Page 292 of Poor Little Rich Girl

Claudia races off the gangplank and plonks down beside me. She pries my hand from my face. “Eli, look at me. I need you to tell me everything. Is she working with Nero? We have to figure out what they’re planning. I’ll get George to sort you out with some hidden microphones and—”

“No.” The word comes out harsh. I need… I need to get the words out before I go insane. I grip Claudia’s hand so hard she winces. “She didn’t come to see Nero. She came to—to ask me to the Valentine’s dance.”

“I don’t understand.”

I swallow. “I thought she was you at first. She was pretending to be you. But when we kissed, I knew—”

“Hang on, you kissed her?” Murder burns in Claudia’s eyes.

“She kissed me. We were hiding in one of the private rooms because I didn’t want Nero to overhear our conversation. I thought you – she – came to tell me about the duke, but instead—”

“Wait, what about the duke?” Antony demands. He unscrews the cap on his water bottle and dumps the contents over his head. Noah limps over to our table and takes the chair opposite, pinching his nose and tilting his head back in an attempt to staunch the bleeding.

I take a deep breath and explain everything, even the bit about how I couldn’t bring myself to shoot Mackenzie. By the time I’m done, all three of them are staring at me like I grew a third arm. I brace myself to be berated for cowardice, but that’s not what happens.

“This is next level insane, even for Mackenzie,” Noah says.

“You can say that again,” Antony growls. He paces between the tables, his hands in fists at his sides, the vein above his right eye throbbing. “What the fuck is she playing at?”

“She must’ve known we’d figure this out,” Claws says. “Eli would get home and quite quickly figure out we’d never had that conversation at Vault. She’s taunting us, making it clear that she could be anywhere in this city at any time, pretending to be me, fucking up my plans. That I’m only holding on to my crown by her pleasure. One word to Nero from her and I’m toast.”

“What do we do?” I ask. “There’s no counter to this move.”

“Leave it to me,” Antony says. “I’ve had a lead on where she might be hiding. I’ll take the boys in before Lupercalia and sort her out.”

“Count me in,” Noah growls.

“Thank you.” Claws squeezes my hand back. Her shoulders sag with relief, but her eyes betray her unease.

We’re not out of the woods until her sister is dead and buried.

Noah

“I don’t understand why we have to do it here,” I complain as we slide out of the car and move along the red carpet toward the entrance of Vault.

“Because parties like this are the perfect places to gather secrets.” Claudia smiles, waving to the cameras that line either side of the carpet, snapping away at celebrities and their spoiled offspring. Stonehurst is that kind of school. A long line of hopefuls from school who don’t have alumni connections wait at the door to the club, calling out to me and Gabe and Claws in the hope we’ll invite them to join our crew.

“Then why is Gabe with us? He can’t even keep his fly closed. No way is he good at secrets.”

“I’m here because you have the personality of a sledgehammer.” Gabe claps him on the shoulder. “This kind of work requires a little finesse.”

I punch Gabe in the shoulder. It’s meant to be a friendly tap, but I’ve been hanging out in the ring too much lately, and I send him sailing into velvet rope. Real fear flashes in Gabe’s eyes before he rights himself, smoothing down the lapels of his pinstriped suit and flashing me that shit-eating grin of his.

“I’m sorry, man.” I hold out my hand as the cameras snap merrily away. “Don’t know my own strength.”

Play it cool, Noah.

I’m on edge tonight. Jumpy, fueled by the knowledge of what we’ve come here to do. I’m liable to put someone through a wall instead of shaking their hands. Good thing Claudia clings to my arm, her sleek, don’t-fuck-with-me attitude keeping my simmering rage under wraps. For now.

After my uncouth display, I half-expect us to be turned around at the door, but of course we’re ushered right inside where a smug waiter takes our coats. We join the flow of eager college hopefuls and their parents as they swarm into the club. The stage has been dismantled to make way for round tables and some college displays.

The ceiling drips with strings of golden beads and crystal chandeliers, and everywhere I turn my head I see the glitter of gold and diamonds adorning blueblood necks and wrists and ears. A string band plays in the corner, their soporous music drowned out by the hum of networking and backhanded compliments.

“Who are all these people?” Claudia asks. “I see hardly anyone I recognize from school.”

“This party isn’t for us, it’s for our parents. It’s where the ultra-rich meet to grease the wheels of capitalism,” I murmur. My father has been dragging me to parties like this since I could walk – it’s in rooms like this that he makes the friends who’ve built his political career, and who he hopes will one day carry him to the White House. A waiter appears at our side, holding out a tray of drinks. I mean, we’ve obviously both under twenty-one, but who cares? The cops won’t be breaking up this party. I throw mine back as I search the crowd for my father. I see him in the corner, chatting to a hedge fund manager and a big-shot film producer, and Vincent Bloomberg.

“Who’s he’s talking to?” Claws asks.

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