CORIN

  Eventually, everyone must kneel to Her Majesty. Some did it with their tongues on her royal sweetness.

  Sinclair, lacrosse captain and one of the golden boys, was at her feet because she had a headache. He was the dumbest thing the Almighty had ever granted life on this Earth. She would never date such a thing. But he was handsome enough to be tolerable, and talented too—with his tongue, at least.

  "Happy eighteenth, Ms. Clarendon," he said, voice tight and wet with effort. "Excited for the final term at Billard?"

  She drove her heel into his chest. Not hard enough to bruise. Pity. "Did I say you're done?"

  Uncaring.

  Men should fear that even when she sounded bored.

  Sinclair smiled like an obedient dog and bent again.

  Her phone rang—Chairman Clarendon.

  Her heel stilled.

  Regrettably, even queens have fathers.

  There wasn't even a happy birthday, but there was a command. He wanted her to parade in some upstart's fashion show. A designer half his age, no doubt skilled at crawling under tables.

  Corin rolled her eyes but knew better than to say no.

  "Yes, Sir."

  God might forgive disobedience. Her father never did.

  She shoved Sinclair aside with her heel. His chin shined, wet with the most expensive juice he would ever taste. "That's enough for now. Patrice."

  Her aide, a perfect blonde shadow, stepped forward with an NDA.

  "Breathe a word of this and you're dead."

  He licked his lips and nodded. "Always a pleasure, Ms. Clarendon."

  She didn't so much as glance back. By the time she stepped out of the suite and back to the party, she was transformed. She was no longer the bored tyrant in private, but the Clarendon rose in public: polished, perfect, untouchable.

  She announced the after-party at the gallery where the fashion show would happen, and she expected everyone to follow and get wasted.

  The guests cheered, nothing like a party with Corin.

  "Miss Clarendon, the car's waiting for you." one of the guards said and she went out.

  The press was already at the venue when she arrived. Word had spread that Clarendon's heir would walk in the show of some no-name designer, and the world was about to crown the girl's career in gold. Not because the collection mattered. Because Corin Clarendon had touched it.

  The designer herself was exactly as expected—pretty in a forgettable way, with a scent too sweet, thick with ambition. They all liked to try seducing the chairman, hoping he'd give in because he liked to play. But that was all they were—playthings. Good for the mattress, the kitchen counter, or probably the back of his limo. Never on paper. He had only ever loved one woman, but she was in the ground now, buried with the last scraps of his humanity.

  How unfortunate for all of them.

  They fitted the dress to her. Her body was already runway-perfect; no alterations needed. She examined the fabric against her skin and decided she wouldn't need to torch the building after the show. The collection looked adequate, even tasteful. A small miracle.

  Another call lit her phone. His secretary this time, just checking to make sure she would show. As though Corin had ever outright disobeyed. She stepped aside to take it, slipping into another room. That was when she heard the crying.

  "Can you ask them to give us one more night?" a girl begged through her phone. "I'll find a way to get the money. I know, I know... but you know how my boss is—they don't pay us enough."

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Corin recognized her voice: one of the assistants who had helped her dress earlier.

  "Miss Clarendon?"

  "I'm here," Corin said crisply into her own call. "Tell the chairman not to worry."

  She hung up and returned to the dressing room. The show was an hour away, and her glam team was ready. The girl assigned to her had swollen red eyes, the proof of those tears still clinging. She was the one on the call. Her face was of a broken puppy one would want to take home, if she would ever love puppies.

  "Ms. Clarendon," she said, professional despite the crack in her voice, "we'll prep your skin first. Your assistant has sent over your things. Please close your eyes."

  Corin let her work. Half an hour later, she studied her reflection: luminous, youthful, whimsical—like some fairy, if fairies wore diamonds.

  "I didn't sleep, but you made me look healthy," she remarked. The girl was young but skilled.

  "You have wonderful skin, Miss. It wasn't hard," the girl answered modestly.

  "Patrice. Give her my card."

  Her aide handed it over: black, heavy, engraved in silver. The girl stared as though she'd been handed a crown.

  "Quit your job," Corin ordered. "Work for me. I'm back to class tomorrow and I expect my makeup to be handled well. Call after the show."

  "T—thank you, Ms. Clarendon! I—I don't know what to say."

  Corin said nothing. Gratitude was irrelevant. She moved on, searching for the harlot—or the designer.

  "You want her to start right away?" Patrice asked as she followed.

