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Chapter 02 | THE GOLDEN RULE  ―
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There was something in the air of St. Jude's College that differed remarkably from the ambiance in Royal Imperial.

Almost as if the two schools, mere meters from each other, were detached dimensions. Each a sanctuary for imperious rich kids, constructed with its own dismal firmament and magnanimous sun that shone upon pretty heads filled with lies and empty notions of becoming something worth their parents' royalty.

What I inhaled in St. Jude's was much more than a mingle of nitrogen and oxygen and Marlboro fumes masked by cheap perfume. It was freedom.

For once, in all my articulated youth, I felt alleviated. The burden on my shoulders that persistently commanded me to IMPRESS THEM! was absent, replaced with nonchalance and relief.

I could sense their gazes on me, shot from eyes that could do little but linger, brimming with cupidity in the hopes that I'd look up and reflect their longing in my own dilated pupils.

I wasn't going to give them what they wanted, however. I was an unattainable artifact, after all. It didn't matter who wanted me, as long as they couldn't have me. This was my element, my throne in an empire of ruin. There was no need for pretense here, I could be myself: Chase Stetson, The King Without a Crown.

I flicked my eyes up to the grandiose chandelier; it exhibited dangling jewels that dispersed white light into iridescent hues. I followed the kaleidoscope of varying shades down an expanse of pale golden wall, enriched with elaborate decorations. Muted undertones of classical music caressed my eardrums. A symphony which orchestrated clusters of dancing couples in the centre of the hall.

If there was anything more extreme than the intricate embellishments, it was the girls from St. Jude's themselves. Dressed in lengthy attire that clung to usually non-existent curves, buried beneath layers of paint to disguise their flawed skin, they were hideous. Coated in lies, doused in the sickly scent of desperation.

I took a tentative sip of my drink which was champagne but not really.

Beside me, Ryder had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his black trousers, a concise scowl tugging his ruby lips down towards the floor by a force far greater than gravity: contempt. It was directed at either the couples before us, the wall opposite us, or the entire goddamn world.

"Look alive, sunshine," I told him, and held my glass in front of him. He plucked it from my fingers and warily eyed the contents. "Have a sip, it tastes like horse piss."

His brows, visible because his dark brown hair was gelled off his forehead, jumped. He took a sip with my former apprehension and immediately winced, thrusting the glass back into my hand.

I smiled. "Verdict?"

"Whatever you said, it was right."

"I know, I know." I patted his back—draped in a trim, black suit jacket—as he coughed and wiped his mouth. Eli was watching us with mild curiosity so I offered the glass to him. "Wanna try?"

He waved a hand. "Nah. Don't think that's kosher."

I tried not to laugh. "Do you care?"

"Nah," he repeated and glanced away as he spoke. His caramel-colored skin was painted every shade imaginable under the splaying lights. The somewhat tamed curls of his auburn hair—a rather unnatural pigment for his Jewish descent—teased his eyes, flitting between lashes. He was searching, for someone or something, but I couldn't tell who or what it was.

"This is shit," I complained in an attempt to include him in the conversation. "I thought we came here to score."

Ryder gave me a sideways glance. Stiffly, he said, "Not in the mood. Go help yourself if you want, there's plenty for you."

I clicked my tongue like a disapproving mother although if my actual mother was present she would have most definitely reprimanded me for the action. "You lot are no fun. Where's Johnny gotten to? He's always up for it."

Eli made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. "Must be in someone's pants already if you can't find him. Vincent as well."

"But none of the girls are wearing pants here," I said, then concluded, "So I'm stuck with you two killjoys for the rest of the night?"

Ryder nudged me hard in the ribs with his elbow. I let out a hushed oof. "Screw yourself, asshole," he muttered. "I told you—want action? Go get some."

I shook my head, staring at the pristine floor beneath my feet. "I don't go to girls," I said without looking up. "Girls come to me."

"Maybe that's why there's no one here."

A remark died on the tip of my tongue when a sliver of shimmering red fabric caught my eye. I followed the trail of a dress as it dipped and curved around soft feminine angles until the masterpiece came to view: perfectly shaped lips, outlined like a heart yet appearing to be the very cause of angsty boys with unlit cigarettes perched between their teeth.

My gaze traveled higher to a set of laughing green eyes, enraptured by delicate lashes. Deep brown hair that tempted you to just brush against it for a taste of sin curled down her back.

I touched Ryder's arm. "Who's that?"

He made an exasperated sound. "Where?"

I tsked. "Put your glasses on. There, in the red dress."

He craned his neck to get a better look. "Oh. That's Alaska. Alaska Finton."

I handed him my shitty drink. "Hold this, I'll be back."

He smirked knowingly. "I thought you didn't go to girls?"

I walked backwards away from him and winked. "Always an exception to the rule."

For a split second, his usually stony expression betrayed a flicker of shock. Then it was gone, exchanged with the most authentic smile I'd ever seen. It was so easy now, to tell why he was a Golden Boy.

I swiveled and walked towards Alaska, oblivious of all the other bodies around me. I felt confident in my exorbitant suit, my armor. Not that she could turn me down anyway, for I looked the way I did and I was a prestigious Golden Boy, the epitome of what St. Jude's girls yearned for.

A memory of Vincent's first words to me resurfaced in my head. I could even hear the soft click of his door as he'd locked it behind us. "To be a Golden Boy, he'd said, smiling with all the secrets of the world embedded in his tongue. You must live by the golden rule; to never fall in love with a girl from St. Jude's College".

Six months ago, it had been the easiest oath, a mere jumble of words that made sense together and a trickle of blood from the pad of my finger.

But now, advancing towards Alaska Finton, watching her heartbreak-lips curve upwards, a part of me wondered how long I could stick to it.