A blossoming friendship with Georgina Carlton has me experiencing luxuries and privileges I never imagine I would get. Like after school on Monday, we took a red-eye to her family-owned palatial resort's spa at Lake Como. We decided to work off the stress of advanced calc by getting jade and lotus massages, where they buffed your body with lotus seeds and crushed jade and then give you an intensive deep-tissue rubdown, and caviar facials. I walked out of the resort, feeling like a decade younger. Or drinks at an exclusive members-only club called Bungalow.

The new friendship has had everyone's eyes on me. Tabloids and magazines published photos of me and Georgina at Couture Benefit and VieuxRiche has dedicated a whole Instagram grid of us being sighted on the streets together with the hashtag #blondeambitions.

"So you're now Georgina's best friend, huh?" Parker asks me in between the periods of second and third. We're in the second-floor bathroom, near the science lab. Everybody knows it's our bathroom- the one we used to talk in private, gossip and scheme. Underlings know best to keep out when we're in.

"She thinks we're best friends."

"Ooh, interesting. So phase one of your plans is officially completed, what's phase two?"

"It's on the way. Phase Two will be at Hanif's party this weekend."

"Oh, and what exactly is it?"

I give her a coy look. "It's a secret. But I do need your help. Remember that time we filmed Bailey and Madison getting busted for shoplifting?"

Parker laughs, "Oh god, I do. That was epic."

"Well, does the AV club still owe you a favour?"

There's a glint in Parker's eyes. "No, but I'm sure they could be persuaded into helping me."

"Good. I need them this weekend at Hanif's. Make sure their cameras are on auto-focus, I'm making a movie everybody will be dying to see."

"You're terrifying." The way Parker says it, it sounds oddly like a compliment. Like she's horrified and impressed at the same time.

"Terrifyingly brilliant," I amend, smiling at my reflection in the mirror. The mirror shows me a girl with long, wheat-colored blond hair wrapped in a Pucci print headscarf and a Prada cropped mohair sweater over my Kensington uniform of a plaid kilt and peacock blue Charles Jourdan ankle boots- the official uniform of an Elite.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side," Parker tells me.

"I think you know better than to ever try."

-

Parker and I decided to get ready together for Hanif's cocktail party at his penthouse suite.

The thing about Hanif is that he pretty much lives alone. His parents are Malaysian tycoons, renowned for building pretty much half of the skyline in Kuala Lumpur. Since his parents were located there, they still wanted Hanif and his sister- Nadya- to be able to attend some of the world's priciest and elite private schools in the world, which means they attended Kensington as international school students. So they purchase a penthouse for him and his sister to live in while they attend school.

Nadya, Hanif's older sister, is a fashion design graduate at Parsons with a penchant for disappearing off to Paris or Switzerland on week-long shopping expeditions with her socialite girlfriends. Neither does she tattle-tale on the insane parties and ragers Hanif throws occasionally, turning a blind eye to the dusting of cocaine on the coffee table or the empty bottles of Cristal piling up in their recycling bin.

I decided to put on a little white dress for the cocktail party. For tonight's scheme, it's the perfect dress for what I need to do. It's not relatively skin-barring but it's sexy in the way the linen skims over my body, tight enough to drive imaginations wild but not too tight to give a wrong impression. The linen is slightly sheer, revealing my newly pieced tiny gold nipple rings and diamond-and-ruby navel ring. I've paired the dress with a gold belly chain, looped loosely around my waist like a belt. 

Parker and I do the routine we used to do when the whole squad was around, where we spend half the night getting dressed together—swilling gin-and-tonics, dancing around in our underwear, trying on crazy outfits. Parker is paying extra attention to how I look for tonight. She orders us two Korean spa facialists from our favourite place to scrub us down in a hot Dead Sea salt bath to make our skin glowing and pink. As we prance around in silk purple Versace robes, my nails are buffed and painted a light eggshell white while Parker gets a blowout done.

Parker's a little music-obsessed so she made a playlist for us to play on the way there. She's blasting The Weeknd's newest single, getting us in the mode as we sing along.

"Charlie, let's keep this between us." A crisp $100 bill materializes in between Parker's manicured fingers, which are a shade of fuchsia, and her driver nods.

Parker then reaches into the cups of her oleander pink tea-length dress, pulls out a baggie of white powder. "You first," she hands it to me. Using the long tip of my acrylic nails, I dip my baby finger in and scoop up a bit. Then I bring it towards my nose and snort it, the powder hitting me sharply.

Since exams are coming up at Kensington, Hanif decides he wants to throw a "little cocktail party" for our group this weekend. When Parker and I are whisked up to the roof terrace of Hanif's penthouse, we discovered it was anything but "little"- which is just to be expected.

The penthouse happens to be packed with an extremely glam crowd and decorated like a high-tech product launch. Giant obelisk topiaries festoons with lights line the parapet, an elaborate stage is set up on one end, and along one side of the terrace stands half a dozen celebrity chefs manning different food stations.

As we cross past the entrance, we're immediately flanked by two cocktail servers with trays of glimmering cocktails. I take one and sip, noting the tequila, cranberry liqueur, allspice dram, apple, and lemon. I realize it's Hanif's signature cocktail- it's the one everyone gets when they visit him.

"Parker, Amory, you guys came!" Hanif cheerfully pecks them on the cheek by the entrance.

"Of course," Parker exclaims sweetly.

