Most all the Bluebloods have houses in the Hamptons and spend a good portion of their summer there. Lizzie and her friends cut them out of most of the important social engagements, and refused them entry into any of their parties. Even as she's describing her shadiness, she's trying to be nice about it.
“I mean, we didn't hurt anybody …” she adds, but I'm already smiling as I imagine Creed's, Zayd's, and Tristan's faces as they show up at the place of a supposed party with their entourage, and find nothing and nobody. Amazing.
Tristan comes in the door covered in snow and sweating. When he sees Lizzie and me in the lodge, he scowls, storms up the stairs, and slams his door. While Lizzie's discomfort brings me zero joy, I quite like seeing Tristan throw tantrums like a child.
It gets a little weird though on Sunday when his father shows up.
I come to find out that Mr. Vanderbilt owns the place. Fantastic.
Now, when he sees Lizzie, me, Andrew, Miranda, and Zack eating lunch in the restaurant the next day, there's this look that crosses his face that scares the crap out of me. William Vanderbilt could have me assassinated, and then cover it all up. That's how freaking rich he is. And clearly, he doesn't like me. Pretty sure he doesn't like Lizzie either, based on the way his eyes travel over our group, dismissing everyone but the two of us.
For dinner that night, outdoor heaters are set up, and food is served on the patio. Surrounded by snow and glistening with twinkling white lights, it's magical. It’s no accident that I slip into the shimmery black dress that Tristan sent me for the graduation gala last year. Or … the jewelry I so carefully select.
Adjusting the watch on my right wrist, I step confidently outside and pass right by William's table. His eyes immediately catch on the red and black Rolex that he gave to Tristan. If I could only use one word to describe his expression, it would be annihilation. I've blown his mind.
Tristan sees me a moment later, and this lick of fear takes over his face as he glances from me to his dad. Either William will think Tristan gave me the watch or else he'll have to come clean about throwing it in the trash.
He grabs my wrist as I pass by, and heat shoots up my arm and spears me in the chest with flames. I meet his gray eyes without fear.
“What the hell are you playing at?” he asks, looking from the necklace to the watch, and then back to my face. “What is it that you want?”
“I want you to realize that what you did to me was wrong. I want you to treat people better in general. I want you to know that your money doesn't mean you can get away with murder.” I shake his grip off and shoulder past him, heading over to Lizzie's table. She watches me as I sit down, her brow scrunching slightly. “You okay?” I ask, and she nods, spinning her engagement ring around on her finger.
Andrew is watching her, too, and there's a dark melancholy to his expression that I wish I could wipe away. He doesn't want to be engaged at all, let alone to a girl. I feel sick with sadness for him.
“I'm okay,” Lizzie replies with a long exhale. We both watch as William summons his son to his side. Harsh, low words are spoken before Mr. Vanderbilt reaches out and grabs Tristan by the wrist so hard that his son cringes. My heart thunders, and I almost stand up. Lizzie puts her hand over mine. “If you go over there, you'll make things worse.” Her voice comes out in a near whisper as William drags his son into the lodge.
I can't help it.
I force myself out of my chair and weave through the crowd to the door, slipping inside and catching a glimpse of the two men moving in the direction of the VIP room on the opposite side of the lodge from the bar.
I'm not sure what I'm doing exactly, but I sneak over anyway. The door is closed, but I can hear voices coming from inside.
“… the commoner wearing your watch.”
Tristan is dead silent.
“And Lizzie Walton? I've forbidden you from seeing her. Do you think these secret trysts of yours are going to amount to anything but a bastard heir and a teen whore I'll have to pay off? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“A bastard like me, you mean? Am I such a goddamn disappointment?” My mouth drops open at the vitriol in Tristan's voice. There's the sharp crack of flesh on flesh, and I cringe, trying the door knob. It's locked.
There's a long silence, like maybe they're waiting to see if whoever's on my side of the door will try it again. Finally, Tristan speaks up, his words mollified.
“It won't happen again,” Tristan says, his voice low and hoarse. “Marnye must've … thought it was okay to wear the watch after we slept together.” Slept together?! Gross. But I guess it's as plausible a lie as anything else.
“You are engaged, son, to a du Pont. Do I need to remind you how important that is? The company is going under. Without their money, we lose everything. If you'd like to live in the trailer next door to your whore, then by all means, keep defying me.” William pauses and sighs. “And don't let me see you around Lizzie Walton again. This time, I'm giving you a warning. You won't like what I do next time.”
I scramble out of the way before the two of them come back out.
I do not miss the blood on Tristan's mouth this time.
When I get back to the room that night, I cross his name off my list, and feel fucking sick about it. I will never use William Vanderbilt against his son again. Never.
