His threat doesn't dissuade Harper from her position. If anything, the move incenses her to step forward.

“I'm not moving out of the way so some trailer park slut with a magic pussy can drag her harem of assholes unfettered down the hall.” She flings a hand out to point at Tristan and hisses through her teeth. “A du Pont never bows down to charity cases, and they've got two of those in tow.”

I look up and see Tristan tightening his jaw in frustration.

“Get the fuck out of the way; I'm warning you.” Myron crosses his arms over his chest, and I sense violence coming like a storm. I step forward and everyone turns to look at me.

“It's okay. I don't need people to move out of my way. That's not a perk of the Idols anymore.” Harper narrows her eyes on me like she thinks I'm playing some trick. I stare her blue gaze down without flinching before I turn to Isabella. “She tried to kill me, you know, Harper did. She and her friends. So whatever it is you hate me so much for, ask yourself how far you're willing to go.”

I start walking and everyone else follows. Well, everyone but Myron. He doesn't move until Tristan pauses next to him and the two share some quiet words.

We head straight for the Gallery, and this time, we're there first. There's no locked door, no Gary sitting at the window smoking a cigarette and sneering at me. For the first time in four years, I walk straight through those stone halls, up the old steps, and over to the front of the balcony.

The feeling of standing up there, so close to the wall of stained glass windows, and looking across the sea of students in their black, white, and red uniforms is humbling in the best sort of way.

A smile curves across my face as Zack steps up beside me.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and I nod. “Even with your sister trying to team up with the Harpies?”

“She's hurting,” I tell him, glancing his way and meeting the narrowed dark slits of his eyes. He looks so tough all the time, with his big, broad shoulders, and that fierce gaze of his, but underneath, he's like a teddy bear. A defensive lineman teddy bear. Yep. “Once she gets past that, she'll see the Harpies for who they are.” I turn back around and look down, watching the wave of faces that turn as Harper marches into the chapel with her cronies behind her, and takes up the front row.

“This is a year that'll go down in Burberry Prep history,” Zayd says, pausing beside me and sitting on the railing in a way that makes me incredibly nervous. He flips Harper off when she glances our way, but she ignores him, nostrils flaring.

“It's a year that'll go down in Infinity Club history,” Zack murmurs, and the two boys exchange a look that makes me nervous.

There's more going on behind the scenes of this academy than meets the eye—and I'm determined to find out what that is.

The new cheerleading uniform for Burberry Prep is a midriff that shows off my entire belly. In my room, I take a moment to pace and freak out, but when I walk out into that hallway, I almost hair flip I’m exuding so much confidence.

There are no condoms on my doorstep, no spray painted words on my door.

Of course, I still have an escort. It’s too dangerous not to.

“Look at you,” Zack growls when I step out and find him in his black jersey, the number 60 printed on the front. He doesn’t even need shoulder pads to make him look big and broad. He curves a muscular arm around my waist and pulls me close. “I’ve never seen you look so damn hot.”

“Uh-uh.” I put my palms on his chest and push him back just enough to look him over. He really is beautiful, his hair like dark chocolate, his eyes just as decadent, his body hard and toned to perfection. He’s certainly come a long way from the bully of Lower Banks Middle School, now hasn’t he? “So you have a thing for cheerleaders, huh? Good to know. I’ll have to keep an eye on you.”

Zack looks me over, eyes staring at the intertwined black and red ‘V’ shapes on the top of my uniform, the white background, the Burberry Prep crest in the center of my chest. The arms are long, patterned with black and red, and the skirt is a super mini in white, no pleats this time, just a small ‘V’ cutout on one side, and more black and red stripes along the hem. Underneath, I have on bloomers—aka spanky pants, but like eww, I’m not about to call them that—ankle socks, and brand-new sneakers.

The whole uniform costs like six hundred bucks, but extracurricular activities are covered by the Cabot Scholarship Award, so I’m covered. Of course … I could probably ask any one of my boyfriends to help me out with costs, but the thought just makes me sick.

I’m not dating them for their money, and I refuse to take advantage of it. Even Windsor purchasing Dad’s house has left me feeling uncomfortable. Charlie doesn’t even know about it, and I don’t know how to tell him. All he knows is that the house sold, and that our current landlord has briefly suspended rent payments …

Zack cups my face in one, big hand and looks at me from heavy-lidded eyes.

“There’s only one cheerleader I have my eye on,” he says, his mouth curving into a sharp smile. “Well, I’m only checking out one cheerleader, I should say. There are a few others that I’m watching in a different way.” He pauses, and I know we’re both thinking about the Harpies. Most of them are on the team with me: Mayleen, Abigail, Kiara, and Ileana. They’re trying to start a trend on campus, calling themselves the Reigning Royals. I’ve heard it whispered a few times here and there, but I hear the term Harpies just as often.

“Don’t worry about them,” I say, taking his hand and letting him walk me to class. The game isn’t until this evening, but the academy is trying to drum up some school spirit by having us wear our uniforms during the day. I don’t mind it, especially not with the way everyone looks at me as I walk the halls. I’m not the Working Girl anymore, not to the majority of the students. They watch me with respect … and maybe a little bit of fear.

Zack drops me off at my math class where Tristan’s waiting, and everything seems to be going just fine until we step into the hallway after and find Harper and her friends waiting. I’m sad to see that Isabella is with them, too, and wearing a cheer uniform. She's on the JV team though, so hers isn’t a midriff. Instead it’s similar to the one I wore during second year.

“Look, it’s the charity cases,” Harper says, tilting her head to one side, blue eyes gleaming. Everyone but her and Becky is dressed in a cheerleading uniform, and they’re all watching me very, very carefully. “Do you need some lunch money?” Harper’s new red hair slithers over her shoulder like a snake, and my eyes narrow.

“No bullying allowed at my school,” I tell her, before Tristan can even open his mouth. I don’t need to tell you how unusual that really is, considering he’s so used to being king. “Not toward me, Tristan, or anyone else.” I step forward, filling the space between us, and then I turn, reaching down to grab Tristan’s hand. “Let’s go. I’m not feeding her fire anymore.”

“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that your own sister’s standing against you?” Harper says as I try to pull Tristan away. He’s glued to the spot though, determined to stand his ground. He’s a man used to taking the offensive in most situations. The key here, however, is to play it neutral. “I mean, what does that say about you if even your own family is disgusted?” Harper walks around and comes to stand in front of me, putting her hands on her hips. She looks a bit like a witch with that bloodred hair and all black uniform. Then again, maybe that’s a little insulting to witches? “Or do you think it’s because your sister is so ashamed at the fact that her father isn’t actually Adam Carmichael, CEO and heir to a multi-million dollar fortune … Instead, he’s a drunk, just like yours.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, my voice cool and calm. Because if even I don’t know the truth, there’s no way that Harper does. My eyes slide over to Isabella’s brown ones, narrowed into two slits on her pretty face. She turns away from us suddenly, like maybe Harper’s struck a nerve.

Fuck.

Is this what Harper’s holding over my sister? Or did … did Isabella tell her willingly?

“You know what I’m saying: Isabella Carmichael is really Isabella Reed, right? I mean, she should be, considering your whore of a mother threw herself at a rich man while at the same time warming the bed of a poor one?”

My hands clench into fists on my skirt, and it takes everything I have in me to keep from slapping this brat again. She seriously needs to be put in her place; that is, back down on earth with all the rest of us.