  "Yes. Once she signs, give her an advance. I want full benefits and extend the health package to her family."

  "Her—family, Miss?"

  "I hate repeating myself, Patrice."

  She made a note on her tablet. "Yes, Ms. Clarendon."

  The designer found her then. "Oh! You look lovely! Thank you for making the show. You know everyone is excited to see you."

  Corin gave her usual golden smile. "Of course."

  The moment the woman let go, Corin wiped her hands where she'd been touched, disinfecting it. But then an arm sprung from behind her and looped around her neck.

  "Hello, brat."

  Corin sighed. Murder was too gentle a word for what she felt. "Vicki."

  She didn't need to look. Victor Vandercourt—her 'current' fiancé, heir to Vander Holdings, that sprawling dynasty of shipping and luxury hotels. He looked like the poster boy for yacht season: blonde, easy on the eyes if you could overlook his potty mouth. The only guy stupid enough to call her "brat."

  Phones lit up, recording every angle of their meeting.

  "Look at that face," he whispered, too close. "Bet you want to throw me down and break a bone. But you can't, can you? Not with all these eyes watching."

  "Let go."

  "Come now, babe. Afraid they'll learn what you really are?" His mouth brushed her ear. "A cunt."

  Her eyes dropped to his tie pin: the Clarendon crest, gleaming gold. Her tone was laced with acid. "You're lucky you're wearing that. Else, I'd have gutted—"

  "Evening, Majesty."

  Another voice, cut through, polite as it was charming. The room shifted. Models squealed as a tall figure appeared, sleek in all-black suit. Alistair Ascor, another heir. He offered his arm and when she took it, he pulled her away from Vicki.

  "Knight. So fitting," she said, brushing his lapel. "Rescue me from this animal."

  "I'm not late, am I?"

  She smiled at him for the cameras. Alistair was magnetic, tolerable—so long as he didn't start rambling about quantum mechanics, that little obsession of his.

  "Tell me you didn't bring Rothwell," Victor sneered, seething. "I'm the current holder. You have no right to be here."

  Holder of the prestigious Clarendon tiepin.

  "That isn't up to you," Alistair said easily. "And that one will come for sure. Late, dramatic, as always."

  And, like clockwork, the last devil arrived. Faust Rothwell. A tall, dark-haired headache with a bouquet of buckwheat flowers—her favourite.

  His eyes found hers instantly. They always did. Even in a sea of strangers, he never failed. As if he was drawn to her by some invisible string she had been itching to sever.

  "I heard you're walking the show," Rothwell greeted.

  "Not voluntarily."

  "None of us are here voluntarily, are we?" He pressed the bouquet into her hands. "Happy eighteenth, Clarendon."

  "It isn't happy now that you're here," She accepted it for the crowd, but later she would dump it in a bin.

  "Sorry I didn't bring a gift," Alistair murmured at her side. "You already have everything."

  She did. The face, the brain, and above all else the wealth. Everything except a cock.

  Corin Clarendon was the chairman's only child, heir by blood to Clarendon Industries—an empire of advanced technology and energy. But tradition demanded a man at the helm. She wasn't one. So, one of these three would have to be.

  "You could always fail the next exam," she told Alistair sweetly. "That would be a gift."

  "You know I can't," he said, smiling. "I want you too much."

  "You mean Clarendon Industries."

  He only laughed.

  The press swarmed then, snapping their shots, voices calling her name.

  "Miss Clarendon! Over here!"

  She turned her perfected smile on them.

  "Gentlemen, eyes up front, please."

  And the three heirs posed at her side. Even if it was obligatory for them to show up at any event she attended, they had always been there for her birthdays. That was more than most people had ever done for her.

  "Are you ready for tomorrow, Clarendon?" Rothwell asked. "This term will be mine. Just like you."

  "You can't even win against Vicki last time."

  His hand snaked around her waist and pulled her close. The press went frantic at the sudden display. He had been her fiancé until Victor Vandercourt replaced him.

  "I've been winning for most of it. He got lucky one time because he roofied me." he whispered lips brushing her hair.

  She couldn't even push him away. But she made note he'd pay for his arrogance.

  "You're getting dull each term, Faust." Victor scoffed on the other side. "Lucky there's a transfer coming. Poor. Topped the exam. Already sounds more fun than you."

  A scholarship kid. Like those ever survived.

  It was the last term, and come hell or high water, none of them would have her.