The atmosphere between the Elites seems to change overnight.

Hostility hang in the air when I arrived at my locker the next morning. Usually, Parker and Carmen will be talking, giggling with each other before the first period started but neither of them said a word to each other when I greeted them.

"Hey guys, what did you guys do yesterday after school?" I ask oh-so-casually, pretending to play dumb when I full well knew what happened.

Carmen stiffly glare at Parker, "Nothing much, just found out that there are some people who are so willing to stab you in the back."

Parker rolls her eyes and sips her Three Guys cold brew. "Get the fuck over yourself, Carmen. The one time in my life I decided to do something for myself and you suddenly think I'm pulling a Judas on you. If anything you're the selfish bitch here."

"Whoa whoa whoa," my eyes widen, "What happened? Why are you guys fighting?"

Carmen's mouth curls, like the sight of Parker annoyed her. She shoulders her red Valentino satchel bag and crosses her arms. "Ask her! She's the one who started this."

"I just said I didn't want to be your campaign manager and that I'm thinking of nominating myself! It's senior year and I've been your manager for the last three years! God, that's it!" Parker huffs.

"No that's not it!" Carmen furiously whispers, causing a cluster of freshmen Elite wannabes to tear their attention from their screens and look over. One of them starts to film us. Carmen notices and practically screech at them, "Scram freshers!"

They obey with no hesitation, fleeing down the hallway faster than you can say "Kylie Jenner is right outside right now. "

"Do whatever you want, I don't care," Carmen spits at her, "But you don't ever do anything that makes us look as if you're running against me! You're supposed to be my friend, not my enemy!"

"Not everything is about you, Carmen! God," Parker rub her forehead and slam her locket shut before storming off.

Carmen grits her teeth. "Bitch."

"You okay?" I offer sympathetically.

Carmen shakes her head. "God, I'm too pissed to even suffer through English lit now."

"Wanna ditch?"

Carmen nods, her eyes glazing with gratefulness. "Please."

We're almost second-semester seniors, so it's like we're expected not to go to class. Kensington is actually pretty strict about leaving without permission since like a decade ago, a kid was actually kidnapped on campus. There are security guards stationed by the entrance and we technically need a note signed by our parents saying we've been excused or whatever but fortunately, there's another way to get off school grounds.

Luciana had actually shown me a hole in the fence beyond the gym by the tennis court, which everyone in the school calls the Stoners Zone. No one's hanging around when Carmen and I slip through and cut across a hidden alley onto 82nd, just off Park Avenue.

"I need to day drink severely," Carmen sighs. "Like severely. But first, let's ditch the uniforms."

Carmen whips out her phone and book us an Uber back to her place.

-

I step into Carmen's bathroom, which is a sprawling daylight-flooded space entirely clad in glacier-white Calacatta marble the size of a studio apartment. There's a sunken tub big enough for four people, inlaid with obsidian tiles. By the bathroom sink lies a department store's worth of shelves filled with various beauty products. 

"Here, try this color on you," She plucks a tube of Chanel lipstick from the vanity and presses it into my palm.

"Thanks," I say, amazed by her beautiful bathroom, and look into the elongated mirror. I paint the fawn, peachy colour over my lips and shoot my reflection a sexy, coy smile that Luciana is the expert at giving. I don't look like the scared, loser geek I was in middle school, I don't look anything like Bronte Emerson. I'm wearing one of Carmen's dresses, a gauzy black tunic dress by Ann Demeulemeester, and my skin is a rusty bronze color from my most recent spray tan, which makes my green eyes pop even more.

"We love?"

"We adore! She's cute on you," Carmen gasps when she approves my lipstick. "Keep it, I have so many."

Carmen's currently debating between the BCBG green sundress and a slinky Ralph Lauren LBD. I remember I've snagged the green BCBG a few weeks ago and stitch it two sizes tighter so I blink innocently at her and say, "The green one, honey. Your olive skin will look so good in it."

Man, I'm the definition of a fake friend, I think but I don't try to feel too bad. I remind myself Carmen is the kind of girl who convinced her friends to bury the body of a pregnant girl her brother killed and still treat them like shit. Carmen is the kind of girl who forces all of her friends to give out fake testimonies in court just after they ruin an entire girl's family.

