With Tristan and Windsor both on the Do Not Send List, most of the attention on Valentine’s Day goes to the girls. All the Idol women are showered with roses, same goes for Valentina and Abigail. I guess the Plebs used to call them the fucked-up foursome. Must be the fucked-up fivesome now with that horrid bitch Ileana in their ranks.

Me, I get roses from Miranda, Andrew, Windsor, and Zack.

They’ve all written super sweet little cards, and I even get a tiny present from Zack, wrapped in shimmery opalescent paper. He grins sheepishly when he delivers it to my dorm later.

“It goes with the one I gave you for your birthday,” he tells me, and I realize with a start that I’ve never opened it. I excuse myself on the pretense of needing to pee, and grab the unwrapped package from my wardrobe drawer, popping into the restroom for some privacy.

There’s so much tape on the package, that I have to use my nail clippers to cut into it.

Inside, there’s a pair of season tickets to the San Francisco Symphony clipped to a small rectangle of cardboard. My mouth drops open, and I feel terrible for leaving the gift for so long. To be quite honest, I forgot all about it. My loss, I suppose, since I could’ve used these during winter break to go with my dad.

When I step out of the bathroom, Zack’s waiting on the edge of my bed with the other gift. I hold the tickets up and he smiles, not like he’s upset or anything, but more like he’s not surprised either.

“I figured you hadn’t opened it,” he says, and I cringe. “That’s okay. At least you’ve got them now.” I sit down next to him and carefully unwrap the new package, finding another ticket to match the first two. “You know, in case you wanted to take Miranda or something …” he adds, but I know we’re both thinking about if he and I were to go together. We’re sitting so close that I can feel his body heat, and I have to close my eyes against the curiosity about what would happen if I were to give in and go to him.

“Thank you for these. You always give such thoughtful gifts.” My hands are trembling, and my heart is racing. Pretty sure those are the only words I’m going to be able to get out. I like Zack now, I really do. Part of me wishes he really was my boyfriend. Maybe, later, he can be. Just not right now.

“Are you going to the garden party?” Zack asks softly, but I’m already shaking my head. I have a few deliveries to make: small care packages for each of the Idol boys with an attached, handwritten note. I miss you. It’s the best I can do. I’ll deliver them while they are all at the party, so I don’t have to see their faces when they read it. If one of them were to reject me outright … I can’t think about that: my dad’s wellbeing is on the fucking line.

This Valentine’s Day is so different than the last one. All I can think about is Zack and how much I want to go and dance with him. Yet, I’ve got my bet with Harper, and I need to keep the Idol boys from seeing too much of me with him.

Like I told Windsor: I’m not about dating anyone just now.

It’s all so confusing.

I exhale and Zack stands up, turning around to look at me with a small smile.

“Hey, it’s okay. I get it.” He knows about the bet—he’s the only one—so I look up with an apologetic expression that I hope he understands. “Get some rest and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I repeat again, blushing furiously when he leans down and kisses me hotly on the mouth. Zack turns and leaves, and I curl up on my bed with my roses, my tickets, and some chocolates that Miranda gave me.

It’s best if I leave the boys alone on such a romantic day.

I’m already confused enough as it is.

The following week, the staff acknowledges Tristan and me in the morning announcements as the honor students selected for the spring Paris trip. Part of me wants to refuse, so I can go home and be with my dad, but he assures me that he’s feeling much better and that I should go. I feel selfish as hell, but I know the trip will give me a good opportunity to bond with Tristan. He’s the most difficult of the Idols to find any time alone with. He’s always surrounded by fans … or Harper. Although I haven’t seen them touch each other since the drowning incident.

“Don’t you wonder when the girls made that bet?” Windsor asks me as he escorts me to cheerleading practice. I shrug. The thought had crossed my mind, but what does it matter? I’m not going to hurt myself like that ever again. The Idols can do their damned best. By the end of this year, I’ll have secured treatment for my dad, the boys will have learned a valuable lesson, and then next year … I might have to use next year to focus my revenge-attention on the girls.

“I suppose. Why?” he shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but he’s got this mischievous smile on his face that scares me. “Don’t go getting any ideas. Plans as delicate as mine can’t be rushed.”

“Sure they can,” he says as he opens the door to the gym for me. “You’re just too … high-class about it. Don’t wait around for them to give you ammo. Make your own.”

