Even days later, tension from the Sinclair dinner still clung to me like a second skin. I couldn’t shake it—the feeling of being watched, studied, weighed like an object on display.
It wasn’t just the thinly veiled hostility from the other Queens or the way Madison made it painfully obvious that she thought I didn’t belong.
It wasn’t even the sickening way they had spoken about the Joker, as if destroying someone was just another part of the game they all played.
It was them. The Sinclairs.
Their attention was relentless. Unasked for. Suffocating. And by the time the school week started, it became impossible to ignore. One by one, the sponsorship contracts arrived.
The first one, I had expected. The second one? Strange, but maybe not shocking.
But the third? The fourth? The fifth?
I stared at the neatly stacked envelopes on my desk, my fingers tightening around the edges as I skimmed the contents.
Each one was identical in structure—an official agreement outlining my expected duties as a personal assistant and the financial compensation I would receive.
All five of them.
I had been offered five separate contracts. And the amount they were willing to pay? Astronomical.
For the first time, I truly understood what it meant to be bought. Sophie nearly choked on her coffee when I told her.
"All five of them?" she spluttered, wiping her mouth, eyes wide with shock. "That’s— Andrea, that’s insane!"
I exhaled, rubbing my temples. "Tell me about it."
Sophie shook her head, muttering under her breath as she flipped through the contracts, scanning the signatures like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
"They’ve never sponsored anyone before," she said, voice still tinged with disbelief. "Not once. They don’t do the whole ‘mentorship’ thing. They don’t even pretend to care about the scholarship students."
I already knew that.
I had spent the last week piecing together what little I could about the sponsorship program—how it wasn’t just about money, but control, influence, power dynamics carefully crafted beneath the illusion of generosity.
And yet, the Sinclair brothers had all offered.
Sophie pursed her lips, tapping a finger against one of the documents.
"It’s probably because you’re the first scholarship student to ever win a royal card," she reasoned. "Rich people love collecting rare things."
I frowned. "So now I’m a collector’s item?"
Sophie grimaced. "I mean, yeah. Kind of."
I rolled my eyes, but deep down, I knew she had a point.
When I told her I was considering Liam or Gabriel, since they were the only ones I felt remotely comfortable around, she let out a dramatic sigh and leaned back on my bed.
"If you pick Liam," she said dryly, "half the Academy will be out for your blood."
I hesitated.
"Just kidding. Mostly.” She waved a hand dismissively. “But seriously, Andrea. Be careful. These guys don’t do anything without a reason."
As if I didn’t already know that.
Then came the rumors. I should have seen them coming.
Sophie was the one who broke the news, shifting awkwardly before finally just blurting it out.
"People are saying you— uh. That you… slept with all of them."
I froze mid-step. "What?"
"Yeah, it’s, uh.. .kind of a big thing now, actually.” She winced. “Some of the elite girls started whispering about it, and it spread like wildfire."
My hands curled into fists at my sides, heat burning up my spine.
"Let me guess," I said tightly. "Victoria?"
Sophie nodded, exhaling. "She’s been calling you the ‘Queen of Chlamydia’ now."
I felt something snap.
"What the… That’s absolute bullshit!" I seethed. "They have no idea what I’ve been through. No idea what actually happened!"
Sophie gave me a sympathetic look, but her voice was resigned. "This is why I warned you about the Sinclairs," she murmured.
I took a slow breath, forcing myself to calm down.
Fine. If they wanted to treat me like a prize, if they wanted to gossip and sneer and spread rumors to try to tear me down—
Then I’d give them something else to talk about.
Over the next few days, I came to a conclusion.
Sponsorship wasn’t a bad idea. I needed the money. Not just for me, but for my mother. For the crippling weight of my father’s debts that still loomed over our heads.
But if I was going to accept it, I wasn’t going to be controlled. I set my own terms. And I used the power I had gained to fight back.
Scholarship students weren’t just ignored at Blackthorn—they were prey.
So I stood up for them. I used my rank, my influence, my position in the hierarchy to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.
People noticed. Gratitude came in small gestures—a whispered "thank you" in the hallway, a book left on my desk with a note that read: "We see what you’re doing."
But the elite students? They weren’t so subtle. They hated me for it.
* * *
The longer I went without choosing a sponsor, the more relentless the Sinclair brothers became.
Each one found their own way to remind me of their presence, slipping into my space as if they belonged there, as if this was some unspoken battle for my attention.
Liam was the most obvious about it. He turned up at my side in the hallways, blocking my path with that lazy smirk of his, voice dripping with amusement every time he called me "Queenie."
"I’ve got to say, the suspense is killing me." he mused one afternoon, casually leaning against my locker.
"Not my problem, Sinclair." I pushed past him with a smirk, but not before I saw the way his lips curled into something smug, like he enjoyed this chase far too much.
Gabriel was subtler, but just as persistent. He never approached me outright, but his presence lingered—a sketch of me slipped into my notebook without explanation, a knowing glance from across the room when our eyes met by chance. A silent reminder that he was watching.
Damien remained as composed as ever, but his patience seemed thinner every time we met for our project sessions. He didn’t ask outright, but I could feel the weight of unspoken expectation every time he looked at me, as if he already knew the outcome.
And Aiden? He didn't seem to try at all. He didn’t have to. His presence was always there, hovering in the background, impossible to ignore.
It was exhausting. Infuriating. And the worst part?
I felt something each time. I hated it. So I made my choice.
During our next project session, I closed my notebook with a quiet snap and met Damien’s gaze across the table.
"I’ve decided."
His fingers, which had been tapping idly against his pen, stilled. He didn’t look surprised—at least, not at first—but for just a second, a flicker of something unfamiliar passed through his expression before he smoothed it away.
"And?" he prompted, his voice calm, expectant.
"I’ll accept your sponsorship."
A pause. Barely a beat of hesitation, but it was there. Then, with a slow nod, Damien leaned back slightly, regarding me with that ever-calculating gaze of his.
"I wasn’t expecting that, actually," he admitted.
I arched my brow. "You thought I’d pick someone else?"
He didn’t answer immediately. "I thought you’d take longer to decide."
"Then you don’t know me as well as you think."
Something flickered in his eyes, something amused, intrigued. As I reached the door, he spoke again. "What made you choose me?"
I paused, looking over my shoulder. A slow smile curled at my lips. "Because you should take responsibility for the Queen you helped create."
And without waiting for a response, I walked away.