"Hmm, you're right," Carmen nod at me, "Hold on, I'll be right back."

Carmen disappears into her walk-in closet to change into the dress. I hear her struggle to zip the dress up. "Amory," Carmen's strained voice carries out to the bathroom. "Can you, uh, help me here?"

"Sure thing!" I chipper. I pad my way over to Carmen, who is roughly pulling on the back zipper of her dress. The zipper has only managed to get through halfway up her back.

"What's up?"

"I need you to help me with the zipper," Carmen admits, face red with embarrassment as if she didn't want to be caught admitting that she, Carmen Calloway, Queen of Kensington and the Hierarchy, is struggling to fit into a size two.

"Okay, suck in your stomach," I order, putting my hand on her bony back. I struggle to drag the zipper up her body and resist the urge to smile as Carmen gasps from the tightness of the dress.

"Uh...are you sure this is your size?" I ask as awkwardly as I can muster. I'm trying my best not to offend her.

"Of course it is!" Carmen pouts. "I just bought this, like, three months ago. I couldn't have gained ten pounds in three months!"

"Maybe it's from all the sugar in your alcohol," I suggest sweetly. "Just double your workout, Carms, and you'll fit the dress in no time."

Carmen eye my figure with jealousy in her dress and sigh. "Yeah, I suppose."

-

After day-drinking with Carmen intensely, I stumble back into my room around three-thirty afternoon and flop onto the bed. Now with Parker and Luciana pretty much out of her social circle, Carmen officially only trust me with her secrets. We've spent the day gossiping, discussing our favourites from New York Fashion Week and flirting with young up-and-coming Wall Street stock-traders by the bar. Carmen and I parted ways when it's time for her to show up at her ballet practice.

"Love you forever bitch!" She had pressed her intensely lip glossed lips onto my cheek as she slid into the chartered town car.

I'm watching my Instagram stories playing, bored out of my mind. Parker's story loads up and it's a video.

"Hey, guys so I've got some big news to announce today! So as you know usually, I would be the manager for Carmen Calloway's homecoming queen campaign but for this year since it'll be my last year of high school, I decided to do something a little different and strike out on my own. So for this year instead, I will be running for homecoming queen as well. Anyway, I'm so excited to be nominated and serve as your queen. Vote for Parker Holtz!" Parker ends her speech by blowing a kiss on the camera.

Giddy with excitement, I immediately browse my way to VieuxRiche's Instagram page. There's a new post featuring photoshopped pictures of Parker and Carmen with a blaring title of QUEEN C VS QUEEN P. The caption underneath couldn't have been any less scathing if I wrote it myself. The caption reads:

It seems like Kensington's prestigious Queen Carmen's favourite lieutenant and second-hand-in-command has pulled her most legendary dolchstoßlegende as of date by opting out of being behind shadows and running against her bestie. Hold on to your bulletproof vests folks because this one is gonna be a bloodbath.

And just as I expected, I get a text from Carmen professing her rage to me. I can't believe this fucking bitch. I'm going to RUIN her in this.

I sigh contentedly, pleased with everything.

With Carmen and Parker officially enemies and Luciana out of the picture, I'm officially Carmen's only friend. She's isolated with no more allies and no one else to trust except me. She's perfectly vulnerable for the taking.

Everything's starting to fall into place. All I need to do now is tweak my position with Orson a little...

Beep!

I reach into my monogrammed Louis Vuitton clutch and press my phone on. I smile when I read the notification.

Orson.

The message is quick and efficient, getting to the point pretty quickly: What are you doing tonight?

I see my small profile pic appear by his words, letting him know I've seen it. I wait a little bit before typing out a reply:

Nothing much. Why?

He replies a hot second later. The boys wanna go out tonight. Join us?

A smirk crawls onto my lips. It's a school night.

And has that ever stopped you before?

Fine. Can I get ready at your place?

Sure thing.

