Page 207 of Wicked Brutal

Penny frowns. “It’s prom.”

“Yes, Penelope. I’m aware.” Penny’s mouth tightens at her full name. Bella looks back at me. “Have it made.”

“Made?”

“Custom.” Becca’s eyes light up. Bella continues. “If your father’s going to be a pain in the ass about what you’re wearing, don’t lock yourself into something now. Find a designer who can build it in stages. Pick the fabric and the basic silhouette, then have the final structure and the fitting done right before prom.”

Nobody speaks. Because — holy shit. Bella looks between us. “What?”

“Nothing,” Penny says quickly. Her eyes meet mine. A dress that isn’t finished until right before prom. A dress that can change with me.

Becca slowly smiles. “I fucking love you.”

Bella looks at her. “Understandable.”

I laugh. Bella’s eyes flick to me. Something about her expression softens for half a second. Then it’s gone.

She adjusts the book under her arm. “My mother knows someone in Manhattan. She does private fittings.”

Becca nods immediately. “Send me her name.”

Bella pulls out her phone. Of course Becca already has her number. I don’t know why that surprises me. Their families have probably been orbiting the same rooms since before either of them could walk. Bella types something.

Becca’s phone buzzes. “There.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t make it emotional.”

Bella’s mouth twitches. Penny watches the entire exchange with an expression I can’t read. Cat mostly looks fascinated. Bella starts away again. This time nobody stops her.

The bell rings before we can pull up another dress.

We gather our things. Penny and Cat head toward the science wing. Becca has a meeting with her guidance counselor before her next class, which leaves me walking toward English alone.

Bella is ten feet ahead of me. She glances back. Sees me. Keeps walking. Fine by me. I’ve never been alone with Bella Whelan. I’m not entirely sure anyone is supposed to be alone with Bella Whelan. It feels like something Edgewood should require a permission slip for. I almost smile at the thought.

We’re halfway down the corridor when she slows. Not enough that we’re walking together. Enough that I’m no longer ten feet behind her. For a few seconds, neither of us says anything. Then—

“Do you love him?”

I look at her. “What?”

Bella keeps her eyes ahead. “Victor.”

My stomach tightens. “What about him?”

“That wasn’t my question.”

I grip the strap of my bag. “Why are you asking?”

She shrugs. “Curious.”

“About my engagement?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

I stare at the side of her face. “You asked if I love my fiancé.”