Renna Rose Lancaster is the girl people stare at like she belongs in a glass case, a life airbrushed into unattainable perfection.
But Renna knows her life is nothing but a golden prison coated in pretty lies that keep her muted and small.
Her day...
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If Saturdays had a soundtrack, mine would’ve been Isla cackling at a volume that probably violated human rights and me pretending I wasn’t secretly enjoying the circus she called her personality. The whole morning had turned into this ridiculous whirlwind of iced lattes, gossip so brutal it could’ve cracked concrete, and Freya’s dry comments floating from her desk like some omniscient academic ghost.
By two in the afternoon, Isla and I finally dragged ourselves out of her dorm, limbs aching from laughing too hard. I’d pretended I was there for “group study,” which was absolutely unhinged considering none of us had even opened a textbook longer than one minute. Besides, everyone knew why I was there. Even Isla gave me that look the moment I stepped inside.
And now, walking across the courtyard toward the boys dorm, the crisp air fluttering my mini skirt, I felt the exact kind of dangerous satisfaction that should’ve been illegal.
My outfit wasn’t subtle. Not even a little. The satin-boned corset hugged me in this annoyingly perfect way, the little pearl buttons catching the afternoon light. The tiny bolero did nothing. It existed purely to make the corset look even more obvious. My skirt bounced with every step like it had been crafted by an evil designer who wanted men to suffer.
Isla side-eyed me so hard I nearly tripped. “You know,” she said, arms crossed like some judgemental older sister, “you’re being incredibly calm for someone who’s apparently still furious with her man.”
I flicked my hair over my shoulder in the most dramatic way possible. “Calm? Isla, please. I’m practically a public service right now. I’m educating him.”
“By wearing that?” She pointed at my skirt like it had personally offended her ancestors.
“What about it?” I twirled, letting the skirt flourish like a pink halo. “It’s cute.”
“It’s lethal,” she muttered. “Aadam’s going to combust the second he looks at you.”
“His fault,” I said, sing-song, because my mood had been scandalously good ever since I’d decided to torment him. “Actions have consequences.”
Isla snorted. “Consequences? Babe, that skirt is a war crime.”
“Whatever,” I waved her off. “He deserves psychological carnage.”
She grabbed my elbow and pulled me a little closer as we crossed the stone path. “Just to confirm,” she said, lowering her voice like she was discussing military secrets, “you wore all this purely to torment him?”
“Yes.”
“Like… unapologetically?”
“Absolutely.”
She let out the most delighted gasp. “God, I love you.”
