In the Arms of the Elite (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #4) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,77

his fingers and smiles at me while Miranda gapes at him. “I think you’d call it rupturing. Her breast implant ruptured. I know you abhor violence, but to be fair, even I couldn’t have predicted the outcome.”

“Her boob … ruptured?” I ask, and then I wipe my hands desperately on the front of my uniform. “What was I just touching then?!”

“Oh, that? When they got in a fight at the bottom of the steps, Becky snapped Ileana’s bra and tore it off. I simply picked it up. The wetness is just bottled water that Becky threw on her first. Like you said, let them hang themselves, right?” He shrugs. “I couldn’t have done a better job myself.”

I almost feel sorry for Ileana. That is, until I remember she tried to drown me, then brand me. That, and whatever she said about Becky must’ve been bad for things to go down that way. Still, that’s sort of a horrible way to go.

“Why do the mean girls in books and movies always have breast implants?” Miranda murmurs under her breath, reaching up two fingers to touch the side of her head. “It’s like, somehow demonizing women for daring to follow the patriarchal ideals of beauty and femininity is somehow satisfying to the masses?”

“Or … she fell down the stairs and landed on her chest after Becky read that Ileana purposely snooped in the Platters’ home office and leaked confidential papers regarding the family business. There’s that, too.” Windsor pauses, exhales, and then lifts his palms up toward the stone ceiling. “I’m not one to pass judgement on good fortune, but I also feel like I still owe you, Marnye. Wait for it. I’ve got other ideas in store for you.” He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, then a slow, languorous one on my lips, and then stands up to straighten out his black tie and blazer.

When he takes off that time, I know he’s up to no good.

And that his no-good … actually looks really good on him.

The week before winter break, I’m desperately trying to juggle schoolwork, worry for Charlie, and the last of my revenge plots before school lets out. Also, I’m trying really hard not to have a heart attack because I have a half-dozen emails in my inbox, just waiting to be opened.

One is from Bornstead University, located in northern Colorado, the school of my dreams.

Everything I’ve suffered, everything I’ve worked for … it all comes down to this moment, doesn’t it? This one, final moment.

“I can’t do it.” I push the tablet aside and put my hands over my face. I’m shaking all over. “I can’t look at it. Somebody else open it.”

“Nah, babe,” Zayd says, pulling me into his lap and nuzzling his face in the spot between my neck and shoulder. “You’ve worked your ass off for this. We can’t take that glory away from you.”

“You can’t, but I can,” Creed says, taking the tablet and giving the first of the emails a tap with his finger.

“You say glory, but …” My heart sinks as I imagine reading rejection letter after rejection letter. I stuck at Burberry Prep, despite all the horror, because I wanted the best high school education possible. Good high school means good college means good job means … I can take care of Charlie for the rest of his life, give him a good retirement. I always promised I’d buy him a speedboat as a gift when he turned sixty. “It might be all heartache.”

I’m only half-serious really because even though I’m worried about Bornstead—it is the most prestigious school on this half of the United States—I know I’ll get in somewhere. If my plans work out, I’ll be valedictorian (sorry, Tristan, but you can be salutatorian with my congrats) and I’m basically guaranteed a spot at most four-year schools.

“This first one, from Brown …” Creed trails off, his voice tight. “It’s a rejection.”

Zayd stiffens with his arms around me, and I feel my lunch threatening to come up in my throat.

No.

No fucking way.

Brown should … that should’ve been a sure thing. I spin around, and find Creed shaking as he stares at the screen, his eyes half-lidded and heavy, but his face so tense that he looks like he could bite and it would hurt.

“This can’t be,” he whispers, selecting the next email. “Fuck.” I don’t need to be an expert in the language of lazy bad boys to know that the word fuck roughly translates to