TEENAGE BOY DIES FROM OVERDOSE WHILE PARTYING WITH PRINCESS ROSEMARY

PRINCESS ROSEMARY AMONG LAST SEEN WITH TEEN BOY BEFORE HIS OVERDOSE DEATH

FRIEND OF INFLUENCER MOLLY KWON FOUND DEAD AT PARTY IN AMSTERDAM

NO CHARGES LAID AGAINST PRINCESS ROSEMARY FOLLOWING YOUNG BOY’S OVERDOSE DEATH, THE PUBLIC DEMANDS ANSWERS

THE PALACE ADDRESSES DEATH OF TEEN BOY WHO DIED DURING A “WILD, DRUG-FUELED BENDER” WITH THE CROWN PRINCESS ROSEMARY

I open article after article, until I have a lineup of tabs so narrow I can barely click on them, and then I get to reading.

Sometime later, I sit with one hand covering my mouth, staring at my computer screen. I don’t exactly know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. How is it possible that something this screwed up went down a few months ago, and Rose and Molly—plus Eleanor and Harriet, too—are just going about their day-to-day business like life’s normal? I mean, if it weren’t for the cold war between Rose and Molly, I wouldn’t have even known anything was off.

When I finally pull myself together, I text Molly right away. Maybe it’s weird to message your friend out of the blue to tell them you know about their pretty recent trauma, but ultimately, I figure it’s weirder to know about the trauma while pretending you don’t, so, bite the bullet, I say.

Molly texts back asking me to go up to her room, so I do. On my way, I pass Rose’s closed door, and I slow down a little. I wonder if she’s inside.

What I just read … article after article tearing into her, blaming her for everything, questioning her character, her personality, her intelligence, dissecting her life to use as evidence that she’s unfit, untrustworthy, uncontrollable … it was horrible. It was really, seriously awful to read. I can’t imagine what it must be like for her to see people saying that stuff about her day in and day out.

But I’m still no closer to figuring out if Rose even likes me, so she’s not my problem. It’s Molly I need to check in on right now.

Molly’s calm—smiling a little, even. She closes her door behind her and we settle in, her on her bed, me in her desk chair. I kick off my shoes and pull my knees up to my chest as she speaks.

“His name was Oscar,” Molly says. She’s not looking at me. She’s speaking to the ceiling, with her hands folded on her chest. She kind of looks like someone on a therapist’s couch. “He was our friend. Actually, he was one of my closest friends. And, yeah. Long story short, he overdosed and died. Rose and I were in the room with him when it happened.”