"No?" I feign an innocent look. "But I was so looking forward to it."

"Well, it's not happening."

I smile at her. "That's too bad. I was dying to show you how we do it in the gutter. But I guess I still can."

Before she can respond, I wind my arm back and send my fist crashing into her face.

Instant pandemonium breaks out. Jordan's head jerks back from the blow, and her shriek of outrage gets lost in the sea of male hoots all around us. One of the guys shouts, "Catfight!" but I don't have time to see who it is, because Jordan launches herself at me.

The bitch is strong. We crash to the mats and suddenly she's on top of me, her fists coming at me. I deflect and roll us, elbowing her in the stomach before yanking on her ponytail and pulling hard. My vision is an angry blur. I land another blow to her cheek, and she retaliates by raking her nails down my left arm.

"Get off me, you stupid bitch!" she screams.

I ignore the pain shooting up my arm and raise my other fist. "Make me."

I let the fist fly, but before it can connect with her smug face, I'm sailing backward through the air. Muscular arms lock around my chest and yank me away from Jordan.

I pound at my captor's forearms. "Let me go!"

He growls in my ear. I don't need to turn around to know it's Reed. "Calm the fuck down," he spits out.

Three feet away, Jordan's friends are helping her to her feet. She touches her red cheek and glares at me. She looks ready to lunge again, but Shea and Rachel hold her back.

The adrenaline sizzling through my veins is making me jumpy. But I know I'm about to crash hard. I'm already starting to feel weak and loopy, my upper body trembling against Reed's strong chest.

"Let me at her, Reed," Jordan bursts out. Her hair has come loose from her ponytail and falls into her enraged eyes, and a bruise is already forming on one high cheekbone. "This bitch deserves a-"

"Enough." His sharp voice cuts her off.

Her menacing expression wavers when Reed releases me. He rips his sweaty T-shirt off, and now half the girls are ogling his ripped abs while the other half continue to stare at me in contempt.

Reed shoves the shirt at me. "Put this on."

I don't think twice. I yank the shirt over my head. When my head pops out of the neckhole, I see Jordan glaring bloody murder at me.

"Now get the hell out of here," Reed snaps at me. "Get dressed and go home."

A thirty-something man with balding hair marches forward. He's wearing a coach's uniform and a whistle around his neck, but I know he's not the head coach, because I saw Easton in the hall once talking to Coach Lewis. This one must be the team trainer or something, and he looks livid.

"These girls aren't going anywhere but the headmaster's office," he announces.

With a bored look, Reed turns to the man. "No, my sister is going home. Jordan can go wherever you tell her."

"Reed," the man warns. "You're not in charge here."

Reed sounds impatient. "It's done. Over. They're calm now." He shoots us a pointed look. "Right?"

I nod curtly.

So does Jordan.

"So let's not waste Beringer's time." Reed's voice is commanding and forceful with a hint of amusement, as if he's getting off on telling this older man what to do. "Because we both know he won't take any action. My father will pay him off and Ella will get nothing but a slap on the wrist. Jordan's father will do the same."

The trainer's jaw tightens, but he knows Reed is right, because he doesn't argue. After a long beat, he spins around and blows his whistle, the piercing sound making all of us jump.

"I don't see any lifting, ladies!" he booms.

The players who were egging on our catfight hurry back to their exercise stations like their asses are on fire.

Reed stays with me. "Go," he orders. "We've got a game tonight, and now my guys are distracted because you're dressed like a slut. Just get out of here."

He stalks off, shirtless, his muscular back gleaming in the sun streaming in from the skylights. Someone tosses him another shirt and he slips into it on his way to his brother. Easton meets my eyes for a moment, his expression impossible to decipher, but then he turns to Reed, and the Royals talk in hushed tones to each other.

"Bitch," a voice hisses.

I ignore Jordan and stalk away.

16.

I don't go to the football game. Wild horses couldn't drag me to school tonight, not after everything that happened today. At least I was lively at the bakery. Still steaming from the fight, I tore around the little shop like a whirlwind. As Lucy was leaving, she made some comment about youth and energy and how she missed it.

I almost yelled after her that unless she liked assholes and bitches, she missed nothing, but I figured I shouldn't be shouting at my boss.

I still can't believe I physically assaulted Jordan Carrington.

I'd do it again, though. In a heartbeat. The bitch had it coming.

All I want to do tonight is hide in my room and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist. That the Royals and their snobby friends don't exist. But even in my self-imposed sentence of solitude, I can't resist turning on the radio to the local station that's covering the game.

Of course, the Royal brothers get plenty of coverage. Reed gets a sack against the opposing quarterback. Easton makes a play that causes the announcers to groan.

"Now that's a hit."

"Both of them are gonna be icing their ribs tonight," the other announcer agrees.

Astor Park wins, and I sarcastically mutter, "Go team!" as I turn off the radio.

I do my homework as a distraction, but I'm interrupted by a text from Valerie. There's a party tonight, she informs me, this time at someone named Wade's house. She asks if I want to come over to her place instead and dance the night away. I decline. I'm not in the mood to pretend that everything is okay in my life.

I hate this school. I hate the people. Except Valerie, but I'm not sure even my quirky, energetic friend-my only friend-can make any of this torture worthwhile.

Eventually I wander downstairs to the kitchen, where I find Brooke sipping a glass of wine at the counter. She's wearing a silky red dress, strappy heels, and an impatient expression.

