Page 599 of Filthy Elites

“Thanks. I thought I was going to meet the principal.”

Not that I’m overly keen to meet them, I just want to report what happened between that guy and me. I can’t allow something like that to slide. That asshole grabbed my neck and threatened me. I don’t care who he is; nobody does that to me and gets away with it. He just caught me off guard.

Perhaps I should find out who the asshole is first, however, before I report him. It would be best to have a name.

Maybe Isabelle can help with that. I’ll wait for the right moment to ask. Or maybe I’ll see him again and point him out.

“My dad—Principal Kolyav is my father.” She rolls her eyes and chuckles. “He double-booked. So, you got stuck with me.”

“I hope that’s not a bad thing.” I lift a nervous brow and rock back on my heels.

“Nope. Not at all.” She lifts her chin a little higher and rivets her gaze to mine. “I’m not a sheep. I make my own rules.”

At her comment, a light of understanding passes between us that instantly puts me at ease, and I feel that maybe, just maybe, I might make it here for whatever time I need.

The recollection of what I plan to do to get myself away from this life makes me shudder, but I push the thought to the back of my mind.

“I really appreciate that.”

“I thought you would. Want to start with the tour?”

“Sure.”

“Cool, we’ll be passing your locker on the way.”

She tilts her head to the side, motioning for me to follow her, so I do, and we proceed down the glossy hallway, which doesn’t look that much different from Portman High in L.A. The floors here are marble, though.

Marble in a school—it says a lot.

For the next few hours, Isabelle shows me around, gives me a tour of the school and grounds, and talks excitedly about the classes she’ll be doing this year. She’s an artist and will be doing an art degree when she goes to college.

I have my heart set on UCLA. Because of Mom’s refusal to do anything I want, only my crazy plans can get me there.

Isabelle and I bond over anime, and I find out I was right about the whole Lolita thing. She adores it and loves many of the same shows I do.

It’s actually great talking to her, and soon I don’t see those casting me bad looks or whispering about me.

I won’t hold my breath, though. People can show you whatever face they want you to see for different reasons, different instances, different days.

Back in L.A., I learned the hard way with my so-called friends.

At lunchtime, we sit on the bleachers, deciding to eat out there because the weather is great.

That’s when I see my nemesis again.

I was about to take a bite out of my club sandwich when he emerged with his minions like a dark storm cloud.

They walk across the quad with the type of confidence most would kill for. Like they’re gods. Like they own the place.

I can tell from the way everyone else acts around them that they’re treated as such—which is not good for me.

My monster zeroes in on me, his glare so potent I feel like I’m being skewered by a spear.

Quickly, I look away and meet Isabelle’s concerned expression. Seeing my unease, she straightens and narrows her eyes.

“Who is that?”I ask.

“That’s Chad Volkova and his crew of assholes we call the Titans. Don’t mind them, or him,” she says in a determined voice. “Hopefully, he’ll leave you alone if you don’t run into him.”

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