—Mary Kubica, New York Times bestselling author of The Good Girl

“A nightmarish deep dive into the underbelly of a secret world. Rivetingly dark, The Arrangement delivers on every level—a shocking premise, a forbidden obsession, and a plot that builds slowly and masterfully escalates to a chilling end. Prepare to be blindsided.”

—Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author of The Weight of Silence

“The most compelling, gripping, and entertaining book I’ve read in a long time. Nobody writes about young people and their obsessions as authentically as Robyn.”

—Liz Nugent, bestselling author of Unraveling Oliver

“Pretty Woman meets Fatal Attraction, with a twist . . . or three. . . . Deliciously seductive from start to finish. Hang on for the ride, because this tantalizing thriller will knock you sideways.”

—Jennifer Hillier, author of Jar of Hearts

“Welcome to the sugar bowl. . . . The world of sugar babies and their daddies is fascinating.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Pretty Woman’s creepy counterpart. . . . Throw a little murder in there, and you have yourself a page-turner.”

—29Secrets

“A must-read novel.”

—Real Simple

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM ROBYN HARDING AND SCOUT PRESS

The Party

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The Arrangement

Dedication TK

Men, some to business, some to pleasure take;

But every woman is at heart a rake:

Men, some to quiet, some to public strife;

But every lady would be queen for life.

—Alexander Pope

Epistle II: To a Lady, of the Characters of Women

1743

spring 2019

1

low morrison

I first saw Freya at my high school. I hated school, found the classes as dull and simple as my fellow students. This attitude did not endear me to my teachers nor my classmates, so I was alone, as usual, when she walked through the double front doors. No one noticed her, which seemed to be her intent. She wore a ball cap and aviator sunglasses that she did not remove under the fluorescent lights. Her shoulder-length blond hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, her heart-shaped face free of makeup. She was petite but curvaceous in her faded jeans and plain white T, with the kind of figure rarely seen outside of comic books. I had a comic-book figure, too . . . Popeye’s girlfriend Olive Oyl.

Even through the crowd in the hallway, I could tell she was somebody. There was no way I could have known then that she would come into my life and change it, change me, but I felt a magnetic pull toward her, like I had to meet her. It was destiny. The other kids were immune to her presence. It was lunch break, so they were all wrapped up in their pathetic social jockeying—gossiping, flirting, or roughhousing. We would graduate in less than three months, and everyone was already obsessing about prom, pre-parties, after-parties, and college. Everyone but me, that is.

I watched the woman head to the office as Morrissey warbled through my earbuds (unlike my pop- and rap-loving peers, I preferred to listen to angsty classics: the Smiths, Nirvana, R.E.M.). She was too old to be a student, too young to be a parent, too cool to be a teacher. As she disappeared into the principal’s domain, I wondered: Who was this woman? What was she doing at Bayview High? And why was she dressed like an incognito celebrity?