"Hi," I say tentatively.

She nods in greeting.

"Everything okay?" I grab a bag of corn chips from the pantry, then stand there awkwardly, wondering why I feel compelled to strike up a conversation with her.

"Callum's late," she answers, her voice tight. "We're flying to Manhattan for dinner, but he's not home yet."

"Oh. Ah. I'm sorry." They're flying to Manhattan just to have dinner? Who does that? "I'm sure he'll be back soon. He probably got held up at the office."

She snorts. "Of course he got held up at the office. He fucking lives there, in case you haven't noticed."

Her harsh expletive makes me squirm.

Brooke's expression softens when she notices my discomfort. "I'm sorry, sweetie. Ignore me. I'm a cranky bitch today." She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Why don't you distract me while I wait? How was school?"

"Next question," I say immediately.

That gets me a genuine-sounding laugh. Eyes twinkling, Brooke taps the empty stool beside her. "Sit," she orders. "And tell Brooke all about it."

I sit down, though I'm not entirely sure why.

"What happened at school, Ella?"

I gulp. "Nothing, really. I, ah, may have beat the crap out of someone."

A shocked laugh flies out of her mouth. "Oh dear."

For some inexplicable reason, I end up telling her the whole story. How Jordan was determined to humiliate and shame me. How I turned the prank around to my own advantage. How I slammed my fist into the bitch's jaw. When I'm done, Brooke surprises me by patting my arm.

"You had every right to lose your temper," she says firmly. "And good for you, putting that nasty girl in her place."

I wonder if Callum would have the same oddly proud reaction if he knew what I did to Jordan, but somehow I doubt it. "I feel bad," I admit. "I'm not usually a violent person."

Brooke shrugs. "Sometimes a show of force is necessary, especially in this world. The Royal world. Do you think the Carrington girl is going to be the only person who gives you grief about where you come from? She won't. Resign yourself to the fact that you now have enemies, Ella. A lot of them. The Royals are a powerful family, and you're one of them now. That's bound to inspire hate and jealousy in the people around you."

I bite my lip. "I'm not a real Royal. Not by blood."

"No, but you're an O'Halloran by blood." She smiles. "Trust me, that's equally enticing. Your father was a very rich man. Callum is a very rich man. Ergo, you're a very rich girl." Brooke takes a delicate sip of her wine. "Get used to the gossip, darling. Get used to walking into a room and having everyone in it whisper that you don't belong. Get used to it, but don't let those whispers defeat you. Strike back when they strike you. Don't be weak."

She's like a war chief delivering a speech before battle, and I'm not sure if I agree with her advice or not. But I can't deny I feel a bit better about rearranging Jordan's smug face today.

We hear the front doors open, and a moment later Callum strides into the kitchen. He's wearing a tailored suit and looks frazzled.

"Don't say it," he orders before Brooke can even speak. Then his tone goes softer. "I'm sorry I'm late. The board decided to call a meeting just as I was on my way out the door. But let me just get dressed and then Durand will take us to the airfield. Hi, Ella. How was school?"

"Great," I lie, hopping off the stool. I avoid Brooke's amused eyes. "Have fun at dinner. I've got homework to finish."

I dart out of the kitchen before Callum realizes I didn't go to the football game like he wanted.

I head back to my princess room and spend the next two hours tackling boring math equations, and it's a little past eleven when my door swings open and Easton strides inside without knocking.

I jump in surprise. "Why the hell didn't you knock?"

"We're family. Family doesn't knock." His dark hair is wet as if he's showered recently, and he's wearing sweats, a tight T-shirt, and a surly expression. In his right hand is a bottle of Jack Daniel's.

"What do you want?" I demand.

"You weren't at the game."

"So?"

"Reed told you to be there."

"So?" I say again.

Easton frowns. He takes a step toward me. "So you have to keep up appearances. Dad wants you involved in shit. He'll stay off our backs as long as you play along."

"I don't like games. You and your brothers don't want to be around me. I don't want be around you. Why pretend otherwise?"

"Naah, you want to be around us." He moves even closer and brings his mouth to my ear. His breath brushes my neck, but I don't smell alcohol on it. I don't think he's dipped into the bottle yet. "And maybe I want to be around you."

I narrow my eyes. "Why are you in my room, Easton?"

"Because I'm bored and you're the only one home." He flops down on my bed and lies back on his elbows, the whiskey bottle tucked at his side.

"Valerie said there's a post-game party. You could've gone to that."

Grimacing, he lifts his shirt, revealing a nasty looking bruise on his side. "I took a beating on the field. Don't feel like going out."

Suspicion rolls through me. "Where's Reed?"

"At the party. Twins, too." He shrugs. "Like I said, it's just you and me."

"I'm about to go to bed."

His eyes linger on my bare legs, and I know he also doesn't miss the way my threadbare shirt clings to my chest. Rather than comment, he slides up the bed and rests his head on my pillows.

I grit my teeth as he grabs the remote from the side table, flicks on the TV, and changes it to ESPN.

"Get out," I order. "I want to go to sleep."

"It's too early for bedtime. Stop being a little bitch and sit down." Surprisingly, there's no malice in his tone. Just humor.

But I'm still suspicious. I sit down as far away from him as possible without falling off the mattress.

With a grin, Easton glances around my pink bedroom and says, "My dad is a clueless fucker, huh?"