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Heather snorts. “Girl, he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what anyone looks like. He wants a functioning womb. Three out of the last four Princesses were failures, which means they’ve only hadonebaby in five years. My uncle was a Prince when he was at Forsyth,” she brags, fluffing her hair, “and he says Ashby is panicking.”

“Even if that’s true,” Gina says, nudging close to lower her voice, “there’s no fucking way he’s picking that girl over there with the tattoos. How’d she even get an invite? I know for a fact they don’t allow women with tats or extra piercings.”

“Connections I’m sure.”

They talk as easily to one another as the cutsluts do. I can’t decide if they know each other or if I’m the only one who feels awkward and alien, fumbling a tube of mascara from my makeup bag. It’s not that I’m not used to pretty girls, because the cutsluts have that sexy, hot girl vibe down to a science. Their entire duty at DKS is to be there for the guys, whether that means being their cheerleader in the ring, a study partner to get through a hard class, or a quick fuck in between bouts.

But these girls are different. They’re… classy? Sorority girls, probably. Royal adjacent stock—nieces, cousins, granddaughters of former members. They may look pretty, but there’s no doubt that under the thick layers of mascara and shiny waxed skin, there’s a cutthroat bitch who will do anything to become Princess.

One appears pretty quickly. “Hey, you. Redhead.” Heather says, her voice suddenly right beside me. “Don’t you belong to one of the Dukes?”

Stiffening, I realize Lakshmi and Gina are both watching, aggressively expectant. Trying to keep my voice strong and even, I answer, “I don’t belong to anyone.”

Lakshmi arches an eyebrow. “But you were supposed to be Duchess, weren’t you?”

Well.

That was the plan.

Mama B groomed, educated, andpreservedme for the Dukes. While the other girls around me, the cutsluts, could wear whatever they wanted—whatever the DKS liked best—I wasn’t allowed. I needed to be different. Special. The kind of girl men wanted but couldn’t have. The kind of girl coveted in Forsyth.

I think it would’ve happened too, if Nick Bruin hadn’t been assigned to handle Lavinia Lucia.

That job, that one assignment by Daniel Payne, had set the dominoes in motion. One that ousted me as the next Duchess and inserted Lavinia as their Queen. I’d be more upset if Lavinia wasn’t a perfect fit for her Dukes, or if she wasn’t such a good friend.

“No,” I answer, sighing. “That’s, uh, not in the cards anymore.”

There’s nothing in my cards, and that’s half the reason I came here. The one time I gave dating a shot, it was freshman year and it was clear I needed at least a little experience if I was going to be Duchess. It involved a dating app, a clever profile name–Rosilocks–and a ten-minute conversation with a guy that ended with him sending me a video of himself jerking off. It was the first time I’d seen a penis like that. Thick and taut and somehow aggressive. I blocked him immediately, but the videos kept coming, each more graphic than the last. Moral of the story: that’s what happens when non-Royals try dating in Forsyth. You attract the dregs of society and end up calling the police.

Heather crosses her arms. “Still, your connection to DKS should disqualify you.”

My pulse quickens, from anger just as much as embarrassment. “I was invited,” I say, voice clipped.

“That means she passed the medical exam,” Lakshmi says to Heather, mouth slanted skeptically.

I freeze, caught off guard. “Medical exam? I-I didn’t take any exam.”

Heather smirks. “You don’t take it, honey. Ashby does.”

“Your medical records.” Lakshmi gives me this indulgent look, like she’s speaking to a toddler. “Ashby consults all the offices and clinics, and they refer girls to him–only the cream of the fertilest crop.”

My face goes slack at the realization. Sothat’swhy my gyno appointment last month was so weirdly involved. I argued with the receptionist for twenty minutes about not needing any STD testing. I told her over and over again that I’m a virgin. I wonder, “Isn’t that, like… illegal?”

Lakshmi barks an obnoxious laugh, Heather following suit. “Oh, that’s adorable.”

“So you must have pedigree,” Gina guesses, scrutinizing me. “An uncle or something?”

I know what she’s asking, and the truth makes me squirm under the weight of their eyes. At first, I thought the invitation was a joke—an elaborate prank set up to humiliate one of West End’s girls. A plot to get back at the Dukes for a deal gone wrong, maybe someone bitter about losing a fight.

But why me?

Why Verity Sinclaire? Good medical records or not, I’m not special enough. I’m just a regular twenty-year-old West Ender who was raised by a single mother: Mama B, the wrangler of a den of Bruins. She’s gorgeous, seductive, and absolutely badass. But she isn’t Royal—not that it stopped Saul Cartwright from fucking her. The ex-King of West End was a snob, but cutsluts get a pass, and my mother is the Queen of them. Mama B isn’t precious when it comes to the men she invites in her bed. I’ve watched them come and go, enthralled by my mother, but Saul was always wary of me. The look he gave me was distasteful, like I was some sort of parasite he was afraid would attach to him if I got too close.

I’m not a bit sad that Simon Perilini put a bullet in him.

“No,” I crisply answer. “No uncles. No aunts. No grandprinces. Just… me.”

Lakshmi and Heather share a knowing look. “Right,” Heather says, her slow smile dripping with condescension. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be the one to beat!” They don’t even wait until they get out of earshot before she tells the others, “Well, that’s two out of the running: the punk bitch and the redheaded step-bastard. Ashby may be desperate, but he’s not lowering himself to the gutter of West End for a pair of functional ovaries.”