“What?!” Miranda shrieks from across the table. I feel faint and dizzy all of a sudden, like I may very well do a face-plant into the fancy white plate with the gold leafing that’s in front of me. Visible tension rises in the other boys—even Andrew. But that’s when I realize he’s the only one not looking at me and Creed. Instead, he’s staring at the door.

My attention swings that way, only to find Harper, Becky, and Ileana, a sea of Bluebloods behind them. They make straight for us, and the tension in our little group shifts.

“What do you want?” Tristan asks as they approach the table. Harper’s the only one to climb the few steps up to stand directly beside us. Without hesitation, she reaches out and shoves Windsor’s water glass over and into his lap. He lets it happen, and turns to her with this look that promises future pain.

“This is our table. Bluebloods eat on the dais. You should know: your great-grandfather invented the tradition of the Idols. Rules are rules, Vanderbilt. You’re not exempt from them because your name’s on half the buildings.”

“Idols have to possess a special je ne sais quoi, Harper. There has to be something about them that makes them stand out from the rest of the crowd. Money, good breeding, looks, connections, or some combination thereof.”

She snorts and interrupts Tristan before he gets a chance to finish.

“Well, we all know you don’t qualify on that first account.” The Bluebloods snicker behind her, and my hands curl into fists. I don’t know why. The last person in the world I should be standing up for is Tristan William Vanderbilt, but I can’t seem to help myself.

He continues on as if Harper didn’t speak.

“You might tick a few boxes, but you’re petty, pathetic, and you walk a fine, fine line when it comes to playing by Club rules.” Tristan shakes his napkin out with a snap and places it carefully in his lap, his blue-black hair shimmering in the glow from the sconces behind him. “You’re so pathetic that even though your family’s blood money would wet the Vanderbilt coffers, I simply can’t stand your presence, let alone your touch. You’re nothing but the granddaughter of a man who built his fortune on the broken back of this country’s changing healthcare system. Now, get the fuck out my sight before I really get angry.”

“You don’t have shit to back you up,” Harper snarls, her hair long and dyed a honeyed blonde. It’s so thick and full and pretty, I’m guessing she’s got human hair extensions in. Long ones, too. Her glossy new hair goes all the way down past her breasts. My hands ache to cut it all off. How satisfying would that be? To get her not once but twice. “You think you’re an institution? Guess what? The money your family made from being railroad tycoons is over. Finished. Dried up. William is going to slaughter you for breaking our engagement.”

“Maybe. And you’ll never be taken seriously because no American aristocrat worth their weight in salt wants to marry you. I can get any girl at the academy if I wanted.”

“Please,” Harper snorts, but Tristan’s face is already twisting into a cruel smile.

“Really? Because I’ve fucked every one of your friends but you, and that shriveled trollop you call a best friend. Imagine that.” Harper’s blue eyes go wide, and she swings her arm at the table, knocking dishes to the floor.

“Get up from our table.” She turns her gaze to me. “And get that whore off of my chair before she leaves one of her peasant diseases on it.”

“Harper, get fucked,” I snap, tossing my orange juice in her face. Her cronies are up the steps in an instant, and all the boys are rising from their chairs, legs scraping across the floor. There’s a bit of a standoff there where Zack and John Hannibal are in each other’s faces, and Windsor is clutching a knife like he might stab Gregory Van Horn in the neck.

The doors open again and in walks Ms. Felton.

She pauses when she sees us all up in arms, and frowns.

“Is everything okay in here?” she questions, her voice stern and accusatory. A long moment passes before Windsor very carefully and purposefully puts the knife back on the table and spins to face her with a huge smile on his princely face. There’s a darkness flitting behind his gaze that I don’t miss though. Like I said, Windsor York is dangerous. As much as I like him, I’m going to have to keep an eye on him, too.

“Just splendid, bloody fantastic. These folks were just explaining to us how lovely the scrambled eggs are.”

