“Aw,” Harper purrs, pouting her perfectly painted pink lips, “look at you, so smart, using a Marie Antoinette reference.” She leans in toward me, her sweet vanilla-peach smell making me sick. “If you think you’ve got what it takes, bring your pitchforks, peasant, and take my head.” With a laugh like sparkling water, Harper stands back up and flips her hair over her shoulder.
