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My nose wrinkles. “Not like it used to be.”

Stella understands things better than people give her credit for. She gives me a solemn nod. “Family is about more than DNA and zip codes. Eventually, they’ll remember that.”

Her statement isn’t as comforting as it should be. When I decided to become Princess, I always knew I’d have the Dukes and West End to lean on because theyweremy family. But learning the truth about Ashby being my father…that changes things, even if it shouldn’t. There are too many secrets. Too many unknowns. One of those unknowns includes who exactly is the father of the baby I’m carrying.

It’s something I try to push out of my mind because what does it matter? They’ll all claim it as theirs, but the more layers that are uncovered—generations of lies and deceit, I wonder more than ever: what the hell have I gotten myself into?

* * *

Ballsack wins his fight.

I know this because Stella spends the whole weekend gushing about it, which somehow necessitates a complete recounting of just how much his muscles rippled when he took out a ‘scrawny’ Beta Rho.

By the time Monday rolls around, I’m grateful for the excuse to get out, even if it means standing like a statue for my weekly ‘favors’ from PNZ. It’s the beginning of my third week in West End, and with every gift I take, I can hear the clock ticking in the back of my mind. In less than two weeks, I’ll be traded back to the Ashbys, and the gnawing unease in the pit of my stomach grows more turbulent with each day that brings me closer.

I spend my poli-sci class sucking doggedly on the candies, and when I rush to my stats class—a required math elective—I come to a sudden stop at the scent of ginger in the air. I’ve recently discovered that the professor is an ex-Prince, which is both horrifying and convenient. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve caught him staring at my belly with a wistful expression, only snapping out of it when I cover my midsection with my bag. But he gives me liberties the other students lack, and I find a new one waiting for me.

“For you, Princess,” he says, gesturing to the table by the door. On it sits a steaming electric kettle, paper cups, a bowl of fresh ginger, and teabags.

If I turn to make myself a cup, it’s mostly just to stop him from staring.

I think about it during the lecture, wondering who’s responsible. Stella is a possibility, but it’s far more likely that it was Lex himself. The thought sits uneasily on my tongue as I sip the tea down. On a day like today, any attention from my Princes is suspicious.

At the end of class, I don’t wait until the room has emptied before slinging my bag over a shoulder and pushing to my feet, snagging up my cup. I walk with the pulsing throng of students down the hallway, feeling their heat against me.

Hopefully, Lex doesn’t realize just how useful this tea is.

A skinny LDZ member I recognize from my Life Painting class bumps into me. Or, well, that’s how it seems—especially to any eyes watching from a camera. I gasp, the tea splashing all down my front, and the LDZ guy whips around, an apology on his lips.

Until he realizes who I am.

His mouth pulls up with a mean snicker. “Check it out. The Princess’ tits are already leaking.”

Around him, other people join in the laughter, hot rage grasping my diaphragm as I chuck the cup into a nearby bin. Warmth rises to my cheeks, and I make a show of searching around me for an escape. As planned, however, I find it right beside me.

The door to the women’s restroom.

I shove through it, the sound of their jeers still audible even when the door slams shut. I don’t give myself time to dwell on it, though. That’s what the frat members—all of them, each house—fail to understand. They’re pawns in this game just as much as I am. We’re all serving our Royalty in one way or another. The difference between me and them is that I know it.

I scan beneath the stalls, and when I’m sure it’s clear, duck into the one at the end of the row, knowing no one else would ever use it. Its reputation for having a peephole somewhere in the tiles generally keeps people away.

Working quickly, I pull out my ancient MP3 player and find the track I’m looking for, hoping the audio is good enough to reach any prying ears. The moment I hit the play button, my soft sniffles fill the room. In about three minutes, they’ll transform to sobbing, then five minutes later, back down into strained hiccups. This will eventually evolve into the sound of wet, awful retching. Oh yes, I’m an absolute mess in here. This is definitely not a stall to be approached by the feeble of spirit.

I have twenty minutes altogether.

Wasting no time, I run my fingers along the tile, searching. It’s amusing to think people believe there’s a peep hole in this stall, as if any man in Forsyth could ever be so restrained as to onlylook.

There isn’t a peephole.

There’s a whole-ass access door.

It pops open silently, allowing me to heave the tiled panel to rest against the other side of the stall. Dusting my hands off, I bend down to peer inside, pulling a face: darkness and spiderwebs. There’s nothing for it, though. We’ve been meticulously planning this meeting for two weeks, and this might be the only chance I get.

Bracing myself with a long inhale, I push a foot inside the hole, crouch, and duck inside.

It’s not my first time in this dusty hollow between the women’s toilet and the main utility access room. I did a bit of a dry run last Wednesday to verify its usefulness, so I know the general location of the next access door.

Holding my breath, I push the panel outward.