"You lost, fair and square," Orson whispers in the dark of the Presidential Suite of the Wynn.

"Stop gloating," I whinge but I let it end in a playful squeal as he kisses my collarbone and my neck. The light flashes on and reveals the room.

The bottles of champagne at the game and the three lines of coke I've done in the men's bathroom with Orson have me feeling giggly and loose. He's leading me towards the bed. I'm marveling at the suite, which is a decorator's dream: walls covered with pale blue vintage wallpaper and contrasted with vibrant gold accessories- the matching end tables on either side of the California king bed- and lacquered white accents. The color scheme is bold and glamorous—perfect for the types of people who are willing to spend five thousand dollars a night to stay there.

"We don't have to do this though if you don't want to," Orson says solemnly, setting me down on the bed. He tucks in a loose blond curl behind my ear.

"No, a deal is a deal." I begin to unbutton the last few buttons of his shirt and began to trace circles around his navel. "I always hold my end of the bargain."

I kiss him deeply, letting myself enjoy what everyone adores about him. I think part of the allure of Orson Calloway is how heartbreaking he is. 

You're always going to have to endure the stares of other girls, the way they flutter their eyelashes at him, flirt, and tease. You're always going to hear other girls talk about his tight physique and his broad shoulders. You're always going to have to compete and deal with all that attention; that itself is heartbreaking because you know you can never really have him. 

If I want him to believe in my facade, I know some of the things I fake have to be real. At least in the physical sense of it. So as I dove deeper into Orson's touch, I let my fears and hatred melt away and lose myself in the moment.

-

When I exit out of the lobby of my Upper East Side apartment on Monday morning, Hadley points out a surprise waiting for me. "Orson is here." She elbows me to look across the street. Orson is looking crisp in his Kensington uniform, leaning against his shiny silver McLaren.

"I'm gonna go," I tell her and she nods.

I cross my arms against my Kensington blazer. Orson is holding two Starbucks cups. "Hazelnut latte, almond milk, and no sugar?"

"How did you know?" I ask suspiciously as I sip it.

Orson opens the car door on the passenger side for me. "I ask Carmen." Good. I think.

I narrow my eyes. "I'm only doing this because I hold to my word."

Orson smirks. "Sure." And I slide into the car.

His car seats are black leather and crisp, cold as my skirt hikes up and I feel the on-skin contact. He leans in all of a sudden. I look at him weirdly. "What?"

"Can I get a kiss?"

I roll my eyes and lean in, letting his mouth occupy my mouth. He cups my chin, drawing me in, and at the corner of my eyes, a flash that looks like it comes from a camera phone goes off outside of the car. I snap my head out of the kiss and spot a couple of girls wearing Kensington blazers running off into an alley. "Fucking noobs," I growl at them as if they could hear me.

"Oh please, don't pretend that shit won't be good for your reputation," Orson laughs, pulling me close. He sweeps me up in a kiss again. I let his tongue roam the insides of my mouth for a solid thirty seconds before pushing him off.

"We got to get to class," I remind him, removing his hand from my inner thigh crawling towards my Agent Provocateur underwear.

He scoffs, "Boring."

"Please, I'm sure you want to pull up to school and show me off as your brand new conquest. Make sure the world knows I'm finally yours."

The corners of his lips unfurl into a snide smirk. "Well if you're so ready to make sure the whole world knows you're now my girlfriend, let's get to it then."

I didn't say anything. I just purse my lips and look out the window as Orson press hard on the gas of his sports car. It's not long before the view of my Brownstone apartment becomes replaced with the chrome and silver of Manhattan city. The streets are alive with morning rush hour; individuals of corporate America bustling about, carrying cups of coffee and briefcases. I breathe in deep with the tremors of the living city. Seeing the way the crowd moved and the cars honked brought back a deep sense of nostalgia for my hometown. 

After being away in the attention-hungry snake dens of Hollywood for so long, it came to my realization that you couldn't find a more different caliber of people in each city. Californians were nice but not kind, and New Yorkers were kind but not nice. The Elite, however, had proven to be neither. 

