Page 46 of Wicked Chains
"What an extraordinarily common dress," Mrs. Hawthorne remarks, eyeing me with deliberate distaste. "Though I suppose it's the best you could do."
I drain the rest of my champagne in one gulp. "Better than looking like a chandelier threw up on me." I smile sweetly at her diamond-encrusted ensemble.
Mr. Hawthorne's face reddens. "You'd do well to remember your place and who you are speaking to, Miss Smith."
"Elias!" Helena materializes beside us, her voice sickly-sweet. "And Margot! How wonderful to see you both." She shoots me a warning look.
"Helena," Mr. Hawthorne acknowledges coolly. "We were just getting acquainted with Miss Smith here."
"How lovely," Helena says, though her expression suggests it's anything but. "Rose has no family to speak of, but we do our best to accommodate everyone, even those less fortunate."
The champagne burns in my stomach. Less fortunate. Like I'm a project they've taken on out of the goodness of their hearts, instead of a prisoner they're keeping for my magic.
"Yes, how progressive," Mrs. Hawthorne says with a thin smile. "Though I do wonder if it's wise to mix students of such different backgrounds."
"I need another drink," I mutter, stepping away before I say something that'll get me locked in the dungeons.
I snag another glass and move to a new corner, the room now definitely spinning a little at the edges. Hank shifts in my dress pocket, where I've been keeping him for moral support. "S'okay, buddy," I whisper. "Just a few more hours of this nightmare."
Across the room, I spot Harry with his parents. His father is a heavily jowled man with small, mean eyes and his mother is a woman who looks like she's had so much plastic surgery her face might crack off if she smiles too widely. Harry is gesturing in my direction, and they're all looking at me like I'm a zoo exhibit.
My feet start moving before my brain catches up. The champagne is definitely doing the thinking now.
"—absolutely disgraceful," Harry's mother is saying as I approach. "Letting that sort in. In our day?—"
"What sort would that be, exactly?" I interrupt.
Harry blanches. "Mother, this is?—"
"Rose Smith," I offer, extending my hand. "The charity case. The one with no family. The wrong’un. Please, tell me what sortyouthink I am, I'm dying to know."
Harry's mother draws herself up, ignoring my outstretched hand. "Young lady, I don't know what you think?—"
"I think," I say, cutting her off, "that you've raised the most entitled, third-person-speaking, boundary-ignoring asshole I've ever had the displeasure of meeting."
Harry's father splutters. "Now see here."
"No, you see." I'm on a roll now, all my frustration and loneliness and bad decisions pouring out. "Your son is a bully. He follows that blonde nightmare Thorne around like a trained dog, making other students' lives miserable. He refers to himself in the third person, which is deeply creepy, by the way. And he has zero respect for personal space or consent."
Harry's face has gone from white to purple. "Harry didn't."
"There it is! There's the third person!" I gesture wildly, sloshing champagne onto the floor. "Does he get that from you? Is it a family tradition to talk about yourselves like you're the King? The royal ‘we’?"
Harry's mother's mouth opens and closes like a fish.
"Rose." A strong hand grips my elbow. I look up to find Soren beside me. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."
"Professor Malric," Harry's father says stiffly. "Your student is extremely inappropriate."
"Forgive her," Soren says smoothly. "She's had a difficult time. Recent trauma to the head, you understand.” He taps the side of his head. “Very sad case."
I try to protest, but Soren's grip tightens in warning.
"She's clearly a halfwit," Harry's mother sniffs.
"Indeed, which is why I'll be escorting her out immediately." Soren flashes a smile that manages to be both apologetic and dismissive. "Please enjoy the rest of your evening. Harry is doing quite well in my class, by the way. Very consistent."
Before Harry's parents can respond, Soren steers me away, moving with purpose through the crowd toward the exit. His hand is hot on my lower back, guiding me when I stumble slightly.
