Page 44 of The Pawn

No doubt the card will be canceled by the end of the day, so I demure. I've got an appointment to get to at the makeup store a few doors down, after all.

The ironic thing about this trip into town is that it was all scheduled by my fellow Rosalinds. Right now they're sitting in a spa a few blocks down—at least Holly, Piper, and Georgia are. Sasha claimed she was going to "buy weapons," and I'm not sure if she was serious or not.

I've done my research on Georgia, courtesy of her Instagram. This salon is exactly the kind of place she'd come to have her ends trimmed, and the makeup store is her favorite. There's also a clothing store a few doors down that she hashtags all the time—though I plan on stuffing the clothes I get there into my reusable grocery bags so she doesn't put two and two together when the fraudulent charges show up on her credit card statement.

Not that I think she's smart enough to figure it out anyway. There's just no reason to play with fire.

As I walk through the aisles of the makeup store, waiting for my appointment to be called, I look on the insane price tags on all the things here and smile. I've been wanting to do this since I found the card on the bathroom floor, but it feels even better to do it now, given everything Georgia has done to me. Chrissy is going to just love it, I know—I already sent her a snap of me in the middle of getting the highlights put in.

I just don't know how I'll keep all of this maintained after today.

Being pretty costs money, after all. And while Georgia Johnson has plenty of cash to spare, Brenna Wilder has none.

I'll just have to hope that my little plan for the campus-wide ice cream social next weekend works without a hitch.

When everything is said and done, I meet back up with the Rosalinds near where Mrs. Reynolds parked our off-campus van. And the expression on Holly's face is worth all the risk, the planning, and the subterfuge.

"Wow, Brenna." She puts her fingers in her mouth and wolf whistles. "You look stunning."

I grin at her, ignoring the way Piper and Georgia are glowering and pouting respectively. "Thanks. You were right—that brand of foundation you recommended is so much better. The makeup artist said once I throw out my old stuff and switch to using it instead, my skin should clear up in no time."

"Just in time for the ice cream social," Holly observes.

That was the plan. As Sasha rejoins us with a box full of knives—shewas, in fact, buying weapons; apparently she has plans to make a sculpture out of them—Mrs. Reynolds arrives back from doing her own shopping, and we all climb into the van.

For a brief moment, as she climbs into the back, Georgia is close enough to hiss angrily in my ear.

"It won't work, trailer trash," she says, her hand squeezing my shoulder. "You'll never get a boy like Tanner to even look at you twice."

I don't answer her; I've already gotten my revenge by spendinghermoney to do my hair and makeup. But I do take the opportunity, while she's so close, to slide the credit card into her back pocket as she moves into the back seat.

* * *

I'm just about to give up on the Legacies blog entirely and resort to good, old-fashioned pranks to get back at the guys when an email hits the inbox that sends my pulse racing.

Subject:son of a hollywood legend breaks down in public

Body:

Someone told me this blog exposes privileged rich kids. I've got a video I want you to publish. The subject is Lee Woo Bin, the son of Jacob Garrison, the Hollywood movie star.

This video has been suppressed here in Korea by his mother because her family is so powerful that our reporters are afraid to cross them. They know the punishment will be swift and severe. I was hoping that because your blog is in America things would be different.

Someone should see this. He's dangerous. In Korea he's what he call a chaebol. He'll inherit everything if the truth about him doesn't come out.

—Kim Jae Beom

I stare at my inbox for a long moment, cursing and praising my good fortune simultaneously. I've had next to no encounters with Blake Lee so far; he seems to be constantly studying and brings books with him even to lunch. But his cold eyes have always sent shivers down my back, and I suspect there's something dark beneath his Hollywood meets Seoul exterior.

Clicking on the attachment, I wait for the video to play. The title is in Korean, and it looks like it was filmed there too, but it's easy enough to get the gist once it starts up.

Blake is in the back room of a club, sitting listlessly on a booth, the table in front of him covered in empty plates and liquor bottles. His hair is messy, his clothing rumpled—he looks nothing like the sharp, pressed uniform boy I see in Calculus I every morning. Based on the way he looks and the lighting inside the club, it must be late. A timestamp on the video confirms my suspicion: 22:04:15 2018|01|02.

The quality is poor, the video nearly black and white it's so grainy and lo-fi, so it must be security footage. For a long moment he just sits there, sagging against the back of the booth, eyelids fluttering closed like he's about to pass out.

Then someone enters. A girl whose back is to the camera, a tray in her hand. I can't understand what they say to each other—there's audio, but they're speaking Korean. Their voices rise quickly though. She starts yelling at him, and he yells back.

The girl takes a step towards him.

---