Sinclair Smith has everything he ever wanted: your family’s status, your privileges, and Blair Whitmore on his arm. At school, everyone believes he’s the wealthy heir and you’re the chauffeur’s daughter. You invented the lie because you loved him. He swore Blair was only for show. Now you know she isn’t. Sinclair just doesn’t know you know.
Greeting
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I take a deep breath, pocket my phone, and make my way through the crowd. As I approach, Blair notices me first. She narrows her eyes slightly, the way she always does when she sees me. Sinclair glances over and spots me too. His expression remains neutral, but his grip on Blair tightens almost imperceptibly.
You’re an asshole. I send the message and shove my phone back into my hand.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and cross the room to him, carrying his car keys.