“Of course they were,” Ms. Felton says with a tired sounding sigh. “Alright, anyone who’s not eating at the big table needs to find a seat elsewhere.” Just then our waiter appears and starts laying out the dishes we ordered. Creed is the first to sit back down, slumping into his chair like a boneless doll. A sexy, muscular doll with ice-blue eyes who just asked me to be his girlfriend, but … still.

We all take our seats as Harper leans in and hisses at me.

“You are so fucking dead, Working Girl,” she snaps, eyes blazing.

“Harper du Pont,” Ms. Felton warns, and Harper turns to go, only to trip on Wind’s outstretched leg. She goes down hard, tumbling right off the dais and onto the floor where her jaw hits with a resounding crack and a lot of blood. “Oh my God!” Ms. Felton is there an instant, helping Harper up along with Becky’s assistance.

It all seems like an accident, so nobody gets in trouble, but I meet Windsor’s eyes from across the table and I know. That was no accident at all.

Right now, all I can do is eat my French toast, but later, we’re going to have to have a talk.

No, not just us: everyone.

Because if they’re going to play my game, they need to know my rules.

Drama and gossip. That’s what makes up the entirety of my first day back. I’ve never been the subject of so much hate and so much awe at the same time. Pair that with Lizzie’s arrival on campus—she’s practically a legend here already—and the disruption in the usual social hierarchy, and it’s virtual chaos.

We have another small stand-off at the Gallery, but this time, Harper and her people get there first and quite literally barricade the door, so we can’t get in. After the confrontation in The Mess, the staff is watching us, so we end up sitting in the front row of the chapel instead, colored light filtering in the stained-glass windows and bathing the crowd in brilliant reds, yellows, and oranges.

By the time it’s all over, I’m collapsing on my bed and covering my head with a pillow. I’m so tired that I fall right asleep and don’t wake up until it’s time for class the next morning, bolting out of bed with a start to run a brush through my hair, fix my makeup, and take off down the hall to homeroom.

Miranda and Tristan are waiting to escort me, and we meet up with Zayd and Windsor on the way. Creed and Zack are in a different homeroom together, while Lizzie and Andrew are in another.

“Have you given much thought to what my brother said yesterday?” Miranda whispers as we leave Tower One and head toward our statistics classroom, the boys trailing slightly behind us. She sounds half eager and half nervous to hear my answer.

My cheeks flush, but I shrug my shoulders. Between my new schedule yesterday, and all of this drama with the Plebs and the, uh, ex-Bluebloods, I didn’t have a ton of time to think about what Creed did or didn’t ask. He said he was thinking about how to ask me to be his girlfriend. He didn’t actually ask.

“Not particularly,” I hedge, but then we’re slipping into Doctora Meisch’s classroom, and we both go silent. Doctora Meish seems really cool so far, but also a little bit scary. We’ve only had one class together and already we know that she used to work for, like, the Brazilian FBI or something. Also, she has several doctorates, so instead of calling her Mrs. Meisch, she’s Doctora, the Spanish word for doctor.

Tristan’s the only one who shares this class with me and Miranda, and we all take seats together right in the front. None of the ex-Bluebloods are in statistics with us. Why bother? When it comes to college, they’ll all either have legacy bonuses (extra points on their application for having family members who attended) or money to get them into the alma mater of their choice.

Me, I have to work my ass off to get into my chosen university, so if it means taking one of the most difficult math classes at Burberry Prep then I’ll do it.

Right after this, Tristan and I have calculus. No rest for the wicked.

We don’t talk much, but at least I have a study buddy this year that cares as much about schoolwork as I do. Why, exactly, he cares as much as he does is a mystery to me. Clearly, his father’s putting pressure on him to be the best, but there’s something more. Maybe … Tristan actually likes to learn, to succeed on his own merit?

My tongue itches to ask him why: why did you try to sabotage me last year? I was so disappointed in him, even when I hated him. So why? Eventually I’ll get up the courage to ask. For now, I just work through the first two classes of the day, thank the heavens that we get through lunch without confrontation, and enjoy the relative ease of my English class in the afternoon with Lizzie.