Page 147 of Twisted Hearts

In the last year, though, The Plan has changed. Sort of. It’s been “recolored,” as Jill, my father’s new PR chief, put it. Because The Plan now involves a lot more than me.

The Plan now involves my father possibly becoming the next Vice President of the United States.

Currently, my dad is the US Secretary of State. Which, I’m under zero illusions, is almost entirely why and how I’m at Oxford Hills. It’s the power and prestige he wields, not the money. We were never struggling when I was growing up. My dad did well as a Naval officer and lawyer with the military courts.

But there’s “doing well” for normal people, and then there’s “doing well” for the kind of people whose kids go to Oxford Hills.

And Oxford Hills is in a class entirely its own.

The students here are the upper echelon—the elite of the world’s elite. The sons and daughters of billionaire tycoons, oligarchs, and royalty—literal, real royalty. I’m from an upper-middle-class suburb and public school. The other students here are from actual castles, or houses with their own zip codes, and have never washed a single teaspoon.

But six months ago, my dad was approached by Senator George North. The New York Senator is highly speculated, by the entire political media spectrum, to be the next President of the United States. He’s already gotten a thumbs-up from the soon to be exiting current POTUS, and his team has picked my father to be his potential running mate when he announces.

Six months ago, life gotverycomplicated. Suddenly, public school and the burbs wasn’t enough. Being a model student with the highest marks possible wasn’t enough. No, I needed “elite status.” I needed “pedigree.”

I needed “a social life.”

So, here I am: out of DC and across the ocean to the bucolic English countryside where Oxford Hills sits. Here, my image will be “perfected” by elite classes, elite friends, and an eliteboyfriend.

My mouth tightens at the very thought of it.

Patrick North, Senator North’s son, is also at Oxford Hills. Though, he’s been here for the last three years, given that his father is a US Senator and billionaire investor. Granted, I’m not a political PR expert. But the idea of the soon-to-be-President’s son dating the soon-to-be-Vice-President’s daughter seems… gross to me. Jill and the PR team, however, thinks it’s a slam-dunk for the polls. Senator North agrees, and my dad seems to just be along for the wild ride.

So now I have a new school, a new country, and a new fake boyfriend to pose for the cameras with.

But at least the new roommate is all sorts of awesome. Charlotte’s like me. Which is to say, being here gives her imposter-syndrome to the max, too. Char’s been at Oxford Hills for a year already. But like me, she doesn’treallybelong here.

A little over a year ago, Charlotte’s mother, a very regular, normal schoolteacher from a London suburb, married the King—the actual, real King—of the small country of Luxlordia. That makes Charlotte an actual, real princess. Or, to a “normal” person like me, it does. To other royalty, it makes her an imposter.

That’s basically how we became fast friends two months ago when we were notified we’d be roommates this term at Oxford Hills. A single phone call turned into almost nightly FaceTiming, and now we’re best friends. And all because of the joke that the only reason we’ve been put together as roommates is because we’re the “imposters.”

The faux princess and the presidential race prop.

“Tenley.”

Her voice snaps me out of my own head.

“You can’t—”

“Charlotte, I’ll befine,” I smile. Even though inside, my stomach knots. My heart clenches along with my fingers into the palm of my hand. I’m trying to be brave. But I can’t help but feel like I’m about to walk right into the lion’s den.

Or The Wolf’s, as the case may be.

I glance outside through the elegant paned windows at the rain pouring down on the English countryside. I pull up the hood of my burgundy raincoat and turn back to the mirror. My blue eyes meet their reflection. I tuck an errant lock of red hair behind my ear, under the hood, and I take a breath.

Okay, I can do this. It’s all for The Plan. And Supreme Court Justice and Time Magazine Person of the Year Tenley Chambers isnotafraid of the Big Bad Wolf.

I glance back at Charlotte, curled on the couch, and smile. “I’ll be back in an hour or so I guess.”

“Yeah, unless heeats you,” she mumbles with a worried frown. I roll my eyes, wave, and turn to head out the door into the rain.

Ilya Volkov isnotgoing to eat me.

Student housing at Oxford Hills is quaint, but moneyed. There aren’t big buildings full of dorms with communal bathrooms or anything like at other private schools. Students are paired two to a “cottage”—whimsically beautiful Tudor-style houses arranged in quads with three others just like it, with a shared, gorgeously manicured and landscaped backyard area.

Each cottage has a downstairs kitchen—though there’s a Great Hall dining area that serves three meals and two teas a day—a study library and living room. Upstairs, there are two bedrooms with private bathrooms, and a common area between them.

Outside, I tighten my hood against the downpour and trudge across campus. The housing address for Ilya that the student services office gave me simply says “Lordship Manor.” I haven’t explored much of campus since I moved in three days ago. But an online map had it situated on the far side of the stables—yes, there are stables—and past the archery range. Yes, there’s an archery range.

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