Chapter 5 A PARTY?!

SLOANE'S POINT OF VIEW.

She walked ahead of me into the arts room, before turning so abruptly that I almost reeled back in shock. She looked at me with sharp eyes filled with what looked like concern and sympathy.

I stepped toward her, but she didn’t move right away. Instead, her eyes met mine in a way that made my skin prickle; not with fear, but rather with the sense that she was weighing me out, and measuring something I couldn’t see.

When she finally spoke again, her voice dropped low, meant only for me. It made me feel like someone was listening in on us from another part of the school. She leaned in as she stepped closer to me, so close that I could smell her strawberry cologne;

"Miss Bishop… in this school, not every crown is made of gold. Some are forged from iron. And iron… cuts deeper. Be careful, because if you keep playing with the crown, you'll be cut off from it sooner than you'd realize."

Before I could ask what she meant, she turned on her heel and swept down the hall, black silk trailing behind her like a shadow that didn’t belong to her.

I was left there, pulse still unsteady from Lucien’s kiss, but now with a colder, sharper edge pressing at the back of my mind as I tried to make sense of her words.

But no matter how hard I tried, it still made no sense to me.

Shrugging my shoulders, I walked out of the sports room and made my way to the locker room. Lucien said he would be waiting for me.

There he stood, like a fucking god in this school. I wouldn't be shocked if he had some people worshiping him at odd intervals in his family mansion.

Subconsciously, I looked at the Ravenscroft crest on the side of the wall, and suddenly, a chill ran up my spine as the earlier words of Ms Vale echoed in my mind.

'Iron cuts deeper.'

The crest was made of iron, and it was the Ravenscroft family signature.

Could it be that she referred to Lucien?

I walked towards him, trying my hardest not to show how flustered I was inside. Like he could feel my presence, he looked up as I approached, diverting his gaze from his phone.

His frosty blue eyes traveled up my legs, which were revealed by the Ravenscroft skirt uniform. A piece of clothing that was too short for me, but the price of it could save a third-world country from starvation for a year, so I decided to work with it since this was our graduation year.

A chill traveled up my spine as I fought the urge to hide my legs from his eyes. He looked up at me after some time. His eyes sparked with something I'd never seen before.

Something primal, something....ravenous.

"Hi," I whispered, swallowing internally as I stepped closer to him, but made sure to keep a gap between us. People were watching us, and I didn't want to seem desperate to him.

After all, this whole thing is supposed to be fake, right?

Lucien leaned casually against the locker beside mine, all lazy confidence and a wolfish grin on his handsome face.

“There's a party..more like a rave, but let's be civilized in front of the newbie," he said as he maintained his wolfish grin. " Harrow estate, tonight by eight.”

I scoffed as I zipped my bag. I refused to look at him, because I knew I would start blushing. The memory of the look he gave me was still fresh in my mind. Looking at him would turn me into a tomato. “Not my scene.”

I'd rather cuddle my tabby in bed, dressed in comfy pajamas, while watching a soap opera.

He chuckled, low and sharp. “Sunshine, everything is your scene when you’re with me.”

I glanced at him then, narrowing my eyes. “Stop calling me that! And I'm not your accessory,” I whispered sharply.

He smirked, leaning closer to me, closing the little gap I had intentionally made.

"They're watching us, sunshine," he said lazily.

I looked around, and he was right. The students surrounded us like wolves, ready to eat me up at any slight chance.

“No, you're not my accessory,” he said, voice dropping, eyes locking on mine like he could see every excuse forming in my head and crush it before it lived. “You’re my girlfriend. The real one, as far as everyone’s concerned. And my girlfriend goes where I go.”

“It’s not real.”

“Neither is half this school,” he said, pushing off the locker. “But we’re still going. Wear something that’ll make them choke on their envy.”

And then he walked away, leaving me no room for any objections.

Later that day, I looked in my wardrobe as I searched for something that would be appropriate. I found nothing.

'Matt would have helped.' My subconscious whispered, and I immediately shook the voice off.

A sad feeling crawled up my throat as the memory of Matt and me working on my clothes came to mind. His betrayal burned afresh, stinging with the force of a scorpion's strike.

It made me livid, vengeful, as I looked at my wardrobe with a renewed determination.

I'm so going to get that fucker.

I grabbed my phone and logged onto Instagram. I quickly typed in Lucien's name, and a few seconds later, his verified account came up, but I knew one thing the rest of the world didn't.

That account was a front, a sham for the world to believe in the good-guy image his father had crafted for him.

I quickly typed in a handle I had overheard Roxanne and her friends raving about in the bathroom last year, and instantly, it came up with only three followers on it.

"Hey, you think this dress would be okay?" I asked, and immediately, three dots appeared as he typed.

"Fuck, no."

"How do you even know where it is?"

"You used your real account, sunshine."

"How did you even know? I have no pictures of myself, and there's nothing about me on this account." I typed back and waited for a response.

There was nothing; no dots, nothing.

Has he gone offline? I asked myself.

There was nothing for the next five minutes, until the dots appeared again.

"There's nothing about you that I am not aware of," he replied.

His reply made me purse my lips as I stood staring at my phone with a confused expression.

What does that mean? I asked myself, moving to type it to him.

But before I could ask, another text came in;

"We're going shopping. Come out in the next ten minutes."*