Page 8 of Cruel Prep (Princes of Ravenlake Academy 1)

None of them know a thing about heartache. Not like she does. Not like we both do.

She is staring straight ahead, her mouth pulled down at the corners as it so often is, but when she hears the crunch of my steps on the gravel, she turns to me and pastes a big smile on her face.

“Hey, baby girl. How was your first day?”

I shrug. “Fine.”

“Did you make any friends?”

I think back to Finn and Dallas and Cora. I met people, at least. Only time will tell if they are actually going to be my friends. Though, I have a good feeling about Cora. She seemed nice.

“I met a few people,” I admit. “I think I’m really going to like my art class.”

“Of course you will,” she says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and leading me down the sidewalk that wraps around the school to the side parking lot where she parked our ancient, rusted-out Honda. “You filled three sketchbooks over the summer. If you don’t get an A in art class, this school is rigged.”

I hear a car horn honking. Both Mom and I turn our heads. It’s Cora.

She is sitting in a tiny red sports car with the sun roof open. Her red hair is blowing as she sticks her head through the window and waves to me and my mom. “Can Lily come to my house? We’re going to get ready for the party tonight together.”

“Party?” my mom asks. But before I can explain that I forgot to tell her about it, she pats me on the shoulder and waves away her own question. “I can’t believe you’re making new friends so fast. Go if you want to, sweetheart.”

“She’s going to sleep at my house tonight too if that’s okay, Mrs. DeVry?” Cora asks.

My mom gives her a thumbs-up and kisses my forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have fun.”

Cora gives me a wicked grin and throws open the passenger door. I climb in, feeling a little guilty about leaving Mom, but she waves her fingers at me in a cheery goodbye wave.

Then Cora smashes the gas and we zoom out of the parking lot, leaving Ravenlake Prep in the rearview mirror—thank the fucking Lord.

It’s a short drive to Cora’s house. She lives in a gated community—duh—and everything is just so… much.

The exterior looks like the setting for a Jane Austen romance novel—stone walls, extravagant landscaping, and climbing ivy and flowers over the trellises.

Cora’s room, however, is another level of extravagant.

The walls are covered in a thick white wallpaper with silver details that catch the light and make everything sparkle. Her bed frame is also white and tufted with a fluffy white comforter and pink accents. A pink, oversized chair is tufted in the same way as the headboard and sits inside a bay window with fur throws and pillows piled over it.

Textures and colors and patterns in every direction. There isn’t a bit of boring, bland space in the room. Every inch has been exquisitely designed, including her closet.

Cora’s closet is as big as the motel room I’m sharing with Mom, with a small bench in the middle of the room and rack upon rack of designer clothes and shoes and coats and purses. It feels like walking into a Gucci store.

“Pick whatever you want,” she says when she sees how my mouth has fallen open. “Seriously. Because you can’t go to Finn’s house wearing that.”

Finn’s house.

I’d almost forgotten the party was going to be at Finn’s house.

She pours us each a glass of champagne. We spend the next hour trying on clothes, twisting my hair into a hundred different styles, and trying to get me to stand confidently in a pair of heels.

“I can’t,” I whimper as I grip the nearby curtain for support. It is softer than my bedsheets and somehow smells like roses. “I’m going to break my ankle.”

Cora has been encouraging me, but I can tell she is growing frustrated. I understand. I’m frustrated, too.

“Fine. You can wear your sneakers,” she says. “It’s a little ‘stereotypical quirky girl’ to wear beat-up sneakers with a party dress, but you can pull it off.”

I gratefully slip out of the stilettos and pull my familiar high-tops back on. Then, I walk over to the closet and study myself in the mirror.

The silvery sparkly dress is barely more than a slip. The straps are merely a piece of thread over my shoulder, holding up two triangular bits of fabric to cover my boobs. The neckline plunges low across my chest, showing off a good amount of cleavage, and the hemline only comes to my mid-thigh.

---