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Effie squawks. “Fucking asshole,” and I wince. Pace is going to kill me.

“Tonight,” Wicker says, snagging a single-stemmed white rose from a passing tray, “he’s your opponent.” Wicker tucks the rose behind my ear, grinning. “To the victor, Red.”

God,I hate this guy.

Hate him.

From the second I sit down at his table, just me and him, he does nothing but glare at me. No barbed words. No insults. Justglares. All around us, the rest of the frat seems chilly but at least happy enough to indulge the pretense. I’ve already been to four tables and it wasfine. Loeffler was stiff, but still greeted me. Baxter stumbled around a flaccid attempt at conversation about the nursery construction. Decker even shook my hand.

Not Tommy.

He sits in front of me with his arms crossed over his chest, looking like a sulking schoolboy. It’s a shame Pace took Effie back when the food was being served. She’d tell this prick what’s what.

He hasn’t even touched his food.

I get a good three minutes into this glaring contest before I break. “Whatis your problem?!”

His lips pull back into a menacing grin. “The email said I had to be here. It didn’t say I had to make conversation.”

I look over my shoulder, making sure none of my Princes are around before I hiss, “Why are you such a jerk?”

“Why are you such a bitch?” he snaps back.

“Maybe because my back hurts.” I lean against the back of the chair, trying to stretch out my spine. I’ve been on my feet all day trying to pull this whole thing off. “Or it could be that you’ve been nothing but an asshole to me since I stepped foot in East End! What’s your excuse?”

“Don’t pull the pregnancy card on me, Sinclaire.” His eyes shift wistfully from his empty glass to the bar across the room. “You really want to know?”

“Enlighten me.”

“You assaulted my girlfriend with a frying pan.”

I roll my eyes. “She tried to fuck my Prince.”

He looks distinctly unimpressed. “Everyone on the Court tries to fuck the Prince. It’s tradition. You’d know that if you belonged here.” The last part is laced with venom. Good. It’s time to hash this out.

“Well, where I come from, if a girl tries to fuck your man, you kick her ass.”

“Of course they do.” He snorts. “Barbarians.”

“Oh, I forgot,” I glare at him, “real class means strapping girls down and coming on their faces, right?”

“See, this is the problem.” He straightens up, resting his elbows on the table. “Heather, and all the other girls you took the title from, never would have been in the situation for a Royal Cleansing because they would have given anything to become Princess. And if they required punishment, they would have taken it with humility and grace. Everything with you is so goddamn dramatic. It’s all one fight after the other, and now you’ve got the Ashby brothers so cuntstunned they can’t fucking see straight.” The muscle in the back of his jaw tics. “If you don’t want to uphold the duties of Princess, the good and the bad, then maybe you should go back to your shitty West End gutter.”

That little speech does nothing to adjust my attitude toward him. In fact, I’m one step from going full Whitaker Ashby Gender Reveal tantrum on him, but instead of throwing cake, I quietly explain, “I’m not going back to West End. I’m the Princess and I’m carrying the heir to this kingdom, which means there’s no going back. Not for me, and not for you. So here’s what’s going to happen.” I take a deep breath and hope that Lex isn’t monitoring my blood pressure right now. “You’ve got ten seconds to look me in the eye and tell me what your goddamn problem is so we can fix this.”

He glares at me.

“Ten,” I start. “Nine. Eight…”

Finally, he snaps, “You’re the reason she left me.”

“Heather?” I ask, dumbfounded. “You’re really broken up about being dumped by the same girl who was trying to fuck Wicker a few months ago?”

“She’s on the Court,” he grinds out. “It’s trad?—”

“Tradition, yeah yeah.” I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “Look, I’m sorry Heather broke up with you.” From the aggressively skeptical scowl, it's obvious he’s not buying my apology. I insist, “I actually am. Believe me when I say there are no two people better suited for each other.”

“She blocked my texts,” he confesses, looking away. “And when I went by the house, she had one of the other girls tell me she wasn’t there, but her car was out front.”