Page 8 of Wicked Prince

It's a matter of control. He knows he has it, and he is not a man accustomed to relinquishing it.

Ever.

Unfortunately for us both, that's another way I take after him. If he thinks he's going to send me to Bainbridge to have me tamed, groomed, and collared, he has another thing coming, but I have to bide my time. An opportunity will come eventually, but if I run now, I know it would only be a matter of days—maybe hours—before his enforcers catch me.

For one thing, I have no money. The house was in Dad's name, and all the money from the jobs I worked through high school went toward household stuff. Running isn't just about getting your foot through the door, it requires planning and a place to runto. Plane fare, a safe house, a new phone that can't be used to track my location, and enough cash saved up to live off of since credit cards pose a similar issue.

It all costs money, and that's not a resource I have right now.

Time and patience, however, I have in abundance.

I just have to remember that.

Francis arrives to pick me up in a big black SUV rather than the usual town car, but he seriously overestimated how much shit I have to lug to the dorms. He probably just assumes I had more things sent to the hotel, but what I got off the plane with is really all I brought, and he looks surprised. Whether it's out of pity or awkwardness, he doesn't comment on it as he loads my luggage into the back and opens the door for me.

Once we're on the road, I decide to try my luck even though I'm sure my behavior last night has already become the talk of the house. No one mouths off to Miceli Carillo, or at least not many who live to tell the tale. Given the fact that Francis seems even stiffer than usual, he's not immune to the family gossip.

The moment the academy comes into view, the chaos of last night is just a distant memory. I thought the hotel's architecture was impressive, but the towering spires of the great stone building in the distance make it look like a hovel in comparison.

It's far from the only building on campus, too. There are two rows of smaller stone buildings lining a massive walkway leading up to the main hall. The central building is at least five stories tall, and there's a domed roof sitting between the two peaks that makes the whole thing look like some kind of medieval castle covered in ivy.

I've seen pictures of the academy online, but not a single one did it any justice. Not even the looming iron gates that open for the SUV to pass through. There are iron letters in the top arch over the gate that read Bainbridge Academy. It's technically a college now, but the name is leftover from the days of its founding when it was originally a boarding school. The place all the elites send their children to form connections first and get an education second. From politicians to mob bosses on both coasts, this campus is crawling with blue bloods, the future overlords of tomorrow.

And now, I'm one of them.

What a complete joke.

As we drive through campus, I take in my lavish surroundings and all the other students who have already settled in. No one is wearing the uniform yet—another holdover from the boarding school days—and I immediately feel underdressed in my jeans and dark gray sweater. They all have that old money look. The guys wear designer sunglasses and blazers with their sleeves casually rolled up, and the girls are all slender, leggy model types who look like they stepped right out of Instagram.

Francis pulls up in front of a building a little wider than it is tall with a plain face and identical windows lining each of the four floors. I assume it's the dormitory, and when he gets out for my luggage, I realize I'm correct.

"It's okay," I tell him as he puts my bags on the curb and seems like he's about to turn the car off. "I can take it from here."

He hesitates, like he isn't sure he believes me. I know I'm not exactly a bodybuilder, but I don't think I lookthatweak.

"Really," I insist, lifting the heavier bag to prove it. "It's not a big deal. I'm on the first floor anyway."

He reluctantly nods. "Guess I'll leave you to it, then. Take care, Ms. Donovan."

"Thanks," I say, thinking about how that's just about the most he's spoken to me since we met. "You, too."

He stands by, and I realize he's going to watch until I go inside, so I head into the lobby and take a deep breath to prepare myself. This is it.

The lobby of the dorm is huge in itself, and I find myself in the center of an atrium with a tiled marble floor below and a ceiling with ornate crown molding above. It looks more like the lobby of a five-star hotel than a college dorm, and the front desk is no exception. There's an older woman behind it rather than the student worker I was expecting. She peers down her nose to give me a once-over, and I clearly look as out of place as I feel given the incredulity in her tone as she asks, "Can I help you?"

"I'm moving in," I say, taking out my driver's license. "Amelia Donovan, Room 117?"

She takes a look at my ID and frowns, entering something into her computer. She seems surprised she actually found something and reaches under her desk to pull out a small wallet. "Here is your key card. It’s connected to your account for the cafeteria, the bookstore, and all other payment venues on campus. Try not to lose it."

"I will," I say, slipping the small wallet back into my pocket along with my license. "Which way is 117?"

She looks irritated I'm still standing here and points down the hall. "Turn right at the end of the hall. You can't miss it."

"Thanks," I murmur, deciding to leave while I'm ahead.

On my way to my room, two girls pass by, laughing about something. They both give me a stray glance, and the giggle-snort from the one on the right as she leans in to whisper something to her friend tells me they just found a new joke.

So much for hoping the university might be different from high school. The only real difference I can see so far is that the assholes here wear Gucci.

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