Chapter 635:
A clipboard-holding instructor near the timer watched Aurora. He tapped his pen against the paper. “Check that girl’s vitals,” he muttered to a medic. “She just ran a 5K in combat boots and she’s not even winded.”
Brittany saw the instructor looking at Aurora. The jealousy flared instantly. It was a reflex for her—if someone else was getting attention, they were stealing from her. Especially Aurora, whose recent public reveal with Elias Thorne had made every debutante in the city grind their teeth in envy.
Brittany stood up, holding her water bottle. She walked past Aurora.
“Oops.”
She tipped the bottle. Water splashed over Aurora’s dusty boots, turning the dirt into mud.
“My hand slipped,” Brittany said, her smile sharp and fake. “Maybe your billionaire boyfriend can buy you new ones? Oh wait, does he know you look like a drowned rat right now?”
Aurora looked down at her wet boots. Then she looked up.
The air between them seemed to drop ten degrees. Aurora didn’t shout. She didn’t push. She just looked at Brittany with eyes that had seen things Brittany couldn’t even nightmare about.
“If your hand slips like that in the field,” Aurora said softly, “you’re a liability. And liabilities get left behind.”
Brittany took a step back. The hair on her arms stood up. She didn’t know why, but for a second, she felt like she was standing in a cage with a tiger that had just decided not to eat her—yet.
“You’re weird,” Brittany stammered, turning around. “Freak.”
But she walked away quickly, her expensive sneakers crunching nervously on the gravel.
By Sunday, the “survival” camp had devolved into a fashion show. The gravel parking lot outside the main gate was a gridlock of chrome and carbon fiber. Parents and partners were allowed a two-hour visitation window to drop off supplies, which meant the elite of the city were descending on the dust bowl.
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Bentleys, G-Wagons, and Ferraris lined up. Chauffeurs in white gloves unloaded hampers from Fortnum & Mason. It looked less like a military base and more like a tailgate party at a polo match.
Brittany was preening by the gate. She had reapplied her makeup and changed into a fresh, non-regulation outfit.
“He’s coming,” she squealed to her group of followers. “My new boyfriend. He’s a venture capitalist. He’s bringing me the specialized moisturizer I forgot.”
A low roar echoed off the canyon walls. A bright yellow Lamborghini Aventador tore around the corner, engine screaming. It drifted slightly—sloppily—before coming to a halt right in front of the gate.
The door scissored open. A man stepped out. He was undeniably handsome in a plastic, Ken-doll sort of way. He wore sunglasses and a tight t-shirt.
“Babe!” Brittany screamed, running to him. She threw her arms around his neck, making sure to angle her body so the students behind the fence could see the car keys in his hand.
“Hey, Brit,” the guy said, checking his reflection in the car window. “Did you see that entry? Sick, right?”
“So sick,” Brittany cooed.
The students pressed against the chain-link fence, phones out. “Wow. Is that a custom paint job?” “He’s gorgeous.” “Brittany really has it all.”
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