Prologue

Honey

Unknown: For your eyes only, Bitch

Staring at the blurry video on my phone, my brows furrow. It's probably spam, but something about the pixelated picture intrigues me. After hitting the icon with my thumb, I watch as the file downloads.

"Hunniford. . ." My mother's sharp tone jolts my attention back to the parlor. I instinctively smile at my father's business partners while straightening in my seat and wiping the corners of my lips with a linen napkin. My mother squeezes my thigh—her way of telling me to get it together because this dinner is important. Easy for her to say. They could make a cool five million out of this investment while I sit here playing dress-up, bored out of my mind.

"Sorry, Mother," I mutter through gritted teeth. I shift my shoulders in an attempt to find some relief from the uncomfortable puffed sleeves of my dress, but the material is too tight and acts like a vise around my arms. It's fall in Connecticut, but this ugly dress would have you thinking it was August in the South. Everyone at the table knows I look ridiculous, but my mother chose it, and what she wants, she gets, which means I have no choice but to sit here looking like a pink meringue.

"You know the rules." Her nails dig ever so slightly into my flesh, just enough to be a warning but not enough to leave a mark. Her face is stretched into a forced smile, looking away from me, and her tone is anything but friendly. "No phone at the table. Otherwise, you lose all your privileges for a month."

Privileges?

I roll my eyes, then close them. Does she really think that is a threat? Privileges to her are leaving the house to attend the classes she's arranged, wearing the uber-expensive wardrobe she chose, and doing my hair the way she wants me to. I'd much rather be stuck in the jail of my room talking to Jamie or Olivia than being her little puppet, but that rarely happens.

Speaking of Jamie, his mother sits across from me, giving me a weary smile. With hazy eyes, I'm not sure if she's drunk because she's annoyed at her husband or sad because this deal is dead in the water. Either way, I'll be the one she cries her eyes out to tonight because Jamie's not here. He never is anymore. He's at Kyle's party, and a bubble of jealousy tears through my stomach when I think about how it's so easy for my boyfriend to wheedle out of these things now that he's on the football team. I, on the other hand, have no choice but to be the prop for the both of us. I long for the days when we were kids and he'd make these dinners marginally tolerable.

With another elbow to the ribs from my mother, I slide my phone off the table and drop it into my Chanel purse. Then I rest my hands on my thighs, digging my nails in to replace hers. The sharp pinch helps me forget how I feel about being here and makes it a lot easier to plaster on a fake smile. My mother relaxes in her seat as I ask preplanned questions, surprising the men while I do my best at faking being engaging and dynamic.

This is going to be a long night.

Tossing my bag onto the bed, I fall right alongside it and stare at the light-blue ceiling in annoyance. Who chooses to paint a ceiling the same color as the walls? My mother. Her fancy interior designer friend told her it would make the room look like an old English cottage, and she lapped it up even though that woman has never stepped foot out of Connecticut.

The modern light fixture clashes with the ornate chandelier that would be more appropriate in a banquet hall than my bedroom, but good taste and my mother never mixed. She picked my father to marry, after all. The formidable Ian Sanderson makes little time for anyone unless he can make money from them. He only tolerates my presence because he views my straight A's and early admittance to St. Michael's as a good talking point.

Muffled voices stop outside my door, and I know without looking that it's the maids double-checking I haven't snuck out. Sighing, I roll to my side and look out the window at the night sky. It's not like I could get out of here even if I wanted to. Mom made that near impossible after I snuck out with Jamie when we were freshman.

Now if I want to go out, I have to provide a list of attendees because she'll only let me go if she thinks my presence would impress the parents somehow. Don't get me wrong, having Sanderson as my last name has given many perks in life, but it's shackled me to this lonely, loveless mansion.

So while Jamie is out with his teammates enjoying their last night before the season starts, I'm stuck in my room, counting down the days until I can leave for St. Michael's.

Then a little pang of guilt pulls on my heart because Jamie isn't coming with me.

Jamie Nicks.

The other side of my coin, and my charismatic, fun-loving boyfriend. It doesn't matter that he's the worst quarterback South Point Prep has ever seen. Everything is handed to him on a platter, and he gorges on it. My boyfriend is the popular kid at school; with a wide grin and haughty attitude, classmates gravitate toward him, begging to be his friend.

Me, not so much.

Gossip and backstabbing come with money and status when you're a girl at our school, and since I'm the richest, I get it the worst.

I drag my bag across the bed, then rifle through it until I find my phone and turn it back on. Jamie's probably posted a few pictures from the party, so maybe I can live vicariously through him tonight.

It takes a minute for my phone to turn on, but when it does, it flashes white. A blank, bright screen stares at me, and persistent, urgent dinging clashes through the room.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

What the hell?

That's when the screen comes back, and message upon message stack up so quickly I can't read them. Thousands of notifications pour in, and my heart sinks. My phone must have been hacked. But how?

I sigh, remembering I pressed the download button on that shady message earlier, which must have been a virus. Great. Can't wait to explain that one to my parents.

Restarting the phone, I hope that will fix the issue, but it doesn't. Now it's not just messages coming through, and all my social media accounts are exploding with notifications.

What the hell kind of virus did I download?

Tag after tag comes through, overheating my phone, so I drop it onto my bedside table when it burns my hand. I watch the notifications build, and as they slow down, a few messages become visible. My heart beats out of my ears because they don't make any sense.

Clicking on one message, my stomach drops, and I feel like I'm about to faint.

This can't be happening, can it?