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The text came in about an hour before the start time. The group title is labeled ‘The Court,’ and none of the girls are identified, but it’s followed by a flurry of heart emojis, baby rattles, and gold crowns.

Kill me now.

Except now is too late because Danner is already pulling the car up to a massive Victorian house with pale pink siding and a wide wraparound porch. A sign hangs from the eaves: The Gilded Rose.

I did a little research after breakfast, discovering that the spa is owned by a former Princess, Adeline Beckwith, and caters to the women of East End. Her services cover everything from deep tissue massage and hot stone treatments to out-there shit like vagina cleansing and, just like Wicker said, pussy and ass waxing.

“I’ll be outside if you need me,” Danner says, opening the car door for me. I’d told Stella to stay at home. No need for her to sit around while I got pampered in home territory. If these women are going to be petty bitches to me, then there’s no reason to offer her up for even more abuse.

The instant I step on the porch, the door swings open, and a big-haired, bleach-blonde woman lunges at me. “Verity Sinclaire!” She engulfs me in a hug. “I’ve been dying to meet you!”

I know this is Adeline, as her picture is displayed prominently on the website, and I try to wait an appropriate amount of time before disentangling myself. “It’s lovely to meet you, too.”

“Oh my gosh, you are the spitting image of your father,” she says, taking me in. I do the same. She’s younger than my mother, maybe in her mid-thirties. Every line in her face has been buffed out or smoothed away. “I should’ve known he was keeping a secret. Rufus Ashby is always full of surprises.”

Holding back a grimace, I simper, “Isn’t he?”

She gives my arms an aggressive rub. “You’re just adorable, you know that?” Before I can think of a response to this, she laughs, flapping a hand. “Come in, come in!”

I allow her to usher me inside the foyer. A huge bouquet of white roses sits on the circular table in the center of the space—the fragrance overwhelming. A wave of nausea strikes, and I force it down. “This place is beautiful.”

“It’s been in my family for five generations. My grandmother started it, then my mother took over, and then I became the keeper.” She bodily shoos me past the foyer, and I send up a silent prayer of thanks that Stella stayed home. Their dual energy would drain me in one breath. “The girls are all waiting for you in the lounge. They’re so excited!”

She leads me down a hallway, and I sense a theme. Everything is pink, from the patterned carpet runner on the floor to the brocade wallpaper. There are gold-framed photos on the walls, and from the hair and clothing being displayed, they go back decades. I pause in front of a black-and-white photo that’s captured an image of twelve girls dressed in pristine white—their faces obscured with masks. I can’t shake the knowledge that one of these delicate, poised girls walked out of that ballroom and sat on the same throne that ripped through my own hymen. Was it the one on the left? Or the small one in the middle? Maybe the curvy one in the back?

Was she as horrified as I was?

“This is… impressive,” I say, surveying the artifacts. “It’s like a museum.”

Adeline nods proudly. “The palace is a shrine to the men of East End. They have their Gentlemen’s Club and off-campus party houses, locker rooms, and trophies. The women in my family saw there was something that needed to be preserved—the history of the Princesses.” She stops and looks at a photo taken of a Valentine’s Day party. “We don’t have a sorority house, but we do have this.” She reaches out to carefully straighten a frame, and I get the sense she’s downed a lot of the Royal Kool-Aid. This is sacred to her—worth memorializing.

I’m not going to find any allies here.

We enter the lounge where the other girls are waiting. My ‘court’ turns out to be a half-dozen semi-familiar faces. Most were at the masquerade, all of them at the Valentine’s Day party as dates of the PNZ frat boys: the men who assaulted me at the Royal Cleansing.

It’s immediately obvious I’m overdressed in the high-waisted linen dress Stella pulled from my closet. The East End girls aren’t required to dress as properly as I am, setting their own fashion trends that they replicate like clones. This season they’re all about pristine white, or pastel pleated tennis skirts. They’re long enough to cover their asses, but flirty enough to give their boyfriends access to their cunts whenever they want it. Their jewelry is delicate, all gold or pearls. No silver. It’s a sea of over-processed, bleached hair and bad tans.

I try to put names to the faces, but honestly, I never paid much attention. Although one girl does stand out—or rather, her rounded belly does. Her boyfriend Colby Harker is the guy who OD’ed last month. Hand resting on her stomach, she watches from the back of the room with a tight expression.

I’m about to call this whole thing off when someone gets the guts to step forward. Lakshmi, a standout with her dark hair, flawless brown skin, and curvy figure. I remember Wicker lusting over her in the footage of the dressing room that day. “Verity, you look amazing. Such a natural glow.” Her eyes flit over me in assessment. “Pregnancy suits you.”

Behind her, I see Gina and Heather, the latter sipping on a glass of champagne, expression blank, and decidedly not making eye contact. Fair. She could still be recovering from a concussion.

“Thank you, this is really nice of you to do,” I reply, and a server walks over and offers me a glass.

“Sparkling cider, of course,” Adeline says, then gives me an exaggerated pout. “No bubbly for you. Gosh, but you’re such a tiny little thing! Are you sure there’s a baby in there?” A boisterous laugh jiggles her stiff hair.

The room falls silent, as if they’re waiting for an answer.

I give the sparkling cider a testing sip. “According to the blood test, sonogram, and hormonal changes, that’s the verdict.” Some of their expressions are satisfied, while a few other girls clumsily hide their disappointment. Clearing my throat, I do my best to cut through the awkwardness. “I was surprised to be invited to a celebration so early, though. This is so generous of you all.”

“It’s a tradition,” Gina says suddenly, repeating what Wicker said this morning. “My mother still talks about her day out with the girls when she got pregnant. She was so excited to hear that I was going to be part of your special day.” A few other girls nod, and it strikes me that any or all of them could be the result of a Princess pregnancy.

Well, that’s a sobering thought.

I sip my drink just for something to do with my hands, wishing it was alcohol. God, this is a fucking nightmare. I have no idea how to talk to these people. How to, as Wicker said, lead them. Thankfully, Adeline steps in.

“I’ve planned an exquisite treatment for you all today. I’ve heard our mama-to-be has had a rough time with morning sickness, so I figured we’d start with a hot stone massage and facial. We’ll follow that with a luxurious mani-pedi with one of our amazing nail designers, and then send you off with fabulous hair and makeup.” She leans over and whispers. “Don’t worry, your Prince contacted us with a very stern warning to leave you unwaxed. His demands will be honored.”