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I scramble off his lap, lunging for the door. Pace catches me as I topple out, his biceps bulging under his T-shirt, keeping me from face planting in my attempt to get away from Wicker. I stare up into his dark eyes, swallowing at the spark of malice in them.

“Never run away from your Princes,” he growls, righting me with tightly controlled movements. There are people already watching, and Pace tracks them with spiteful glances.

Nervously, I try, “I’m sorry. I didn’t–I wasn’t–”

When Pace meets my gaze again, the heat of anger has been replaced with something impossibly darker. It’s magnified by the way he touches my face, tender and dragging. “You see, Rosilocks, the only thing we really get out of this is you,” he says, grazing a knuckle along the curve of my cheek. “Your sweet lips. Your pink cheeks. Your smooth legs and perfect tits. If you want to know the truth,” he pitches closer, voice dropping to a deep rumble, “nothing has ever made me harder than watching him fuck you bloody over that table.”

I lurch back, sickened by the wicked grin that quirks his mouth. “You’re a pig.”

“And you’re our bitch.” His smile hardens, the corners of his eyes growing tight. “You remember that when I call for you later, Rosilocks.”

I’ve never been special.Sure, my entire life had been centered aroundbecomingspecial, but in reality, the position of Duchess was a pipe dream. To the outside world, at school or around town, I didn’t register. Inside West End, I was barely a cutslut, the expectations on my purity higher than the needs of horny frat boys looking to blow off steam before and after a fight. And it’s not like I had the freedom to rebel. My mother was everywhere, always watching, always protecting, always dealing…

It didn’t matter if the guys thought I was cute, not with her hovering presence. None of them, not even the slutty, impulsive ones, would have dared to make a move. Not if they wanted to live another day with their balls attached to their bodies. No, it was known in West End that I wasn’t there for them. I might have been their adorable mascot, a devoted cheerleader, a little sister, but at the end of the day, I was off limits, forbidden from becoming anything more.

I think that’s why the attention I receive walking across campus feels so heavy—thick and smothering, like one of those weighted blankets. I’d waited my whole life for this moment, to be wrapped in the security of a title, for everyone to know what I’d accomplished, that I was special.

But I’m not walking with the familiarity of bruins at my side. I’m walking with the Ashby brothers, popular and intriguing in their own right, but now elevated to Princes.

“Is it always like this?” I ask. A group of girls share a badly veiled whisper when we pass. My heart pounds in a slight panic. I feel exposed, as if everyone can sense I’m a fraud.

“You get used to it,” Wicker says, arm draped over my shoulder. One girl stops dead in her tracks and gapes at him. I look up at him, just in time to see him wink at her. I swear to god, her legs clench. “And learn to reap the benefits.”

Lex sternly corrects, “Your days of reaping co-ed cunt are over, Wick.” With Lex on my right, Wicker on my left, and Pace’s long, lithe stride leading the front, I feel trapped in, no place to go but back.

But every searing stare from a West Ender makes it very clear that’s not possible.

There’s no going back.

I almost feel confused until I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored windows of the English building. For the first time, I see what everyone’s staring at. Stella’s hair and makeup is a transformation, Cinderella style.

I look amazing. Elegant. Refined.

I look like an East Ender.

Pace stops at the fountain, the most visible spot on campus other than the student union, and turns to me and his brothers, raising his chin.

“Father said to give her five minutes.”

I look between them, clutching my jacket close. “Five minutes? For what?”

Wicker sighs, sliding onto the concrete retaining wall. “For our fan club,” he says, leaning his head back, eyes closed, not at all unlike a snake basking in the heat of the morning sun.

When I turn, my whole body stiffens. There’s a line of men–PNZ members–leading all the way back to the Language Arts center. Some of them look eager and bright-eyed, while others look impatient and tired. They look like Stepford soldiers, all forty-plus of them arranged in a perfect, uniform row.

Each is holding a single white rose.

“They’re here to make their public offerings,” Lex mutters, joining his brothers on the fountain wall. He opens a textbook, clearly bored by what’s unfolding. “Participation is compulsory.”

It clicks in my memory. I’ve never seen it personally, but I’ve heard about it–the Princess getting her weekly presents from the frat. I never realized it was such a spectacle, and when I turn to them, it’s clear they’re awaiting my signal.

“Oh,” I drop my jacket and bag, and then, dusting my hands off on my skirt, give the first guy a nod. “Uh, okay. I’m… ready.”

He bounds forward, thrusting the rose toward me. Taking it, I begin, “Thank–” but he’s already striding off, the next guy taking his place. They work like a conveyor belt, one man after another, and I struggle to balance the roses in my arm, not to mention the cards they all come with. Each one bears a note that looks exactly like Lex’s had–a small, cream card folded in half.

It isn’t until the sixth guy, a bit slower than the others, that I have an opportunity to glimpse what’s written inside.

To my beautiful Princess. May she reign. -HJ