Bloody Princess by Helen Scott
9
Lyric
I'm heading to my last class of the day—my last new class for the semester—late on Tuesday afternoon when I get a text from Evie. She and Mel are the only ones who have my new phone number. Sampson will probably torture it out of some poor employee from the cell phone store if he wants it, but I'm hoping he's content to leave me alone for a while.
The text is a link to an Instagram post, which shows me following Keats from the classroom yesterday and watches as he goes into the men's bathroom. I watch him disappear behind the door and grin to myself before continuing on my way. The caption just says "Stalker much?"
That’s ironic, coming from the account designed around keeping tabs on the Boys of Ascendance Bay. Surely, they are bigger stalkers than I am, right? I mean, plus, my stalking has a reason. It's not just because they're hot and rich.
I'm stalking them because they're murderers.
Is it a little hypocritical of me since the work I do for my family is more than a little messy? Yes, but none of the people I interrogate are my friends. I'm not betraying anyone who trusts me.
I send a shocked face emoji back and stuff the phone into my pocket. Right now, I have to focus on my class. And Atlas, who should be in said class.
Economics isn't exactly something I'd elect to take on my own, but if I decide to go legit and pursue a business major, this will fit one of the requirements. I doubt that my father and Sampson will actually allow me to complete four years of school, though. Two, I think I can talk them into, and if it takes more than two years to bring these boys down, then I'm not as good at my job as I thought.
When I enter the room, the whole vibe is different than in the class I had with Keats. This is smaller, more like high school with all the single chairs with desks built in. There aren't as many desks as there were in most of my other classes, but I guess that's because not many people actually want to take econ classes.
I know I don't.
The walls are bright white, as though they've just been painted and are missing the general scuff marks that I would expect. White boards line the front wall, and there's a projector hanging from the center of the ceiling. My nose twitches from the strong smell of cleaner. It's not the same level I use to clean up my room in the basement when I'm done, but it's enough to make my mind flip-flop between the fake carefree college girl version of myself and the real family business side of myself. The side that Sampson and my father have crafted. I push the thoughts of them away and focus on the present.
There aren't many people in the classroom, and Atlas isn't here yet, so I head to the back row, where I can observe everything without looking like a creeper. As I sit, I pull out my notebook. It's already scuffed up from just a couple days of classes and my constant doodling. I flip the pages open to a fresh section and put the name of the class at the top of the page. I doubt I'll actually be taking notes today, but it gives me something to do, and there's nothing I hate more than being forced to wait and be still.
When giggles erupt from a few of the girls in the class who are sitting in a group together toward the front, I glance up and see Atlas walking in, looking like a golden Adonis. His blonde hair shimmers in the light streaming in through the windows on the other side of the classroom, while his eyes, which usually look dark, now look more like pieces of amber. If I didn't know better, I'd say it's almost like he picked this class because it would be in this room, and he knew the lighting would flatter him.
His eyes catch on me, and he smiles. I expect him to nod in greeting and find a seat, ignoring me for the rest of the class, but that's the opposite of what happens. Instead of turning away to find a seat, he comes and plops down right next to me, earning me some incredulous stares from the other girls in the class.
"Hey, Little L, what's shakin'?" he asks with a grin. He sits next to me, his long legs stretching all the way under the desk in front of him as he turns to me to speak. As he does so, he has to look toward the window, which only seems to highlight the golden aspect of his appearance. The amber of his eyes glows in the light, and I can see flecks of gold in their depths. The fact that I notice that means I'm probably staring, so I yank my gaze away. I know his face well enough that I don't need to stare at him, anyway. From his crooked nose to his full lower lip. I've studied photos of him, as well as the others, to prepare for this. Nothing could have prepared me for what it’s like to be near all of them as a grown woman, though.
"Hey," I reply, giving him a shy smile.
"You thinkin' about being an econ major?" he asks as he pulls his own notebook from his bag. The thing is beat to hell and looks like it's been used for the last few years. As he flips through it, I see so many blank pages that I wonder if the notebook is just for show.
"I have no idea," I answer honestly. "I just thought this might be useful." What I don't say is that it's useful in getting closer to him.
I hear whispers from the front of the room and see the girls looking at their phones, then at me, and back again. It makes me wonder if they follow the same accounts Evie does. When one of them raises her phone and unabashedly takes a photo, I almost lunge out of my seat. It's only the manners that Sampson and my father have drilled into me that keep me in place.
Apparently, I'm not as successful as I think because Atlas looks over in the direction of the group watching us and smiles before turning to me and saying, "Don't let them bother you."
"Who are they?" I ask.
"I have no idea," he replies with a shrug and an easy smile.
"Do you think they are related to the stalker you guys have?" I muse, wondering if I'll see the photo they just took on that creepy Instagram account later.
"Stalker?" Atlas' eyebrows climbed high on his forehead.
"You know, the weird Insta and TikTok accounts? People who send in photos of you, Keats, Jude, and Thayer?" They have to know about it, right?
"Yeah, okay. I'd forgotten about that."
"They aren't exactly being friendly to me. I'm sure they aren't to Thayer and Jude's girlfriends, either. Being your friend seems to be dangerous," I say, watching him to see if there is a flicker of anything other than concern in his eyes.