“No.” I look him dead in the face. “If it takes me the rest of my Burberry career to finish that list, fine. I’m not going to stir shit up where there isn’t any. Every single one of the Bluebloods has dirt that will rise to the surface eventually.”

Windsor looks skeptical, but since we’re at the gym already, the conversation is over. He’s not allowed in anymore after the girls got so distracted by him during the last practice that they dropped a first year girl during our stunt routine. She’s okay, but her twisted ankle is the size of an eggplant. Same color, too.

“Whatever you say, milady,” he says, sweeping a dramatic bow just before the door closes.

With a sigh, I head inside and try to focus on keeping my own ankle un-twisted. Having a head too full of boy thoughts is distracting.

At least by the time Friday rolls around, Tristan has started showing up at my orchestra rehearsals again. The first time he does, our eyes meet from across the room, and it’s like this connection between us that was pinched and shriveled opens up, and blood begins to flow all over again.

He smiles at me from the back row, and even though it’s far away and hard to see, I almost think it might be genuine.

Maybe.

Of course, the rest of the time, he’s still very much an asshole.

“Windsor York has no business on this trip,” he snaps as Ms. Felton raises an eyebrow and hands us both our passports back. I wouldn’t even have a passport at all if Burberry Prep didn’t require one for admission. I got it last year, tucked it away in a drawer, and assumed I wouldn’t be using until I was thirty.

Looks like I was wrong about that one.

“No business on this trip?” Windsor pouts with a little moue. “Why, Mr. Vanderbilt, I’m bloody hurt. Don’t you know I lived in Paris for years?” Tristan looks irritated, but he says nothing, instead keeping his attention on our teacher. She’s seated behind the desk in her office on the top floor of Tower One, looking between the two boys and sighing.

“You know there’s a student guide every year, Mr. Vanderbilt, and this year, it is Burberry Prep’s turn to provide that student. There’s no one here besides yourself who has his level of experience. I’m sorry you two seem to be having a problem with each other, but as your actions at the end of last year were less than savory, I think you should just count your lucky stars you’re even a student at the academy at all.”

Tristan’s jaw clenches in frustration, and he flicks a glance my way before leveling his glare back on Windsor. The prince is just smiling away, happy as a clam. He’s loving this moment way too much.

“Now, Miss Reed, I’ve asked you this in private, and I’m going to ask you again: are you sure you’re comfortable attending this trip with Mr. Vanderbilt. If not, he will be replaced with the third-ranked student in your grade, and given alternate trip arrangements.” There’s a long, tense moment where Tristan, Windsor, and Ms. Felton are all staring at me.

If I were on my regular revenge track, I’d probably take that opportunity to boot Tristan out of the travel group. The thing is, he’s been to Paris before, and he can afford to go whenever he wants. It wouldn’t be such a big hit to him. But seeing his face at the graduation gala when I reveal my bet with Harper? That sounds so much better.

My heart aches and throbs, but I ignore it. My emotions for the Idol boys are confusing as hell, but I can’t let them derail me. Last year, I paid too much attention to my heart and hormones, and it didn’t end well.

“I’m fine,” I tell her, and she nods, rising from her desk and showing us out the door.

Windsor quickly makes himself scarce, but Tristan surprises me by following me to The Mess. He even sits down at my usual table, taking Miranda’s spot and staring at me.

“Do you still have the watch?” he asks, and I nod. “The necklace?”

“Why?” I whisper, and he sighs, looking tired all of a sudden.

“Can I have them back? I’ll pay you for them. I just … don’t think it’s a good idea if either Harper or my dad sees them again.” He looks right at me, and there’s this stark truthfulness in his gray eyes that I’ve never seen before. My mind immediately goes back to that moment in the library where he could’ve gone further, done more, touched me in more intimate places … and didn’t. Did he know we were being filmed? It’s hard to say, but I imagine yes. “Actually, I shouldn’t be sitting here with you at all.”

“Because the Plebs might put your head in a guillotine if they see you with the Working Girl?” I query. It’s supposed to be a joke, but Tristan doesn’t seem to find it funny. He just sits there and stares at me, his raven-dark hair falling across his forehead, his tongue tracing his lower lip as he glances away.

“Could you bring the watch and the necklace on Monday? I’ve got cash.”

“I don’t want your cash, Tristan,” I whisper, but I’ve still got that debit card he set up for me, so I suppose that’s not entirely true. “But yes, you can have them back.”