovingly and I try my best not to roll my eyes.

"Anyway, the show is going to start soon and I'm going to have to get ready! Please, please enjoy the show," Carmen gives us three one last hugs and the show assistant ushers us out of her dressing room.

I turn my head back as we're leaving and out of the corner of my eye, I could see Carmen tossing the delicate blue box of Laduree macarons into the bin.

-

Carmen's ballet school is one for the over-privileged so naturally, the over-the-top affair takes place at the Koch theatre. It's a velvet round amphitheatre that seats over five thousand people with media from New York Post and the New Yorker rallying at front row seats, clamouring in excitement as Carmen Calloway, daughter of one of the richest men in the country, makes her debut as a principal ballerina for the company.

As one of the most promising dancers from her school, it's rumoured scouts from prestigious ballet companies like New York City Ballet and American Ballet Theatre will be watching their production of Swan Lake. And Carmen is, of course, the star. A role she and Parker have auditioned for, which she naturally usurped over Parker.

I float through the enormous theatre by weaving across the red velvet seats in a Dior Couture daffodil strapless gown with a striking see-through panel at the thigh. I'm holding Orson's hand, greeting other members of the Upper East Side elites from other schools.

Annabelle Mcleod, the unofficial Queen of Brearley, touches my arm when she sees me and beckons me into a hug. I've met her a few times at those Marymount Boys parties. "I love your dress, Amory!"

Girls in custom-made couture gowns and star-studded boys in tuxedos from all of Manhattan's most exclusive schools pass me by, brightening when they see me. Some stop and peck me on the cheek while the boys heartily bump their fists with Orson. I grin and wave and laugh, putting on my perfectly poised upper-echelon facade. I clink champagne glasses and discuss feeble gossip, feeling like a princess greeting her loyal subjects.

"Let's take our seats," Orson instruct me, leading me down the aisle. His hand is on the small of my back, tracing movements. I send him a sly look as if to say we're in public. He figures closer to me and brushes his mouth over my temple. That never stopped you before.

The memory of that night swims up to my mind. My face heats up and I turn my head coolly. My lips thin into a line and I focus on getting to our front-row seats, promptly ignoring Orson and diverting my attention to the stage.

The whole theatre darkens. Music blares from the orchestra and all of the sudden, the curtains reel back and reveal the stage being lit up. Everyone quietens down and soon become entranced with the performance unfolding before our eyes.

Carmen approaches the stage with a distinct sense of reverence. It's her church. Under the warmth of stage lights, twinkling like faraway stars above her, Carmen dazzles across the space with white feathers in her hair and white tulle haloing her waist. She's exquisite, in sync with the music, and her body glides across the stage as she throws herself into the motions. Her arms are elegant lines of muscle over her head and she smiles and beams at the audience, ensuring she looks perfect.

But even from here, I could tell she's exhausted. Her body is a total lack of embarrassing flab, long and lean and taut as the strings on my Prince titanium tennis racket. She's so wafer-thin I could almost see right through her.

The first two-act breezes by and before we all know it, it's Act 3 and it's time for Carmen to perform the Black Swan variation- also known as one of the most physically demanding performances known to ballerinas.

Carmen beckons to the stage in her Odile costume, enveloped in a black, feathery costume that connotes darkness and despair. She looks so powerful through every piqué, pirouette, and arabesque, floating through the air in graceful movements. Every arch of her neck is so swan-like and delicate, you almost wouldn't believe she's capable of covering up someone's murder.

Eventually, it comes to the make or break of the solo- the thirty-two fouettes. She steps into the first one up on her standing leg, strong through the hip. She's spinning and spinning and spinning, all perfect lines and perfect turns. I count them as she hits them- twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one and then-

The crowd gasps. I act the part too, eyes stretched wide, hand over my mouth. There is automatically pandemonium. Carmen's fellow dancers rush to her side. Dramatic music filling the space of the auditorium is cut short.

"She fell!"

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you shoot down a swan.

-

The next day at school everybody is buzzing with last night's news of Carmen's unfortunate collapse at her ballet. Rumours are swirling from left, right and corner. Some think she's secretly pregnant with Aidan's baby and had a miscarriage. Others are speculating she's taken way too many Adderall to help smooth her nerves and sharpen her focus for the performance.

The truth is that Carmen's eating disorder finally caught up with her and she has me to thank for that. Right after Carmen fell on stage, she had an overnight visit at the hospital. There, they've found how Carmen's body has whittled down to mere skin and bones. She's so starved, living on tea and Hydroxycut and cigarettes, barely building enough fuel and strength for her muscles to obey the commands that Ballet demands. So naturally, on her big debut as a Level 8 dancer, she's bound to fall apart.

