Chapter 3 #2
“There’s that British girl,” X adds. “Rosalie Wexford. The transfer who came early for winter term. Rumor is she’s already in tight with that crew. Maybe hit her up.”
My jaw tics. “Shit.”
Tristan shrugs. “She’s hot, at least.”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
X’s phone buzzes. He checks it.
“There’s a party tonight,” he says. “Post-homecoming debacle. Supposed to be at Rosalie’s house. Her parents went to the New York Ballet.”
“That crowd’s grounded,” Tristan says.
“Grounded?” X laughs. “Their parents don’t care that they slimed a scholarship girl. They don’t even want scholarship kids at Royal Oaks.”
He’s right.
He’s so disgustingly right.
X pockets his phone.
“They’ll be there. They always are. They think they’re untouchable.”
“And we find out exactly who did it,” Tristan says. “Names. Phones. Screenshots. Something.”
“And then what?” I ask.
X gives me a look that goes straight through me.
“Then you decide what kind of king you’re going to be.”
I exhale slowly.
I know my answer.
I’m done being the one who smiles
and nods
and obeys
and lets everyone walk all over the girl I love.
Tonight, I start burning down the throne they tried to trap me on.
“Fine,” I say. “We meet at Rosalie’s. We dig. We listen. We find out who destroyed Jade’s life.”
“And when we find them?” Tristan asks.
I look away, toward the gray ocean.
My voice drops.
“We make sure they never do it again.”
Rosalie’s parents rented a mansion on Bellevue that looks like it was stolen from French royalty.
Eighteenth-century stone.
Original marble floors.
Gold-leaf ceilings that glitter like someone tried to recreate Versailles out of boredom.
Even the driveway screams money. Imported gravel. Valet. Fire pits. Two limos in the circular turnaround.
And because nothing surprises me anymore, a B-list pop star is literally sound-checking on the upstairs landing like this is a casual Sunday night.
I park down the street.
Tristan and X hop out, both staring up at the mansion like it’s a tourist attraction.
Inside, the foyer is bigger than the Royal Oaks cafeteria—sixty-foot ceiling with a chandelier the size of a small planet. The upstairs hallway wraps around the room like a balcony, and already there are kids leaning over the railing, drinking, filming, gossiping.
Tristan gives a long, slow whistle.
“And I thought your family had money.”
I grit my teeth. “Shut up.”
Because he’s right.
And I hate it.
Everyone is here.
Everyone.
Every single face from the homecoming disaster.
Laughing. Drinking. Dancing.
Like nothing happened.
Like they didn’t destroy someone’s life last night.
And absolutely no one got in trouble.
Of course they didn’t.
Tristan slips on his shades indoors—he says it’s so people don’t “clock his soul,” whatever the hell that means.
X walks straight to the bar, grabs the top-shelf whiskey like he owns the place, and pours a drink without asking. Then he pours another. He doesn’t offer me one. Probably smart—my hands are already fists.
Rosalie is at the center of it all.
British.
Perfect posture.
Thigh-high boots.
Hair like she stepped off a Burberry billboard.
She’s been at Royal Oaks for exactly two weeks and already managed to become the girl everyone whispers about.
And right now, she’s looking at me.
Lingering.
Assessing.
Hunting.
Bianca and Nadia aren’t far behind her, circling like wolves who smell something new bleeding.
I feel Tristan elbow me.
“Bruh,” he mutters, “she wants you.”
“Good for her,” I snap.
“Good for you,” he corrects under his breath.
I ignore him.
The bass thumps through the marble like it’s trying to shake the whole place loose.
People dance in designer clothes that cost more than my first car.
Champagne glasses clink. Cameras flash. Someone is filming a TikTok in the corner, lip-syncing about betrayal or glitter or whatever the algorithm needs tonight.
My skin crawls.
X returns with a second drink. “This place is obscene,” he mutters.
“So is everyone in it,” I say.
He gives me a look.
The kind of look that says: yeah, but these are our people, like it or not.
I want to burn the whole mansion down.
Because Jade is gone. Hurt. Hiding somewhere I can’t reach.
And these kids—these spoiled, vicious, untouchable kids—are celebrating like they didn’t just humiliate her in front of the world.
And maybe they’re right.
Maybe nothing will happen to them.
Maybe this is how it always goes.
But not this time.
Not if I can help it.
Vivian starts walking toward me. Slow. Confident. Eyes locked on mine like she’s already decided who I am to her.
Tristan mutters, “Incoming,” under his breath.
X smirks. “Play it cool, King.”
But all I can think—
the only thing pounding inside my skull—
is Jade.
Her eyes.
Her face.
Her humiliation.
The fear in her voice when she screamed my name.
The way I failed her.
