Page 26 of The Bargain

An unexpected complication in this little plan of mine. I always assumed Desdemona’s boyfriends rose to popularity because her friends liked them—not despite the fact they didn’t.

“You’re nothing like Julian.”

I look up, surprised. So far, Desdemona’s maintained her stoic silence, letting the conversation happen around her like a queen being carried through a noisy crowd in a gold palanquin. Now, her eyes meet mine, that intriguing brown, warm and glacial all at once.

“No?” I say softly, fingers dipping underneath the hem of her blazer, touching her back through her school shirt. The fabric is hot from her skin, which I suddenly wish I were touching. “Must mean you actually like me, then.”

She holds my gaze for a moment, then huffs out a low breath of annoyed laughter.

It’s reluctant as hell, but for a split second, I feel something between us that’s almost real. Before I can put my finger on what it is, though—before I can rationalise it—Julian bursts into a theatrically loud laugh. Everyone’s heads swing to look at him, which I’m sure is exactly what he intended.

“Thought you were smarter than that, Noxie,” he says, his tone artificially friendly, the same way it was the first time I met him—when he tried to get me to buy drugs for him and his rich mates. “Aren’t you too old to believe in fairy tales?”

I glance at him. His eyes are fixed on me, his lips slightly curled like there’s a bad smell but he’s too polite to say anything.

“You see, in fairy tales, princesses marry paupers,” Julian continues smugly. “In real life, though, princesses don’t marry paupers—they experiment with them.”

I’ve kissed enough rich girls to know this is the truth. Maybe if Desdemona and I were actually together, his words would hurt. But to my surprise, it’s Desdemona who stiffens. I press my fingers into her spine, a silent reassurance.

“Wouldn’t mind being your experiment, love,” I say to her, low and intimate enough that Julian can’t hear. His face goes red, and his jaw clenches, and I can practically see him repress the urge to crane closer, to hear what we’re saying.

Desdemona squirms on my lap, her discomfort palpable only in her body. “That’s not what I’m doing,” she says, as though stung.

“But you could,” I murmur. “If you fancied.” I smile warmly up at her. “Why not?”

I let my hand drop to her waist, pressing her slightly closer. And maybe it’s a show, part for her, and part for Julian, but it also feels good, to have her close. Not quite pretend. It feels even better to see the sudden hitching of her breath, sharp rise of her chest, messy flush in her cheeks.

Is she considering it?

Julian’s self-control finally snaps; he plays his trump card.

“Can’t wait to hear all about how you two met, Dessie,” he says, loud and cheerful. “At the Cyprian.”

This time, it’s my turn to stiffen ever so slightly. I hate to let Julian land a blow, but I can’t help the sinking feeling in my chest. Fuck. The Cyprian.

Every thirteenth Friday, the crème de la crème of Spearcrest’s elites sneak off campus and pile into limousines to go to London, where they get up to all sorts of decadence at the exclusive club.

I’m not one for decadence—but if there’s anything I’ve learned in Spearcrest, it’s that real networking doesn’t happen in classrooms and boardrooms. It happens in smoky VIP booths with thousand-pound bottles of champagne sweating in a bucket and a girl sucking CBV lollipops on someone’s lap.

The exact kind of place I couldn’t hope to access in a million years.

At the mere sound of the word, the entire table comes alive.

“That’s tomorrow?” Mira says, startled, sitting upright. “Already?”

“Don’t you dare say you don’t have anything to wear,” Emerald snaps.

“I don’t!”

“Dimitri’s going to get so fucking drunk,” Blaise says, shaking his head. Natalya stiffens at his side, but he doesn’t notice. “Such a waste of good champagne.”

Voices overlap around me. I sit still, silent, shovelling food into my mouth with a completely blank expression on my face, letting the conversation wash over me. This isn’t a reminder of how little I exist to these people, I tell myself. This is just a reminder of how far I’ve got left to climb.

I’m not giving up.

“Elias is coming.” Desdemona’s voice, composed and calm as usual, cuts right through the noise.

There’s a moment of total silence. Even I’m taken aback. I stare up at her, blinking. She’s staring straight at Julian, whose expression is one of mingled shock and derision. In response, Desdemona throws an arm around my shoulder.