If Violet ever doubted Elsie Lancaster’s creativity, today officially cleared that up.
The girl had successfully cornered them in the classroom like a hunter stalking her quarry, her eyes glinting with triumph.
In the an queenbee’s words, every student was expected to play a role in Parents Week. Not even rogues were spared from that responsibility. They had to make themselves useful one way or another. And she had just found the perfect use for them.
"Why are we even doing this?" Ivy grumbled.
Alongside the other girls they t along the way, they were herded towards one of the halls for the eting, just as Elsie had said.
"You know this is bullshit. If we don’t want to do a thing, she can’t force us to. We’re not pushovers," Ivy protested.
"Rebellion is what Elsie expects from us. That would give her a reason to strike at us. We won’t give her that pleasure.
Moreover..." Violet leaned in to whisper into her ear, cautious of the girls around them. "If we’re to learn our enemy’s secrets, what better way to do it than to get close enough?"
Ivy looked up at Violet, impressed. "You are good at this."
Violet shrugged it off. She owed all her lessons to life itself. It might have been hard, but it made her who she was. Not to ntion, this was a fight against Elsie, she had to be smart enough to see through her nasty strategies.
Violet had already texted Lila and Daisy, and they would join them soon. All hands had to be on deck. Not to ntion, they were stronger together.
Violet knew the mont she walked into that eting place that it was not her thing at all. She was t with the sight of elite students who were all lined up like swans, ignoring the school uniform and instead wearing pale lavender blouses with lemon-cream skirts that scread polished pedigree. Every strand of hair was curled in the sa style, and every smiling, glossy lip was painted the sa shade.
It was obvious what this was. As elites, they were putting on a performance for them—reminding them of the leagues between them. But even at that, the students looked genuinely excited to be there.
Of course, Violet was not one bit thrilled.
She knew the mont she walked into this hall that this was humiliation gift-wrapped in chiffon and coated in fake kindness from Elsie. A special little punishnt, tailored just for her.
"What is going on here?"
Violet turned to the side to see that Daisy and Lila had finally arrived, successfully locating them.
"Geez, is this a sorority audition or what?" Lila comnted dryly.
"Well, you’re right on ti," Violet said, her gaze following Elsie who walked up to the line of perfect-looking elites, who now took their place as her backup as she stood in front to address the students.
"Welco, ladies and gentlen," Elsie said in a sweet voice as she faced them. "So of you are here of your own accord, while so of you were specially chosen to assist us with the Legacy Luncheon preparations. It’s a very special event for our alumni families. In that case, only the best students should represent Lunaris, and you’re so lucky to be included."
Lucky? Violet scoffed beneath her breath. The entitlent ntality of these elites. She would rather stab her own eyes than be here. But of course, the overly eager wannabe "elite" students cheered Elsie vigorously.
She didn’t miss the way Elsie’s gaze lingered on her. Smug. Superior. Triumphant. As if this little "assignnt" was her crown jewel in the revenge departnt.
"Your roles..." Violet did not miss the way Elsie’s gaze rested on her as she continued, "will be simple. You’ll serve as our hands. So of you will fetch drinks, pass around floral options, arrange na tags, and ensure everything runs like a dream. In one word, you’ll be shadowing us, the actual coordinators, of course."
She smiled wider. "And tissues. Yes, so would discreetly hand out tissues should any guests spill sothing. Or sweat. Or cry. Trust , it’s a very important job."
Violet blinked. Cry? From what? The boredom?
"Wait a minute," Lila interrupted, hands raised in question and drawing everyone’s attention. "So let get this correctly, you’re making us into waitresses?"
"Oh no, sweetie," Elsie said, all faux innocence. "That would be degrading. You’re hostesses-in-training. It’s an honor, really."
Without missing a beat, Elsie snapped her fingers, and another group of equally dressed elite girls approached with folders, each one detailing seating plans. Violet was handed one with gold cursive on the front: Legacy Luncheon: Power & Placent.
Curious, she skimd through the pages, only to frown the next minute.
"This can’t be real," Ivy whispered beside her, flipping through her own binder. "They’re ranking parents."
"Oh, it’s very real," Violet muttered grimly.
The seating chart was a masterpiece in pretentious social engineering. Nas were listed according to family history, supernatural creature, House affiliation, and general "legacy" appeal. It wasn’t just about placing people—it was about matchmaking. Status ets bloodline. Alpha heir ets legacy daughter. It was a damn supernatural-human dating auction disguised as brunch.
"So you see," Elsie said in a sugary tone that almost burned Violet’s ears, "the cardinal families will be in the front seats, of course, with lesser families arranged behind, so we don’t overshadow the truly important guests. You’ll each morize the seat placents so no one’s confused. Understood?"
"Yes, Elsie!" the foolish students answered.
Were they blind or what? Every student at Lunaris had the chance to secure a werewolf mate for themselves, but the elites and legacy students were hoarding the opportunity for themselves.
Violet was pissed off, but then she couldn’t exactly bla them. Not when it worked the sa way in reality. The rich took the best and left the crumbs for the poor.
By the ti they got to the part about napkin colors and whose spiritual aura matched which floral centerpiece, Violet was ready to fling herself through the nearest glass window.
Sohow, she caught Elsie’s eye from across the room, and the girl gave her a small wave, showing off her glittery nails and vindictive glee.
Elsie was punishing her and it was not the physical kind, but the psychological warfare. The slow torture of being made to serve the very table she would never sit at.
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