I swallow, steady myself, and force my expression neutral.
Because tonight isn’t about flirting.
It isn’t about being the king.
It’s about infiltration.
It’s about information.
It’s about justice.
Rosalie stops in front of me, tilting her head, British accent smooth as silk.
“Leo Holt,” she says. “I was wondering when you’d show.”
I give her a tight smile.
“Trust me,” I say. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
She drifts away to greet someone else, and I take the chance to slip out of the ballroom chaos and down a hallway lined with portraits of dead people who probably owned half of New England.
I find the “man cave” easily.
Of course it’s not a man cave.
It’s a Versailles smoking room masquerading as one.
Dark paneled wood.
An ornate pool table with carved lion legs.
Leather chairs that look like they cost more than my car.
A marble-topped bar stocked with whiskey labels I recognize from my father’s “special cabinet.”
It’s obscene.
I grab a glass and pour two fingers of something older than I am.
It burns down my throat in a way that almost—almost—cuts through the mess in my chest.
I chalk a cue, line up a shot, and just… play.
The familiar rhythm calms me.
Backhand grip.
Angle.
Breath in.
Breath out.
Then the movement behind me starts.
Whispers.
Giggles.
Shoes clicking on marble.
I don’t turn around.
I know that sound.
Girls pretending they aren’t following me, circling like sharks scenting blood in the water.
They want answers.
They want proximity.
They want gossip.
All of it.
But they sure as hell don’t want the truth.
I sink a ball and chalk again.
One girl giggles louder. “Leo, you look so serious tonight.”
Another: “Is it true? About you and Jade?”
I ignore them.
Let them stew.
Silence is more powerful than any answer.
I lean over the table to take another shot—
And that’s when Bianca decides to make her move.
She glides up behind me, all perfume and confidence, and leans in so close her lips almost brush my ear.
“Leo,” she whispers, “did you really think taking our phones was going to do anything?”
My jaw tightens.
She lets out a soft laugh.
“We’re not that stupid.”
She steps around me, blocking my shot, eyes dragging down my body with zero shame.
Then she lifts one manicured finger
and runs it slowly
deliberately
down the line of my chest.
A cold, controlled smirk stretches across her red lips.
“She was so basic,” she purrs. “I am the opposite of that. I’m top shelf.”
She leans in closer, voice dropping.
“Meet me in the sixth room on the right upstairs.”
She winks.
It’s disgusting how proud she looks.
I straighten, cue still in hand, and stare at her like she’s made of smoke.
I let the silence stretch—
just long enough to make her think I’m considering it.
Then I laugh.
Right in her face.
“I’ve been here for an hour,” I say, “and you’re already inviting me upstairs?”
Her smile falters.
“That,” I add, “is the most basic move I’ve ever heard, Viv.”
Her mouth drops open.
“No thanks,” I say, stepping around her to take my shot. “I’ll pass.”
I sink the ball without even looking.
She stands there, stunned, cheeks flushed in a way I know is pure fury.
Her nostrils flare.
Her chin lifts.
Her pride fractures.
Which, of course, only means one thing—
She wants me more.
She huffs, flips her hair like it’s supposed to hurt my feelings, and storms back toward the foyer.
Good.
Let her walk.
Let her gather her friends and whisper about how cold I am.
Let them all wonder what changed.
They don’t know the version of me Jade built.
They don’t know the version of me Jade destroyed.
They don’t know the version of me that’s coming for all of them.
I sip my drink, stare down at the green felt, and feel the rage settle into something sharp.
Focused.
Controlled.
Weaponized.
Tonight, I’m not the king they worship.
Tonight, I’m the storm they never saw coming.
I’m still lining up my next shot when my eyes land on a little glass humidor on the sideboard. Rows of expensive cigars, all lined up like soldiers.
Of course Rosalie’s dad has these.
Of course he keeps them out in the open.
Old money loves showing off its vices.
I flip open the lid, pick the fattest one, and clip it.
I don’t even ask permission.
Rosalie’s hovering minions gasps softly.
Good.
Let them watch.
I spark the cigar, inhale slow, and lean back against the table. Smoke curls upward in rich gray ribbons.
That’s when Vivian struts in.
Her heels click across the parquet floor like punctuation marks. She sits beside me on the leather bench with practiced boredom, reaches over, and plucks the cigar straight out of my mouth.
She takes a puff.
Very dramatic.
Very “look how adult we are.”
I raise a brow. “Is that supposed to be sexy? Because it’s really not.”
She scoffs. “You’re such an ass.”
“And you love it.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it.
I take the cigar back, inhale deep, and blow out three perfect smoke rings. They drift upward in slow, ghostly halos.
Vivian watches them with something like jealousy.
Then she leans in, voice dropping.