"Why are you here?" Fleur Delacour glared at Tris through gritted teeth.
But she was so beautiful that even her anger had a charm of its own. Her only flaw was...
Tris instinctively glanced at her chest.
Pheobe had grown a little taller over the past two years, but even the black cloak covering her whole body couldn't disguise the fact that her chest was flat as a pancake. Was nobody perfect after all?
Tris made no attempt to hide his gaze, and Pheobe immediately noticed where he was looking.
Pheobe had never liked Tris to begin with. In fact, her impression of him was downright awful. Now he was openly staring at the flaw that frustrated her most and left her utterly helpless, with what seemed like a hint of disdain in his eyes. (Tris: There really wasn't. That was regret.) Pheobe was absolutely livid.
Her first instinct was to pull off a glove and throw it at him.
Over the past two years, Pheobe had worked exceptionally hard at her studies and training. Already extraordinarily gifted, she now stood above everyone else at her school despite being only a sixth-year.
And the driving force behind all that hard work was the crushing defeat she had suffered in her last fight with Tris.
Losing to a boy two years younger than her had been the greatest humiliation of Pheobe's life. The Delacour Family was a prominent family in France, and as one of its highly valued members, Pheobe had access to information most people didn't know.
For instance, she knew that a grand event discontinued a hundred years ago would be revived next year. The only thing still undecided was exactly where it would be held.
But wherever it took place, Pheobe was absolutely certain she would enter. Then