"What happened to a "little" party?" I ask Hanif with a snort, glancing at the massive throngs of the crowd pouring shots and drinking heavily from champagne bottles. Girls in short mini dresses pass me by, staring at me and Parker enviously and noting our outfits. I don't pay them any mind, I just shoot the occasional aloof smile. Being part of the Elite is feeling like a VIP celebrity: being so precious and desirable, you had to be on a waiting list just to get near me.

"Well ladies, to be fair, I thought we needed some much-needed blowing off of steam in this tragic time so be sure to take full advantage of a bar that never runs out!"

Parker laughs, "Oh Hanif, please never change."

Parker and I take the time to inspect the party. Hanif made sure the invite list for this party is airtight and this affair seems even more over the top than usual—every rich private school kid within the private-jet flying radius is here, and there are far too many outsize egos filling up space. Sure enough, I spot Orson and Aidan smoking cigars by the railing, conversing with two boys from Duke. I could see the stress of the texts from the unknown number affecting Orson in the way dark circles are heavy under his eyes. He looks noticeably thinner but even then, he's still more handsome than ever. Black devil in a suit.

"You're right, Georgina's not here tonight," Parker murmurs to me, noticing the stunning blonde's absence.

"I told you," I remember Georgina telling me she would be in Switzerland visiting her grandma this weekend, which is why I chose this particular event to act tonight on Orson. "The AV Club is all ready, right?"

"They filled up Hanif's whole guestroom with cameras and mics as you asked. Now, what are you gonna do?" Parker asks gleefully, hungry for the details of my plan for Georgina's downfall.

"Patience, Parker. You're already getting the exclusive viewing of a show everybody's waiting for. Now, I'm gonna get the footage of the lifetime. You go and enjoy this party, okay?"

I catch Orson looking at me from across the room. His blue eyes glow dark and angry when he sees me and I guess he just heard what I told Georgina last weekend. Just like I wanted, Georgina fed Orson the bait I wanted him to eat.

He moves his way towards me, interrupting his conversation with Aidan and the two other boys.

"Amory."

I tilt my face towards him, let him watch as my mouth hovers around the rim of my glass. I notice his eyes tracing every detail of my body in my white dress. "Yes, Orson? Having a good night?"

"We need to talk."

I give him a weird look. "I'm kind of busy, right now?"

As per my instructions, Parker butt in. "If Amory doesn't want to talk to you, she doesn't have to, Orson."

"Amory." There's now warning in his tone.

Annoyance flashes over my face. "I'll be right with you," I coo at Parker and shoot her a wink.

I let Orson lead me into Hanif's spacious penthouse, bringing me to a more quiet spot from the crowd outside. He brings me to an empty guestroom, which is fragrant with notes of mint, lily of the valley, and fabric softener. Moonlight streams through the window and spills across a perfectly made four-poster bed. A giraffe-print rug sits to its left, and an egg chair in the corner has a fur stole spread across its seats.

And then it just comes right out- the bald-faced lie I whisper into Georgina's ear, fully knowing it's a secret she'll divulge to Orson, a fake secret I know will rile him up the way I want it to.

"So Georgina told me you're thinking of asking Aidan out."

I act shocked. I cross my arms, pissed. "She told you that? It was supposed to be a secret."

"So it's true?"

His anger is so potent I could practically sense flames flashing in the black pupils of those glittering blue eyes. An ex-girlfriend, even a fake ex-girlfriend, crushing on Orson Calloway's best friend doesn't sit well in his stomach. A man with so much pride and ego is almost too easy to ensnare.

I purse my lips, take a packet of cigarettes from my purse and proceed to light it up. "Why do you care?" I accuse him and saunter over to the bed, only to sit by the edge and cross my legs. My skirt creeps up with the motion, revealing a garter and long black stockings. His eyes go right there and widen not with horror or disgust, but with what's definitely inappropriate lust.

It's funny what a good pair of black satin Manolos, a Brazilian bikini wax, and a generous slathering of Estée Lauder self-tanner can do to a man.

"I don't care." The way Orson says it like he's trying to convince himself rather than telling me.

"Sure, you don't." I stop to take a drag, before flicking it out the opened window. "Come on, Orson, you dragged me all the way here to have a conversation about the fact that I like your best friend clearly shows how you don't care. Yeah, I believe you."

Orson's eyes narrow. "Amory, I'm so fucking sick of the games you're playing."

"What are you talking about? You're just annoyed that your precious ego got hurt. You can't stand the fact that I'm the one girl who's not obsessed with you, can't you? Why don't you spend more of your time doing something worthwhile, like I don't know thinking about your girlfriend?"

Orson's expression turns livid. "This isn't about that!"

I stand up from the bed and get so close to him- all up in his face until I can see the dimples that are deep dens in his chiselled face. His biceps bulge when his arms cross, even in his dark grey Cesare Attolini suit. "Then what is it about?" I spit out.

Orson grabs me by the chin and smashes his mouth onto mine. Victory hums in my bones as his lips attack mine, our tongues playing the same games our minds like to play with each other. It's in these moments that even though my soul recoils at the thought of such repulsive hands being on me, I revel in what all the other girls find so attractive about him.

I pull him closer to me and we both collapse together on the bed, landing in a heap. His hands are ripping my dress, cupping my too-ample curves, fingers exploring until he tears the garters off. Right as he bends me over the bed, I catch the small beady black camera taped on the bed's canopy and grin into it as the camera records everything.

-

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