four.

Cora

A few girls turn their heads in my direction and get that disgusted face that girl Heather showered me with only an hour ago. But most of them pretend I don’t exist. They all file into the auditorium and choose seats toward the back, leaving a few free seats sprinkled around. I choose one toward the middle of the back, having no choice but to squeeze past other students’ feet, eliciting frustrated groans.

With a huff, I lower myself in my seat and lean back. The girl next to me, pretty, tall, with strawberry blond hair, twists her body to look at me.

“Hey,” I say, stretching out a hand. “I’m Cora Williams.”

Her gaze drops to my hand and her nose twists as though maggots are attached to my skin. She, too, gives me a quick sweep and doesn’t like what she finds. I’m about to pop a blood vessel, when I finally realize the difference between their uniforms and mine. Theirs is crisp, neatly pressed, and look like a million bucks. Mine? Well, it definitely doesn’t match up. I don’t understand why—I took such good care of it the past few weeks. Maybe it got wrinkled on the way over here. I was stuck in a limo for two hours.

There’s a sudden charge in the air. My whole body perks up, my eyes swiftly flicking around until I discover the source of that energy. Three guys stroll into the auditorium, one of them none other than Alessandro Beckham. A guy with raven black hair that reaches just blow his shoulders flanks him on the right, and on his left is a guy with short, curly light brown hair.

The Royal Elite Princes, I presume.

As they continue their leisure stroll into the auditorium, their shoulders raised high in importance, I swear their hair blows as though a soft breeze passes over them. Which is impossible because all the windows are closed and it’s a little stuffy. It’s almost like in those movies where soft music plays in the background as they march in slow-mo. Every single head is turned in their direction, utterly entrapped. Girls watch them with desperate longing in their eyes, guys stare at them with a mix of jealousy and respect.

The charge in the air intensifies the deeper they walk into the room. They stop by the middle row in the back section of the auditorium, and the kids sitting near the aisle quickly jump up to let them pass.

A collective sigh permeates through the room, all coming from the girls. I don’t blame them, the three of them are so damn good-looking it should be illegal. And I have to admit that Alessandro is the most good-looking of them all. I’m sure he’s the star of most of these girls’ fantasies.

The guy with the long raven hair, who gives off an aura of mystery, busies himself with his phone. Interesting, since we’re not allowed to use our phones during school hours. The one with the curly light brown hair starts flirting with the girls seated next to him, and Alessandro just sits there, staring ahead.

A few minutes later, he turns his head and studies the students surrounding him. His eyes sweep from right to left, back and forth, as though he’s looking for something. Or is it someone? As his beautiful piercing blue eyes survey the room, a satisfied smile teases the corner of his lips. He’s about to turn around, when his gaze lands on mine. His eyes narrow to slits, his lips pressed into a firm line, and he twists his head around. He leans to whisper to the raven-haired guy. He, too, turns around to look at me, pinning me with eyes the most beautiful shade of green. Like emeralds. He doesn’t glare at me, just watches me curiously. Then he turns around just as Principal Hipskind walks into the auditorium and marches up to the stage.

The next hour is full of speeches, welcoming the students to another year at the academy and how they expect great things from us this year. We are, as he puts it, the future. Then we’re hit with the school rules, which I pay very close attention to, but the others look bored to death. He also mentions that there will be security guards surveying the premises and that the students might not be able to leave campus as often as they used to, which gets him some groans and curses. I wonder if this has anything to do with the assassination attempt on Alessandro Beckham. Even though they caught the guy, he was just a hit man and he’s not talking. The guy pulling the strings is still out there.

Then we’re invited to the banquet in the cafeteria. A grand affair to welcome Royal Elite’s prized students back to school. Truth is, I’m starving. I couldn’t get anything down this morning because I was a bundle of nerves.

As I fall in line with the other students making their way out of the auditorium, each of them impeccably dressed in their uniforms, someone stretches out a leg. I trip and glide on the polished floor, my palms and knees skidding across the room, my head slamming into the wall.

With a groan, I rub my head. Laughter breaks out all around me.

“Watch it, Peasant Girl,” a guy says, lightly kicking my ribs with his expensive black loafer.

“Yeah, we wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself,” that girl Heather says.

As she passes me, she steps on my hand. Actually steps on it. But she doesn’t put enough weight to break any fingers.

There’s a small group surrounding me, snickering and looking down at me like I’m lower than the ants on the floor. A few give me gentle kicks with their damn expensive shoes. But then I feel a pair of eyes burning into my skin, and when I raise my head, I find Alessandro Beckham standing a few feet away. Glaring at me like I’m even lower than the ants on the ground.

Flipping his russet hair with a flick of his head, he marches away.