“Hey.” She lights a cigarette—her meal for the afternoon—and falls back on the couch, pointing a mocking grin at my outfit.

“Don’t.”

I quickly tear the itchy blazer from my body, tossing it to the floor, only to pick it back up, knowing if I don’t, Gennie will be forced to when she gets here later.

“I was only going to ask how tea with the queen went?”

I flip her off and she giggles, stretching her legs along the cushions.

“A package came for you.” She blows smoke rings into the air. “I put it on your bed.”

With a huff, I tear a piece of French bread from the loaf I hid in the oven last night and make my way to my room.

On my comforter, a large rectangular box with a blinging silver bow sits.

A small smile tugs at my lips as I pull on the silken ribbon.

I slip it from the ends and remove the lid.

My brows snap together when the item is revealed.

It’s not a pastel or pallid.

It’s a slinky, long-sleeved plunge neck dress that’s ruched throughout. And red.

A deep, valiant red.

“Your favorite color, and a mighty contrast from the First Lady shit a certain fiancé-to-be sends over.” Monti steps inside, lowering herself on the chaise at the foot of my bed.

I scoff, running my fingers over the delicate, daring piece. Gently lifting it from the box, I spin toward the mirror to hold it up in front of my body.

Without trying it on, I already know it will be a perfect fit, tight in all the right places and teasingly flashy. The fold-over dip that runs high on the left thigh is provocative and tempting on its own, and creates a flare of excitement within me, one that has me pulling in a long, full breath and holding it.

Monti comes up beside me, her eyes on the dress through the mirror as she whispers in a dreary tone, “It’s not from him, is it?”

It takes me several seconds, but I meet her gaze.

“Who else would it be from?”

Chapter 5

Walking into school is far less exciting than the start of senior year should be.

Maybe it’s because the year of possibilities and wonder that helps pave the path that follows is pointless for an eighteen-year-old girl who has the next decade fully mapped out for her.

As an honor student, like a solid eighty-seven percent of this school as well as my last, I have only three required classes, so the rest of my time is filled with pointless extracurriculars to help fluff my portfolio—again, pointless.