Page 72 of Death Game: Supernatural Battle

I gladly obeyed in a bid to hide my glare. I loathed Harriet Gregorian for many reasons. At the very top of that list was what she did to Tommy. The other girls may have held her down and ripped her clothes off with varying degrees of enthusiasm, but Harriet was the instigator. She was stupid and vicious to the core. The most dangerous combination in the world.

“Basilia,” Francesca spoke from behind me. “Do you know Miss Gregorian?”

My lips twitched. That little brat. She’d done her homework. “The name does ring a bell. One of my maids, perhaps?”

The artist drew away, and I opened my eyes to witness Harriet’s thin-lipped reaction.

“I thought you went to school together?” Francesca said, tapping her lip.

“We did,” Harriet said, recovering. “We moved in different circles.”

I moved by myself is what she meant.

Tilting my face to each side to check my appearance, I then winked at Harriet, drawling, “Honey, we still do.”

Francesca’s blue eyes met mine and her lips curled. She directed Harriet into the seat beside me and disappeared again.

Yeah, right.

Like she wouldn’t listen to every word.

My phone buzzed.

What’s so funny?

I typed a reply to Kyros.

Francesca brought in my high school arch nemesis to mess with me.

I’d fought off a psychotic vampire and it was hard to be anything but amused by Francesca’s ploy, but maybe I’d dial up my reaction and make her feel like she’d won. Of all the siblings, Francesca kept me at the greatest distance. This could be a good time to build a bridge.

“I hope you checked into rehab after the appalling scene at your grandmother’s funeral,” Harriet said as the hairstylist started work on her.

I smiled at her in the mirror. “Not yet, actually. Maybe you could give me the name of the one you last attended.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Everyone was talking about what you did. What an embarrassment you made of Agatha.”

“You knew her so well.”

“Everyone knew her well enough. Most of my childhood was spent at your estate.”

That was a stretch of the fucking truth.

Unfortunately, Harriet had latched onto one subject that would get to me. The secret to dealing with rich bitches was to never let them know. “Then you knew what she thought of you, Harry.”

The curse of being called Harriet—the nickname, Harry. It had always sent her into a tantrum. Her emerald-green eyes flashed daggers.

“No one knows what anyone really thinks of them,” she shot back.

I tossed my hair. “You don’t know what I think of you? You sure?” Winking at the man styling her hair, I stage-whispered, “She knows.”

He smirked, wiping it away when Harriet lifted her glare to him.

“That Gregorian temper of yours is showing, darling,” I said, inspecting my manicured nails. They’d painted them plum to match my lips. The tone was more severe than I tended to wear, but maybe I should give it a go sometime.

“You think you’re so fucking above everyone, Basilia. Guess what, you aren’t shit without your name. Being a Le Spyre doesn’t make you untouchable.”

She was spot on. I wasn’t shit without my last name. Been there, experienced that.

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