Her family has taken matters into their own hands. She's shipped off to some rehabilitation facility in New Hampshire or whatever to manage her eating disorder under the 24/7 care of nutritionists and nuns. Whatever it is, it's the perfect milestone for my plan. I've gotten Carmen Calloway away from Kensington and the crown for Kensington is more available for the taking. Most importantly, Orson is now isolated from Carmen- the one person in the world who seems willing to do whatever it takes to protect him, even blackmailing her own friends into burying the body of a girl he has killed.

Without Carmen, Kensington's undisputed Queen, Orson is more vulnerable than ever.

I walk down the hallway of Kensington, my Tabitha Simmons heels clacking, my blond hair bouncing, and my plaid uniform skirt riding high on my thighs. My footsteps seem to march in time with the school's "between classes" classical music. And as I round the corner towards the cafeteria, the crowds part for me. You know how in movies someone says or does something inappropriate and the record scratches and there's dead silence all of a sudden?

That's what it's like when I step foot into the cafeteria.

"She was there when it happened," a girl whispers to her friend as I pass her. I move my head back to shoot her look and just like that, the gleeful smile of sharing gossip falls from her face and fear invites it in. That's one nice thing about being popular: just one move like that and people obey you without question.

"Amory," Parker says when I approach the table. "Oh my god, can you believe it?"

I shake my head. I had this composed indifference in my eyes, the cool, bored gaze I had perfected for living in this cold and gold-gilded world. Now I'm soft and pained, the right amount of sympathy."I know."

"What's gonna happen to her?"

"Orson told me that his parents are sending her to this eating disorder clinic in Connecticut. She'll be getting all the help she needs," I say simperingly. "It probably has been an issue for a while."

Parker nods, her eyelash extensions all dark and fluttery like wings of a butterfly. "Yeah, the director at our conservatory was pissed. Eating disorders are serious liabilities in ballet. You need to be healthy enough to dance. Carmen won't be able to come back till she's a healthy weight."

"It's for the best," I sigh. "Do you know who's now dancing the lead?"

Parker's pale cheeks are colour red. She plays with the trimming of the cashmere cardigan she wore over her school button up. "Um, I am since I'm her understudy."

I whistle. "Damn Parker, now I have to buy another ticket to see you perform."

"It's not that big of a deal," Parker huffs but I could hear the smile in her words. "Anyway, I have to go and set up the bake sale for my Homecoming Queen campaign. Do I have your vote?"

"Of course."

Parker beams as the corners of her ruby-red lips spread into a smile. With her ice-blonde lustrous hair, cobalt blue eyes, natural size 0 physique and unblemished luminous glowing skin, Parker is a shoo-in to be Carmen's replacement on Kensington throne. Pair that with her well-heeled parents, who were on the board of just about every big institution in the city, the fact that she lived in an enormous penthouse decorated by a famous decorator, with a view of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Central Park, Parker's position as Queen is good as gold.

I inspect her outfit and silently approve. While Carmen plays up the sexy sophisticated angles she's so famous for, Parker is a little more traditional with her little velvet black mules, Chloe satchel and Marc Jacobs pullover. Nonetheless, it's still enough to make sure Parker rules the school with an iron fist. It will frustrate Carmen to no end to watch her former best friend-slash-frenemy take her place as the next Queen of Kensington.

Until I find the right piece to knock her down, of course.

"Thanks, girl. Whatcha doing for winter break?"

I shrug and notice Orson entering the cafeteria from the other side. His piercing blue eyes meet mine as he and Hanif make their way to our usual lunch spot, which is the middle table. It's funny how when the school year started, the table was brimming with occupants- Hanif, Aidan, Phineas, Orson, Luciana, Parker and Carmen. Now there's only the boys and me.

"Not much. Maybe spending it with Orson," I say, watching Orson look at me. He's beckoning me to join him at the table. Parker follows my line of vision and smirks.

"Remember how you told me you would rather sleep with a snake than go anywhere near Orson?"

"Oh shut up. I already have him gloating about how I've submitted to his whims, I don't need you reminding me too."

"Whatever it is Amory, be careful. Carmen might seem to be the nastier of the Calloways but I promise you, Orson's the one you gotta watch for. He's a pretty boy but that's the only thing pretty about him," Parker warns me. "Being Carmen's best friend all these years has led me to see all the heartbreak and heartache that comes with falling for a Calloway. Be careful."