-

Orson's room is not exactly what I imagined- you know, the ideal bachelor pad of brown leather couches, dark wood furniture and the typical "dude" decorations like whiskey bottles and expensive watches. Instead, it's a clean, white and minimalistic room. The ceiling above me is easily eighteen feet high and all the walls are exposed white brick. A single chandelier provides all the lightning, displaying a right wall of Rembrandts and Monets. The cloud-like king-size bed dominates the middle of the room as a view of the sprawling Manhattan skyline twinkles at me from the left side of the room. 

"You can use the mirror in my bathroom," Orson says as he leads me in. It's now five p.m and he's already wearing his Tom Ford blazer, smelling crisp and lemony with Dolce Gabbana's Light Blue.

I flash him a sweet smile. "Thanks, Orson."

"You look gorgeous," he says unabashedly, "I don't see why you still have to get ready."

"To look good," I respond with a duh tone like I couldn't care less about what he thinks. I know he likes that- me batting back every compliment he has, it keeps him coming for more. I try not to think about how the cool blue steel of his Richard Mille watch match the icy glaciers of his eyes or how the recent warm tan he has gotten from his weekend with models in Cabo made him look less unapproachable and...well, sweeter.

"Don't give me that, Amory. You'RE the prettiest girl in Kensington. Everyone knows that. The girls bow down to you." Orson edges closer, pushing me into his dresser. I couldn't move any further back, my breath catches, and he rests his hand on both my sides as if tempting me with his touch. It's like a game of tease, see who breaks first. I refuse to be the first.

"You're so transparent, Orson," I retort, "Invite me out with just you and the boys, take me to your room, call me pretty. I can see right through you."

He holds my stare, blue crashes with green like waves of an ocean. His button-down exposes a small tattoo, a quote on it. Heaven or Las Vegas. "And yet you're still here."

"You know I can't say no to free alcohol," I sound blaise enough but he doesn't believe me. He takes a strand of my messy blonde hair and tucks it between my ear, his eyes skirt me up and down and linger on the bloodred Chloe top that plunges provocatively to my breast bone.

"Is that it?"

"Yeah, that's it. Just want to drink and dance. I didn't come here for you." I push his hand off the dresser and move away from him. "Now can you please leave? I gotta change."

He holds up his hand in surrender but wears a cocky smirk. "Okay, I'll see ya later."

He leaves me to myself in his room, thank God, which finally allows me to have the time to bug his room. I stick recording devices on the underneath of his bed so his maid can't spot it and then rush over to the bathroom to get ready.

I quickly change into the more insane dress I've recently picked up. It's a piece I've flown in from Paris, along with various other garments from the newest collections released on Fashion Week. I needed something extraordinarily sexy and the French were always on their A-Game when it came to it. In an Alexandre Vauthier gold mesh dress, I was unstoppable with the way the dress cinched my waist and emphasized my spray tan. The slight slit on my left leg hints at seduction and if I paired it with the right heels, no man is safe.

For the night, I emphasize the 'drip in gold' theme of my outfit with a pair of Oscar de La Renta flower-shaped earrings which had been paved with crystal and ruby embellishments and a Mark Cross clutch. I clasp the leather strap of my gold Gianvito Rossi plexi stark heels to add some height and knot my hair back in a high ponytail. For makeup, I keep it simple- a flick of jet black eyeliner and a pop of MAC's Ruby Woo on the lips.

"I'm done," I announce as I stride out of Orson's room. Orson and the boys are out by the balcony, smoking cigarettes and drinking whiskey. Orson's head whip around, his eyes widen up and he's mesmerized by what he sees. I swivel around for them to see the back, most notably for him to check out my ass, and shoot them my best over-the-shoulder smirk. "What do you think?"

"You look..." Orson loses all the air in his body.

"Stunning!" Hanif claps him in the back and winks at me flirtatiously. "Honestly Amory, you're so fucking hot."

"Keep it in your pants," I reply playfully.

"Not if you keep looking like that," Hanif's sly smile is looking pretty tempting but I shake my head and open up my palm, indicating I want him to fix me a drink.

He grabs an empty whiskey glass and the decanter, pouring it heavy over ice. "Finish it and then we'll call the driver."

