Maxwell tilted his head, a smile ghosting his lips.
"You heard her. Lick them."
Even Mr. Brown joined in, his tone oily.
"Clara, she’s being generous. And I saw you hit her first."
I gave a short, humorless laugh. Generous?
My gaze swept over every face, lingering just long enough to make them flinch.
Then I spat—deliberate and hard—onto Colette’s jeweled shoe.
“You insult my father, and I’m the one who should apologize?”
My voice was cold enough to frost glass.
“You want me to lick your shoes? You couldn’t buy the right to have me touch the dirt on them.”
Colette let out a shrill scream. A couple of eager boys rushed over and dropped to their knees, frantically polishing her shoes as if that would earn them points.
But her cheeks flushed crimson, rage bubbling so hot it nearly cracked her sweet “green tea” mask.
Then her eyes flicked to Maxwell. In an instant, she shoved her would-be shoe shiner away and stepped forward, tears glimmering on cue.
"Maxwell, you see? Clara doesn’t even respect you. She won’t obey you at all!"
Maxwell’s expression iced over.
"Bring me a rope."