In the Arms of the Elite (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #4) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,85

Harper holding her dark court in one of the gazebos. She glances over at us, sitting in the lap of some big guy I don’t recognize. I think he’s a second year. She flips me off, and we continue walking together, curving back around to head toward the chapel doors.

“We’re so close, Marnye,” Creed whispers, but even as I’m excited to finally get out of here, to escape the mean girls, to start a new life at Bornstead U, I’m dreading it, too. Because each day that passes, Charlie gets sicker. Each day that passes, I get closer to making a decision I don’t want to make.

Choose between the filthy rich boys.

I’d rather fight the Harpies for the rest of eternity.

“If you insist on teaching me math, I’ll accept—provided, of course, you sit in my lap while I learn. I study best that way, with a giant boner tucked into my slacks.”

I facepalm and shake my head, but his crudeness is refreshing somehow. It’s better than a bouquet of lies, now isn’t it?

“Come on, perv, and I’ll teach you some formulas.” I take his hand and pull him back into the building before the first few flakes of winter snow start to fall.

It feels good to be at school, studying like crazy and working to keep my grades up, so I can qualify for as many scholarships as possible. That, you know, and also kick Tristan’s ass and take top of the class.

Speaking of Tristan, we’re supposed to be working on an economics project together, but he’s been so damn cranky these past few weeks, I can barely get a word in before he stomps off. It’s frustrating as hell, trying to work with someone who won’t talk to me.

Even more frustrating when I’m trying to date that same, said person.

I’m sitting in The Mess with Zayd, watching surreptitiously as he pens lyrics on a napkin with a bright, red pen, when Isabella Carmichael walks in, dressed in the red skirt and black blazer of a first year. She comes right over to the high table and pauses beside me.

“Do you think we could have a moment?” she asks Zayd, batting her lashes prettily and tucking a few errant strands of brown hair behind one ear. Zayd looks at me for confirmation, raising his pierced brow in question.

“Yeah, of course,” I say, thinking about Dad’s whispered words. “I didn’t know she was mine, or I would’ve … I wouldn’t have let Jennifer keep us apart.” Thinking about what he said, and about that bet Harper threw in my face, I feel sick to my stomach. “Maybe just sit at a different table for a minute?”

“Ah, I see how it is,” Zayd says, standing up and then pausing to turn back and grab my face, leveling me with a punishing kiss that makes me see stars. Isabella scowls at us as she tucks her skirt under her thighs and sits down, waiting until Zayd’s moved several tables away before she turns to me and smiles.

It’s not a very pretty smile, I’ll tell you that for sure.

“How’s your boyfriend doing by the way? Or should I say … boyfriends? I mean I’d heard from the Royals that you were called Working Girl for a reason, but I guess I didn’t want to admit I’d shared the same womb as a whore.”

“First off, your ‘Royals’ are nothing more than displaced despots. Second, slut-shaming doesn’t look good on anyone. Don’t do it. It makes you look like a hypocritical asshole.” I lean in, putting my elbow on the edge of the table. “Third … forget the Infinity Club, Isabella. There’s nothing but trouble for you there.”

“Like you’d know. It’s not as if you are or ever could be a member.”

“Windsor York has asked me to marry him. On more than one occasion. Don’t you think if I were to become a prince’s bride and find myself suddenly swimming in billions that I’d be welcomed with open arms?”

“So why don’t you?” Isabella asks, slamming her palm on the table and making the water glasses quiver. She glares at me with very familiar brown eyes, her mouth twisted into a pout. “Why, when you could be so much more than this, do you insist on slogging through?”

“Marrying a prince will elevate my status in your eyes, but working my ass off to get into my first-choice university means nothing?” I ask, and Isabella scowls at me.

“We might share blood, but you’re not my sister and never