There's nothing.
"Yeah, people get weird when it comes to money." His voice sounds strained, and if I didn't know that his family had plenty of money, I'd be concerned. The Lockwood family is notorious for their lavish parties and Carter Lockwood's love of the races. They have a Derby party every year—it's one of the events people want to be seen at.
"Tell me about it." My family is one of the ruling families of Ascendance Bay, after all. We have more money than my father knows what to do with, and because of that, our friends had always been closely screened by Sampson, and boyfriends had been practically impossible to have because they were always seen as gold digging jerks by my father's second-in-command.
"Can I ask you something?" Atlas' voice has dropped to a whisper, so I know his words are only for me.
I nod, curiosity fizzing through my veins.
"Is it weird to have everything fall on your shoulders now that you're the only heir?" The question is a reasonable one, but that doesn't make it sting any less. Sometimes, it's like the only emotions I can feel are pain and anger, just to varying degrees. Right now, he’s made the pain flair within my chest.
I take a breath and steady myself as I think about his question. Legally, he's correct. I am the only heir since Melody faked her death. The only person who knows she's alive is me, though I have a sneaking suspicion that some of the staff suspect something. In contrast to Melody's assumption, though, I know they’ll never say anything to my father or Sampson. They all seem to have the policy of forgetting what they see and hear within our household, which is for the best really, unless they want to wind up in my basement—and I don't particularly want to torture people I've lived around for most of my life.
"Yeah. Lyssa was always the Sterling princess, and then...she wasn't. Daddy has never been the same since my mom died, but after Lyssa's death, it only got worse. Even more so after Melody died. He doesn't really talk to me anymore. I would hardly say we are even family anymore, just people related by blood. I honestly don't know what will happen if he leaves everything to me. I kind of expect it to go to someone else." I don't say Sampson's name aloud, but from the look in his eye, Atlas knows who I'm thinking of. What I don't know is why I was so honest with that answer.
"What's up with him anyway? Lyssa never knew."
"Welcome to Econ 150: Macroeconomics," a woman's voice sounds over the chatter of the students.
I glance at Atlas and shrug, thankful that I am saved from answering by the class finally starting. The professor dives into introducing herself and her background as she hands out a stack of syllabi that are passed through the room. I watch as she speaks and appreciate the no-nonsense attitude she has. Her hair is wound up in a bun with a stick through the middle to hold it in place, while her horn-rimmed glasses frame dark eyes that are friendly, but not overly so. Her pantsuit makes me sad that a woman, who is clearly intelligent, has been reduced to hiding herself and making herself look more masculine to be successful. Of course, that's me making assumptions. Maybe she likes dressing that way. Who am I to judge? But if you're going to wear a pantsuit, does it have to be beige as well?
By the time the stack gets to us, there's only one syllabus left. Atlas hands it to me without hesitation. I raise my eyebrows at him in silent question, but he just nods. I take it but hold it at the corner of my desk, so he can see it as well if he wants.
"We'll be covering a variety of economic problems facing our society. Next class, we'll do a brief review of what macroeconomics is, along with globalization, then we'll start diving into unemployment, the GDP, and Consumer Price Index. Start reading the business section of whatever news source you prefer, but it has to be a legitimate one. Facebook doesn't count.
“There will be weekly problem sets, along with a midterm exam and final exam; these will total seventy-five percent of your grade. There will be four quizzes, totaling ten percent of your final grade, which will be given at unscheduled times, so try not to miss class. Class participation is expected and, as such, is taken into consideration when it comes to your final grade for a total of five percent. The other large item that will impact your final grade is your course project. You will be required to form a group of five people, write a research paper on a topic of relevance, and give a presentation no shorter than five minutes and no longer than ten minutes at the end of the semester. This will be worth ten percent of your grade. I would advise you to start thinking of topics now so that when you get into your groups, you're prepared."
A scrawny guy in the front row raises his hand. The professor nods at him, and he asks, "For the problem sets and exams, will there be study groups?"
"I don't organize one, but I do recommend that you find someone to study with or, as you say, start a study group that people can drop in and participate in when they need to." She continues talking about how much work we're going to need to put into this class, and I make a mental note to check with Melody about whether or not she bribed this professor to give me a good grade.
As class ends and the professor leaves, I watch Atlas. There's something a little awkward about him, and from the corner of my eye, I see him start to leave and then pause and turn to me. "If you want to study together, let me know."
I look over and smile, "That would be awesome. I feel like this is going to be a hard class for me. Maybe we could be in the same group for the project as well?"
Now he's the one smiling as he nods. "Sounds like a plan. I've got to get to the gym, but I'll see you next class."
I nod, and he jogs out of the classroom. A moment later, I see him pass by the windows that were highlighting him so perfectly earlier. The man really is beautiful, but not in a girly way—in a sexy as fuck way. And that just pisses me off.
He might be the one who murdered Alyssa. How can I be attracted to a murderer? How can someone who hurt me so badly make me smile a real smile? I need to get these urges under control before I give into them and decide that seduction is the best tactic for all of them.
