The Heiress Club

Prologue

They always say that money talks, but wealth whispers.

At Arbourne International, it whispers pretty loudly. Their alumni includes princes and princesses, heirs to billion-dollar-fortunes, and scions of noble families. The campus spans the lushest lands of Yorkshire, centering around a historical castle. It is the premiere school for anyone with money—a club for the wealthy and only the wealthy.

And I'm about to be a member of it.

We're driving there now. Kilometres upon kilometres of rolling green hills lay beneath a feather-grey sky, nothing man-made in sight except the ribbon of concrete before us. We fly down the road, Sparky at the wheel and me in the passenger's seat.

I shiver slightly, wind whipping at my hair as we speed across the landscape. England is chilly in the fall, necessitating warmer wear. I've thrown on a navy-blue cashmere sweater over a luxurious cotton blouse, but it's still not enough against the cold. Sparky came well prepared—he wears a heavy wool coat over his polo shirt and slacks.

Sparky is old enough to be imposing but not old enough to be senile. I'm actually not sure how old he really is. His hair is greying at the temples, dark brunette otherwise. He's probably forty, fifty something.

"Ten minutes," Sparky says, breaking the silence we drove here in.

I nod, shivering again. Sparky glances at me. "If you're cold, close the windows."

I shake my head, grinning. "I like the windows open," I say. There's nothing better than driving with all the windows open. It really feels like flying.

"Suit yourself. Just fix your hair when we get there. First impressions are important."

"I know."

"Just making sure."

We lapse into silence. After a moment, Sparky speaks again.

"Get that through your head then, alright? I'm sending you here because even if you could get a degree anywhere else, this is the only place where you're gonna meet the people you're gonna meet. Make connections, alright?"

"I will," I snap. Sparky's always going on and on about the importance of connections, like I don't know that already.

"I mean it. Make friends with the right people."

"I will. You think I can't make friends?" I challenge.

Sparky chuckles. He knows as well as I do that making friends is second nature to people like us. In our world, who you know is vastly more important than what you know. Arbourne is the perfect place for winning friends.

As we draw closer, I check over my hair in the side mirror. It's coffee-brown like Sparky's, voluminous and wavy. It looks far better a little messy—and suits me far better too. My olive complexion is washed out in the grey light; I did my makeup the best I could, and added a rosy lipstick to make my green eyes pop more, but I can't help it if England weather makes me look sickly. I fumble through the compartment (it's a vintage Rolls Royce which is very nice-looking, but also fairly limited in its storage capacity) and draw out my lipstick, re-applying it.

"I can see Arbourne now," Sparky comments.

I cap my lipstick neatly and toss it into the compartment, looking up.

We've sped right past an exit into the nearest hamlet, Arbourne Village, which primarily exists to service the school. The road forks here. We make a sharp left, following a line of expensive cars towards the imposing Arbourne campus.

It's absolutely gorgeous. An old stone castle has been seamlessly integrated into Victorian school buildings with high gothic windows and elaborate facades. The cream-yellow brick displays no sign of how old it is; it's so polished, the school could have been built yesterday. The castle stretches upwards, casting a long shadow over the landscape. The campus gates are right in front of us, big wrought-iron affairs. Two stone lions guard the place, carved in pale marble. I read about them in the prospective student guidebook. Apparently, a prince of England donated them when he attended.

We stop at the guardhouse, but they quickly let us through once I flash them my student ID, issued earlier that summer. Once we're inside the campus, I can truly see Arbourne International School in all its glory.

It stretches out in a semicircle of five buildings, the central one being the largest (and the one connected to the castle). The other four seem to be for dormitories and administrative purposes. Each one is built from solid brick, with a shingled roof. A roundabout encircles a beautiful fountain, Grecian statues of nymphs pouring jugs of flowing water into the pond. We join a line of tasteful cars. Cream vintage Maseratis, plain black Porsches, grey Rolls Royces.

"Manners House," Sparky mutters to himself, his eyes darting rapidly between the road and the signs pointing to various buildings. "Somerset House, Courtney House—ah, there, Manners House."

We turn into the road leading to one of the three residential Houses, Manners House. Sparky glances briefly in the rearview mirror to make sure that his assistant's car, a pickup truck carrying all my luggage, is following us. It is.

Sparky comes to a stop in front of Manners house, carelessly askew of the curb. It isn't a huge deal, considering how poorly everyone else is parked as well. His assistant parks neatly and conscientiously right beside us. I see him—a young, nervous man—hurry towards one of the hired staff who are idling by the door. Both of them hurry to go and unload all my cream suitcases onto a gold baggage carrier. I bought those suitcases this summer; they haven't been properly broken in yet.

Sparky switches off the ignition but doesn't unlock the doors just yet. He turns to me. The look on his lined face, tanned from spending the summer in Europe, tells me that he's serious. It's an artfully curated look, one well practised from spending many hours in business meetings. He rarely gives me this look.

"You have to remember—make connections," he repeats. His knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. "That's what matters most. If you can't do that, this is all for nothing."

I flick my hair over my shoulder and smile sweetly. "Father dearest, when have I ever failed?"

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edited, apr 20!