As soon as I walk through the courtyard of Kensington, everybody's eyes are on me. I'm so glad I've visited my hairdresser yesterday because my hair has been newly treated with keratin, leaving it shiny and gleaming, and the new Tatcha face cream I've bought at Saks has left my skin with a pearly sheen and a healthy glow. My school uniform is crisp and ironed and I'm pairing it with my lucky pair of Alaia ankle boots, to give me an extra bit of confidence and height. Orson is still taller than me despite my heels, towering over me with his broad 6'3 frame. His arm rests on my shoulders as we grace the entrance. 

"Oh my God," a petite dark-haired girl, who I vaguely remember at a party once or twice, whispers to her equally pretty friend, at the water fountain by the entrance when I walk in, coffee in hand and Orson in another.

"Holy shit, Orson finally did it! He finally got you in his bed," Hanif laughs, high-fiving Orson when he sees us. I flash him the finger.

"It's not like that, I just agreed to some dates on that stupid bet. Harmless, casual things," I huff, narrowing my eyes at him.

Orson smirks, "Baby, don't say it like that. We're dating."

Hanif laughs even harder. "Holy fuck, Carmen's going to freak."

I stiffen and Orson could see the color draining from my face. Hanif stalks off, catching a conversation with a tall, buff, captain-of-a-sports-team type. Orson pulls me close and puts his mouth onto my ear. "Relax. My sister will love it when she finds out we're dating."

I wrestle myself out of his group and blink my silk eyelash extensions at him. "I don't think she will," I admit nervously, "And we're not dating. I lost a bet, Orson, and I'm just dealing with the consequences."

"Which includes dating me for a month. So...we're dating," Orson concludes, takes my hand, and leads me into the hallway of our school.

Envy is invoked in every girl's stare as I cruise through the school on Orson's arm, draped on him like an accessory. They whisper and point but after a few months as an Elite, I've learned how to appreciate and bask in the attention of all eyes on me. I appear unfazed as Orson escorts me to my locker so I could get ready for the first period.

My phone vibrates against my chest inside the pocket of my Kensington blazer. A text from Carmen pops up from my notifications, linking the screenshotted image of me and Orson kissing in his car posted this morning on VieuxRiche's Instagram page. WTF IS THIS??? MEET ME IN THE BATHROOM NOW!

"Speak of the devil and she shall appear," I mutter.

Orson's eyebrows furrow. "What is it?"

"Carmen. She knows. She's asking me to meet her in the bathroom."

Orson's mouth purse. "You can handle her."

I give Orson a tiny eyebrow raise. "I can handle your sister just fine. I don't need the double-check."

I flee to the third-floor bathroom, near the history classroom for seniors. I find Carmen waiting for me, casually applying her MAC Pinkarat Lustreglass lip gloss on her pouty lips when I arrive. "I can explain," I say.

"I hope you can." Carmen furiously whips around with her arms crossed against her favorite belted black cashmere Loro Piana cardigan. "First Luciana, then Helena Marx is back in town, then Parker betrays me and now you're dating my brother. What is happening?"

"Nothing! Orson, and I are not dating!"

Carmen's lips thin into a line. "Then why the fuck are your lips are all over him this morning?"

"It's a bet! You know how Orson has been trying to get me in his bed for the last five months and he and I made a little poker bet involving the fact that if I lose, I would have to date and sleep with him for a month. I lost so..."

"You're now dating and sleeping with him," Carmen finishes for me, exasperated. She rubs her temple. "Orson and his fucked-up sex games."

"But that's it! I promise once my monthly sentence is up,  believe me, Orson and I will be over faster than last season's Chloe handbags," I beg. "There are no feelings involved! I'm only with him because I made a bet and I lost."

Carmen seems hesitant so I persuade further.

"Orson is just doing this to salvage his pride. He can't stand the idea of one girl being able to resist his charms."

"Well, I guess since now that Parker is officially our enemy, Luciana's out of the picture and you're 'dating' my brother that makes you my right-hand man," sighs Carmen. "And that means...well, how would you like to be my campaign manager?"

