Page 155 of Filthy Elites

Grayson gives me three days.

To move out.

To buy a frat-boy appropriate wardrobe.

To cut and dye my hair.

I won’t pretend it didn’t physically hurt to cut my hair. Watching the layers of platinum blonde pile up on the floor of the salon’s floor was like taking the point of the scissors in my soul. I’d worked so hard to perfect it. It was part of my identity. Now it’s garbage in a landfill.

The style is short, cut above my ears, and trimmed to the nape. The front is longer—surprisingly curlier than I expected. All that weight had been holding it down. Now it’s a top-notch frat swoop that suits my feminine features.

Grayson gawked at me for a full minute when I let him into my dorm that morning. The good thing about living on a hall with all guys is that they notice nothing and most barely get moving before noon.

“Stop staring at me.” I grab his arm and pull him in the room. “And don’t lurk out there like some freak creeper.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not staring. I just… you look so different.”

“Don’t remind me.” I’m not wearing makeup and my boobs are smashed down with a compression tank top, the kind runners wear for races. My outfit is decidedly frat bro; a pink button down and baggy khaki pants. Footwear is a depressing pair of low top Chuck Taylor’s.

“The meeting is at four. It’s a formality, really. All your paperwork is lined up. You’re a last-minute transfer, which is why you missed phase one of rush. The letter Royer received from the Council is enough to get you an invitation.”

I don’t know exactly who on the council sent the letter, but apparently, they’re some God-like figure in Zeta Sigma. One word and protocol is completely forgotten. Theodore Hart is approved for initiation.

Well, after I meet with the officers.

“There’s no way I’m getting past them. They’re totally going to catch me.”

Grayson’s eyes sweep over me, landing on my legs. “Not if you sit like that, you won’t.”

I look down. “What’s the problem?” I ask, forcing myself not to ask what’shisproblem.

“You’re crossing your legs like a woman.” He pushes my top leg off the other. “Spread them out a little.”

“You mean I need to manspread.”

He laughs. “Yep. Own that chair and all the space around it.”

I let my legs droop apart, taking up more room. “Okay, what else?”

The list is extensive. Apparently, even dressed as a dude, I have too many tells—I’m too feminine from the way I carry myself, the way I keep trying to touch my phantom hair is “girly” and I need to exude more confidence. We practice the way I walk and stand and how to force a lower octave to my voice. By the time I’m standing inside the front room at the Zeta Sigma house hours later, I’m exhausted, confused, and just hope I don’t sweat through my shirt.

There is no way I’m fooling these guys; two of whom I’ve been intimate with. This is a bad, stupid, insane idea. I’m staring at a portrait of some old guy—the founder of the fraternity or something, trying to figure out how to bail, when I hear, “You must be Theo.”

Royer’s voice sends a multitude of emotions through me. Anger, sadness, fear. The flickering memories of the times we’d all hung out together, me, him, Andrea, and Miller, and realizing how they’d been playing a game all along. I take a deep breath and focus on the one thing I want the most: revenge.

I turn and raise my hand to tuck my nonexistent hair behind my ear, but I stop, dropping my arm to my side. Words lodge in my throat and I just nod, trying not to notice the irony of us wearing nearly matching clothes.

“I’m Royer.” He offers his hand. I stare at it and blink for a moment before thrusting out my own. “President of Zeta Sigma.”

“Theo Hart,” I push out, keeping my voice under control. Or trying to. If he notices the size of my hand or the fact that it’s petite, I can’t tell. But if I’ve learned one thing about Royer in the past few days, it’s that he’s a very capable liar. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

“I’ll admit it’s unconventional to allow someone to roll in after open recruiting, but your references are top-notch.”

He ushers me to the small sitting room I’d been spying on him in just days before. My eyes flick to the butler's pantry, but the door is open, assuring that no one is hiding inside. I force myself to look at the other two men in the room, Miller and Knox, although I skirt over Miller as quickly as possible. I’m afraid that if I look him in the eye, I’ll break and fling myself across the room to strangle him. He possibly fooled me more than anyone. Holding the video over my head for months, knowing it made no difference. He’s the one that had me on my knees, lying and playing me for the fool. I swallow back the bitter taste of bile on my tongue.

“Theo,” Royer says, “This is Miller Hansen our VP and Knox Bradbury our secretary.”

I don’t know Knox well, but I’m aware that he’s on the varsity rowing team and a contender for the Olympics. I know Royer respects him, but that he has to split his duties with training and the frat. He doesn’t stand, thankfully, or it would be even more obvious how small I am. He’s over six feet with broad shoulders and an unnatural wingspan. I do know that I’ve never seen him with the same girl twice.

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