But in my phone, there's a recording with his voice on it.
Try me, asshole. Try me and see what happens.
The rest of winter break is uneventful. Dad doesn't invite Jennifer over again although he does bring her up a few times. Zack stops by on Christmas day with gifts for me and dad. Charlie gets a pair of new boots, a Carhart jacket, and a shiny new tie. Me, I get keys in an envelope, and give Zack a look. There's the address for a storage unit on the other side.
“What is this?” I ask, but he just shrugs, wishes us happy holidays, and leaves.
The next day, Dad and I drive to the storage place, find the unit that Zack's written down, and unlock it with the keys. Inside, there's a golden pedal harp.
My phone drops to the ground, and I clap my hand over my mouth.
The instrument that's sitting in that unit is worth over thirty-thousand dollars.
“How are we going to get this home?” I choke out, once I've finally fought back tears and found my breath. Sitting down in the wooden chair next to it, I strum my fingers across the strings and sigh at the beautiful notes. “Where are we going to put it?”
“We'll figure it out, Marnye-bear,” Charlie says with a soft smile. And the next day, he shows me the cute little two bedroom house in Grenadine Heights that he's rented for us.
Pretty sure that's the best Christmas I've ever had.
The wind teases my skirt, making it billow around my thighs just enough that my garters show. I ignore it, leaning against the wall of Tower Two with my shoulder. My pulse is racing with nerves, but I’m excited to do this, to be the new student’s guide. And I guarantee I’ll do a hell of a lot better at my job than Tristan Vanderbilt did for me. I hadn’t expected to get called into Principal Collins’ office so bright and early, but that’s the life of a student mentor. Guess they’re going to actually make me earn those credits. And hey, maybe the new kid won’t be as big of a dick as all the others?
First day back at Burberry Prep Academy, and I’ve already had a note shoved in my locker telling me to kill myself (so original, been there, done that, asshole). There was a dildo on the floor in my room, but I’ve now got footage from my cameras showing Sai Patel and some of his own personal cronies putting it in there, and then taking turns snapping photos with my panties.
It’s fine though. I don’t even need those pictures to destroy him. Miranda was right: I’ve got pictures of Sai and Abigail making out at the lodge. All I have to do is show those to Greg, and it’s game over.
I watch the horizon, waiting for the shiny black academy car to crest the hill. Standing up straight, I approach the front steps and wait as it rolls around the circular drive, and comes to a slow stop, wheels crunching over the gravel. It feels like forever before the driver finally gets out and moves around to open the back door.
My breath stops in my chest.
One long leg extends from the back, cloaked in perfectly creased white slacks. A long, lithe form follows, tall and handsome and wearing a bright, white grin.
I’d almost forgotten all those news articles Miranda shoved in my face. If she hadn’t sent me the link to yet another exposé on the guy, I would’ve forgotten about him completely. The world’s youngest billionaire. Tenth in line to the throne. Great-grandson to the Queen of freaking England.
Windsor York.
A freaking prince.
“Well, hello there,” he says, tilting his head to one side, his hazel eyes glimmering with color. There are specks of gold, green, and brown swimming in a blue-gray gaze. I’m immediately mesmerized by the color. His red hair is short, but playfully mussy, tousled and dark, almost crimson. And that smile … it’s impossible to look away from. “Windsor York, at your service. You must be Marnye Reed?”
I nod, but my throat is suddenly dry, and there are no words.
The prince adjusts the lapels of his second-year jacket and looks around, taking in the courtyard and the fountain with mild interest. He then adjusts his gaze to me, and mild interest turns to piqued curiosity. Windsor’s eyes take me in, inch by inch, absorbing my appearance from head to toe. He seems to like what he sees, too, which makes my cheeks flush pink, and sends my heart racing.
The new student I’ve been asked to mentor is … a prince. A prince. A freaking prince?!
“You’re quite the pretty little thing, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice crisp with an English accent. If I said I wasn’t into it, I’d be lying. His grin sharpens up and he extends an elbow for me to take. “I assumed they’d be sending some crusty old school marm to give me a tour. This is much, much better.” He holds out his arm for me to take, and I just stand there like an idiot, staring. After a moment, he cocks his head to one side and makes this cute little moue with his mouth that sends my hormones into a frenzy. “You don’t want to escort me, milady?” he asks, milking his accent for everything it’s work. Swallowing hard, I take the prince’s arm, and shivers crawl up and down my spine—good ones, too. Oh no. I feel like I crush far too easily on hot guys. It’s a habit I really need to break. Who’s to say this guy isn’t as snooty, self-absorbed, and cruel as the rest of them?