-

The night out isn't at some basic Manhattan NYC club or anything. It's at a party- an extremely exclusive party since it's being hosted by the spoilt son of the Vanderbilt dynasty. Trance Vanderbilt is famed for his "brave sartorial statements" (as the Daily Mail and Forbes so diplomatically put it) and for being the northern hemisphere's biggest bon vivant, perpetually hosting wild parties at whatever louche jet-set resort that's in fashion that year—always with the hippest DJs, the coldest drinks, the hottest babes, and many whispered, the best drugs.

Also, the party isn't in New York. It's in Vegas as I've just endured a two-hour flight in Hanif's family G5 while on an intoxicating mix of Adderall and Ciroc. After a dramatic landing on a short runway, I'm currently sitting amongst the convoy of Rolls-Royces speeding along the neon highway of gigantic billboards flashing casinos' names and nightclubs decoration.

"You got loose cash on you?" Orson whispers to me as we pad across the sumptuous lobby of the Wynn Las Vegas, my heels pretty much sinking down on the softness of the fleur-de-lis-patterned carpet.

"Yeah, about twenty thousand. Why?"

Orson takes my hand unexpectedly and squeezes it. "You'll see."

Our group enters a sprawling casino where the gaming tables seem to glow with a peachy, golden light. Slot machines and gold-lined poker tables decorate the whole area. The bar is crowded with girls in slinky dresses and men in big suits but I know this isn't where we're going to be for the night.

We reach the casino's reception desk and the manager's smile widens when he notices our party pulling up. "Ah, Mr. Calloway! Just in time. Your salon is ready. Please allow me to escort you there with a few bottles of your favorite Cristal."

We wade through the common public of Vegas's usual gambling crowd with the casino's manager and find ourselves in front of a mirrored door behind which happens to be hiding a vestibule where another security door opens to reveal a narrow corridor of individual chambers. Each chamber is protected by burly security guards standing side by side to each door.

When we reach the end of the corridor, the manager reveals to us our own chamber- this tuberose-scented private salon lined from floor to ceiling in pale blue velvet with plush velvet Récamier settees. A single obsidian baccarat table stands in the middle of it all. The soft buttery gold of the LED art lights glows against the Modigliani and Caravaggio sketches hanging on the wall as the Harry Winston chandelier dangles above us. This is just the sumptuous gambling salon typically reserved for high rollers like Orson and all his friends.

I'm given this fancy Tiffany wine glass and I begin to sip slow of the champagne to calm my nerves. While I might be calculative on every aspect of my schemes so far, rolling the dice literally still counts mostly on luck. No scheming or plotting has prepared me for this Ocean 11 type shit.

My palms are sweaty when Orson grabs my wrist, causing me to flinch a little. "Wanna do a little wager?"

I force my anxiety to behave itself and snap my stare onto his. "Like what?"

He licks his lips and pulls me to a corner of the room as the other boys take their seats. He bows his head down so his face is near my ear and his hands set themselves on my open back. "What if we play a little game between us, a little winner takes all situation."

I straighten up and arrange my face into a smirk. "I'm a little interested. What's the prize?"

"You."

I scoff. "And what's in it for me?"

"Well if I win this," Orson's grip on my waist slides further down, "You'll have to spend the night in my suite."

"Classic."

"And you're going to have to agree to date me for at least a month."

I narrow my eyes coolly and my heart is racing so fast. This is it. I basically have his heart in my palms. "What about me? What if I win?"

He shrugs. "Up to you."

I smile slyly. "Well if I win, you can't date, fuck, or even look at a girl...for the rest of the school year. It'll be interesting to see a celibate Orson Calloway for a little while."

Orson remains silent, his face passive but I can see his head turning the stakes I raise. His eyes dip down to the cleavage popping out of my dress and a smile weasel on. "I'm game. Are you?"

"Be prepared to lose," I shoot at him and slap his hand away from my waist. I walk off from him and Hanif beckons me to take the seat next to him.

"Now everybody takes a seat," the manager announces, deftly shuffling a pile of cards in his hands, "And let's play." 

-