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Prologue

SINCLAIR

The past

I can feel their eyes on us before I can even make out their faces. The row of boys leaning against the brick half-wall that surrounds the campus. Their body language gives off complete boredom, but I can feel the anticipation ripple in the air, and they’re a part of it. Giving off vibes that can’t be denied—what a privilege it is, to be on this campus. It’s the first day of school at Lancaster Prep on a crisp, faux fall day, despite it being early September on the East Coast. The heat wave that’s come over the region makes the mornings pleasant, with a faint chill in the air, but the afternoons can be brutal.

No one out here cares about the weather though, least of all me. Despite the apprehension currently flowing through my veins, I’m eager to see the boys. We’ve been warned of this ritual before we even came to the campus in the group text thatwas formed soon after our admission into the most prestigious boarding school in the country.

Every year on the first day of school, the senior boys of Lancaster Prep lie in wait, judging the incoming freshman girls on their beauty and personality, ultimately deeming which ones are worthy of popularity and which ones…

Aren’t.

The moment I heard about this, I was disgusted—and intrigued. It’s an archaic, despicable tradition that has only recently been brought back to life. Demeaning and classless. Sexist and misogynistic, yet here we all are. The entirety of the freshman class—well, the girls—giddy and nervous, our blood pumping and our heads buzzing. Our hair perfect and our makeup probably layered on too thick because we’re all trying to appear older than we are, desperate to impress the senior boys. Despite our awkward bodies and itchy uniforms with the too-long skirts, we still think we look grown-up. This is a big deal. We’re in high school now and finally,finallyon our way to adulthood.

Glancing at the other girls clustered around me, my gaze zeroes in on their waists. I can see where the material is bunched up around their middles, the hem of the normally modest skirts hitting about mid-thigh. Some are even shorter and I realize my misstep.

Panicked, I hitch up my skirt too, wincing when I feel my long-sleeved button-up shirt gather around my waist along with the excess fabric of the skirt. I already have long legs, which causes anything short to look even shorter on me, but I don’t care. Maybe the boys will like my legs. Anyway, I want to be accepted.

I want to belong.

“Oh my God, thereheis.” They say he as if we should all know who it is, and we do. This particular boy doesn’t need a name because we understand exactly who she’s referring to.

August Lancaster.

The Lancasters rule the school, which is fitting because their family has owned it for generations. When there’s a Lancaster on campus, they are undeniably the most popular student in attendance. And August Lancaster rules above all. He comes from the most powerful family within the Lancaster enclave. He’s the eldest son of Whit and Summer Lancaster, the oldest of three and by far the most well-known member of his generation of the family. No one messes with August. Everyone wants to be in his favor, and to defy him, to earn his disgust or worse—his disdain—is social suicide.

“Get in good with the Lancasters,” my mother told me on move-in day when my parents dropped me off—it’s been a mantra on repeat throughout the summer from my mom—that gleam in her eyes a reminder that she is always scheming. Trying to up her social status. The Lancasters equal money in her eyes and she is always down for that. Money has lately become her favorite thing, especially considering my parents came into a bunch of it.

“Ugh, he’s gorgeous. I hate him,” says another girl, her tone telling me she doesn’t hate him at all. Her face is familiar—they all are—but I don’t remember her name. It’s been nothing but a flurry of welcome meetings since I arrived on campus, and while I remember the girl who just uttered that sentence went on vacation this summer in Turks and Caicos and has a nice tan to prove it that makes her blue eyes pop, I can’t for the life of me recall her name.

“What I’m experiencing whenever I see him doesn’t feel like hate. Not even close,” another girl says and I can’t help it. I’m too curious to let that one go.

“What are you feeling then?” I ask her.

The group of girls I’m with goes silent. Every single one of them. I slow my steps and scan their faces, hating what I seebecause I recognize it. I’ve seen this sort of expression before. Barely contained amusement, all at my expense.

A sigh leaves me and I brace myself for what’s about to come.

“How old are you again?” one of them asks, her gaze narrowing as she stares at me.

“I’m a freshman like the rest of you.” I lift my chin, hoping I don’t sound as embarrassed as I feel.

“Right, but what are you, like…twelve?”

The other girls titter nervously and I take a step back from the one who’s currently watching me with a faint sneer curling her upper lip.

“I’m fourteen.” The two words leave my throat on a rasp and I swallow hard, averting my head, my gaze landing on the line of boys slouching against the bridge ledge, their expressions turning impatient.

Oh.The realization hits me the longer I watch them. These are not boys. They look more like men. They’re all tall and broad and devastatingly handsome. Like every single one of them. They fill out their uniform suits as if they were custom tailored to drape their frames perfectly. Their faces are chiseled from stone and their hair is longish on top and artfully messy, the strands blowing around in the gentle breeze.

There’s one who stands the tallest out of all of them though. He’s in the dead center of the group, his dark blond hair fluttering across his forehead and getting in his eyes. He angrily swipes it away with long, elegant fingers, his icy cold glare landing directly on me.

I recoil automatically, taking such a big step back that I run into one of the girls who not so gently pushes me out of her way the moment our bodies collide. Laughter rings in the air and I send her a questioning look, trying to ignore the way they’re all ridiculing me.

The disappointment fills me as I turn my back on them. Idon’t fit in here. At all. And I have no idea why. Can they see it on me that I’m not actually like them? My family has never been what anyone would call wealthy until the last few months.

“Come on, girls!” one of the boys suddenly yells, clapping his hands together three times and startling all of us into action. “Show us what you’ve got!”