"I promise," I tell her, smiling thankfully at her. I don't let her know it's more of the other way round. Orson's the one that got to be careful.

-

Orson is pensively sipping on his glass of Scotch, sitting on a worn brown leather chair in the rec room of his penthouse on 52nd street when I walk in.

The rec room has oak wood panelling, an enormous stone fireplace and a slate floor that's heated by the copper pipes beneath it. Impressive racks of anders hung from the walls, taken from the deer and moose Orson's father have hunted himself. There's an oak bar stocked with aged Scotch and rare European brandies and a wine cellar that's only accessible by a trapdoor beneath the hand-woven Persian rug. An antique mahogany pool table with ornately carved mahogany legs and a red felt top stands in the centre of the room.

It's a week into the faux relationship Orson and I've wagered upon and I've barely made progress on how to crack the enigma that is Orson Calloway. Even when I'm so close to him, he remains hidden and secretive. I feel like I've unlocked a secret entrance just to find another locked door.

I check my face in the compact of my Dior blush. My eyebrows are tweezed to perfection, my lips are painted in a deep cherry shade I know suits me best, my skin is bronze and glowing from the salon and I'm wearing a diagonal-striped slip dress that slips over my slim, lean body like a glove.

Orson turns to look at me, giving my Gucci dress and black Prada heels a once over. He let his eyes linger on me a moment—it's hard not to—before turning back to the view of the city in front of him.

"Are you okay?" I ask again, even though he doesn't say anything. I tread again closer to him as if approaching a wounded animal.

For once, Orson has ditched the black-tie formal wear for jeans, a light blue oxford shirt and his fawn-coloured Huntsman summer blazer. His form is muscular and lean, broad-shouldered and hunkering over the Manhattan skyline like it's God. "I'm fine."

There's a tenseness in his voice that clips.

"Are you sure? You don't seem fine." I touch his shoulder, urging him to look at me. We lock eyes. Orson's eyelashes are coal-black, and there are tiny flecks of grey in his irises. I fiddle with the top button of his blazer. "You didn't even ask me to come over tonight like you always do."

Orson smiles wanly, a hint of his signature smirk bespoke onto his face. "You keep track of that?"

"Don't flatter yourself. I just know because it's you, being the manwhore that you are and wanting to get as much out as you can out of this stupid bet," I reply scornfully but he can hear the playfulness in my voice, which promptly caused him to tilt my chin up. I look at him, my eyes sleepy and slow but burning with fire. He kisses me slowly at first, then harder.

His hand skirts up to my thigh and I gasp. Before I know it, we collapse into the armchair and his hands are all over me. He pecks my neck, collarbone and chest; trailing all over my warm and soft skin. I can feel him smiling through his kisses. "You always act like you don't want me," he whispers when we break apart, the blueness of his eyes glowing even brighter with lust. "But you want me, don't you? You want me so so bad...That's why you came here, asking if I'm okay, because you care, Amory. I know you care about me."

I break apart from him, breathing hard and flustered. The strap of my dress has fallen past my shoulder, exposing the orange sorbet La Perla panty-and-bra set I'm wearing underneath. I lick my bottom lip, which is swollen, red and heavy.

"Look, I just asked...because it's not easy. Carmen's your sister and she just got sent away for an eating disorder. I know you don't like being treated delicately but clearly, this isn't super easy to deal with. Carmen's my friend too," I grow quiet.

"I just...I just think it's weird," Orson says.

"What?"

"How everything has just fallen off the rails."

I blink innocently and cock my head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"First Helena Marx returned, then Luciana's reputation becomes ruined and Carmen and Parker fell out...now this." He scrunches his eyebrows up and looks deep in contemplation. "Something feels off."

My heart is thumping so loud in my neck. "Don't be ridiculous, Orson. There's no...otherworldly force out there tampering with you guys. Carmen's probably had an eating disorder for a really long time; things like that just don't...happen."

Orson doesn't look convinced. "Yeah...maybe."

"Or maybe you're right," I shrug, "Maybe someone is out there fucking with you guys. I mean, do you know anyone that's out there to get you guys?"

Orson falls silent. I know his mind is tinkering, ticking through a long list of enemies that he's made over the years. I'm his sweetheart, smiling at his face and stroking his arm lovingly, while he has no idea that the person he's looking for is right here, coiled up on his lap.

"There might be a few," he admits quietly.

"Well, do you know where to start looking?"

"Not really." There's now a steely look in his eye.

I squeeze in closer to him, snuggling my face into the crook on his neck. "I can help you. And I'll stand by you, no matter what."

-