"I would love to!"

"Okay great, I guess we'll start after school. Come over to mine for martinis and discussing poster ideas?"

"Sounds divine," I coo and Carmen squish me into a hug. I let a breath of relief and allow the sweet scent of Carmen's Frederic Fekkai Apple Cider clarifying shampoo to choke me. How close was I to Carmen cutting the cord with me, huh?

"Oh and Amory?"

"Yeah?"

Carmen is back to touching up her makeup. She's dusting a light coat of Chanel's setting powder onto her already flawless complexion. "Be careful with my brother. You say there are no feelings involved but...things could change and I like you and I really don't want you to get hurt."

-

After-school plans of drinking dirty olive martinis and brainstorming slogans for Carmen's Homecoming Queen campaign went swell. It's like she was never mad at me this morning. She even made fun of the comments written underneath the paparazzi shot of me and Orson making out.

"Congrats Amory, you're on Page 6!" She cheered.

"Shut up!" I cackled, willing myself to look embarrassed as I sipped on the gin and olive juice.

Eventually, she had to rush off for ballet practice and I was walking out of Carmen's front hall full of impenetrable modern Brazilian art and ancient Chinese sculptures when I bump into Orson coming out of the penthouse's private lift.

"Hi baby," he greets with that smirk of his.

"I'm not your baby."

"Oh but you agreed to be for a month."

"What do you want?" I snap, shouldering my blood-orange-colored Jimmy Choo Treasure Chest hobo.

"What's with the attitude?"

I realize my aggression and simmer down, especially since I'm supposed to put down my pride and be his obedient, dutiful girlfriend as part of our bet's agreement. "Nothing. Just Carmen and her micromanaging me and this campaign."

Orson laughs, "Parker is against her and now you're Carmen's second-in-command. I don't know how you do it, Scout, but this whole world and Kensington is under your palm, and three months ago you were just some West Coast nobody."

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

Orson's infuriating smirk widens, becoming cheeky. Teeth poke through his pink, plump lips, lips I remember kissing and ravishing just the other night. "You're interesting, Scout. But why don't you join your darling boyfriend in his room and fulfill your end of the bet over and over again."

"I hate you."

He edges closer and slides a hand onto my slim size-2 waist. He's so close I could see his skin is paler beneath his chin. How he has one single freckle near his clavicle. How his Adam's apple cast the faintest shadow on his neck.

"Funny, your body says different." He rips my skirt up and plunges his fingers inside my underneath. I gasp like a squeeze toy. He removes his fingers, which are slick with a substance.

"I hate you," I spit in his face and before I know it, I'm diving on top of him, attacking all six feet and three inches of his perfect, raven-haired, glittering-sapphire-eyed, eighteen-year-old boyness. He smells like Downy and the L'Occitane sandalwood soap the maid stocked his bathroom with.

Orson's hands are all over me and his mouth sucks on my neck. I'm panting hard as I undo his pants. "Not here," he grunts, glancing at the lift as if waiting for his parents to pop out. "My bedroom."

"What? Come on, here's so hot," I whisper sultrily. My hair's all messed up, tumbling down all over my face in that sexy bedhead way. I pull MY jeweled and beaded emerald green Emanuel Ungaro peasant shirt over MY head as slowly as possible, knowing that his eyes are glued to my full breasts, perched inside the lace lingerie he had bought me from Agent Provocateur all those weeks ago. His eyes are peeled on every curve of my body, enchanted, wide-eyed, in lust. "Don't tell me the great playboy Orson Calloway is afraid of fucking in his own hallway."

That's what Orson likes. A challenge, a goad, a bet; for the boy who has it all, nothing quite turns him on so much so as something he can't do or can't have.

Orson answers my challenge with a deep, fervent kiss. He unzips my skirt and pins me down on the cold marble floor. I close my eyes and bury my hands into his hair, losing myself in him. My last thought as I drowned in his ocean was to make sure I had a life preserver to float myself back up to shore once this vendetta is over. 

-