A ball gown with heavy garments underneath, the finest silk laid perfectly over and framed just above the hip. Golden, sequined lace draped all around, and of course, the slight train in the back.

A fucking train.

For a high school dance.

This thing is nice enough to be a wedding dress, and likely cost as much as the average one, too.

I trace over every inch of the gown, taking note of the precise tailoring, and when I meet my eyes, it’s with a shake of my head.

I glide my palms over my shiny hair.

Pretty little princess.

My fingers trail down my neck.

Silly little plaything.

I grip my own hips, tipping my head to the side.

Pathetic little pawn.

I lick my lips, smiling as I was taught, but a humorless laugh quickly follows.

I look to the ceiling, letting out a long sigh.

Monti calls my name from the hall, my phone beeps with the fifth ignored text of the day, and promptly rings right after, but I don’t move. I stand there in the middle of my room, staring at myself.

Anger burns in my chest.

“Screw this.”

I move as quickly as I can, but another ten minutes pass before I’m walking into the living room where the others are waiting.

Monti is the first to spot me and her eyes shoot wide, but her laughter replaces it just as quick. “Just...” She shakes her head. “Yes.”

Her smile is wide, and she turns it toward the others behind her who now realize I’m standing here.

Light eyes meet mine, and a slow smile curves his lips. “Damn.”

I step up to him and he leans in, bringing his mouth to my ear. “Red is your color.”

“Thanks, Scott.” A smirk pulls at my lips and my chin lifts a little higher. “It was a gift.”

To say that I stand out tonight is an understatement and something I failed to consider in my two minutes of having no fucks to give. Obviously, as I was at the start, everyone here is in their best-made ball gowns, Valentinos, and draped in family jewels. I would guarantee the majority of these girls sat in a salon chair for the last six hours, all to get here and compare every inch of themselves to someone else rather than enjoying their night for what it is—an over-the-top high school dance fit for royals, California-style.

It’s almost as if, in worlds like ours, we’re meant to be pinned against each other, to fight over who wore it best or compete to make sure it’s us in the end.