She shakes her head, lips curved. “Make me.”
I want to. I want to throw her down right here, paint the walls with her voice.
Instead, I walk away, every step fire in my veins. I don’t look back.
But I know she’s watching.
She’ll always be watching.
And next time, I’ll let her have a taste of the violence, too.
Chapter 9: Dahlia
There’sonlyoneplaceat Westpoint where I am not being watched.
It’s not the suite, with its cameras embedded in the sconces, or the library, where everyone watches my every move.
It’s the greenhouse—humid, loud with the hiss of vents, a world too alive and undisciplined for the Board’s taste. You wouldn’t know it from the newly renovated exterior, but the greenhouse is feral, and that is why I like it.
I push through the glass doors and breathe in the air: mold and pollen and fertilizer. It’s at least twenty degrees hotter than outside, a wall of steam and green. The benches are old woodand plastic, some mended with tape, others sprouting moss and lichen. Sunlight slants through the roof, carving the space into bars of gold and shadow. Aside from the one class in here, no one comes here except the most desperate postdocs and the scholarship kids forced to do groundskeeping as punishment. I am neither, which is why they leave me alone.
The smear is still across my face, along with the slight sting on my jaw. I touch it lightly, the skin raised where his teeth found me, then pull my hand away. Bam did this in full view of everyone; a claim, not a threat. The thought should disgust me, but instead my body buzzes, craving more. I force myself to walk slow, each step measured, each movement premeditated.
The far end of the greenhouse is my refuge. Between two raised beds of sickly magnolias that someone abandoned, a battered chair and a crate of clay pots. I sit, cross my legs, and let myself exhale. It feels good. Being alone, I mean. I roll my shoulders, lean forward, and rest my elbows on my knees, hands steepled to keep them from trembling.
I need to do something, anything, that will make this feeling pass.
The orchid I’ve been nursing is at my feet, its roots knotted and bound in a pot that’s too small. I cradle it in my palm and run a thumb over the pale green leaves, the surface cool and waxy. It’s a rare hybrid, the kind my father used to keep in his study—a Sicilian vanilla with a pink lip and a temper that killed most growers. This one is thriving, but barely. I press my finger into the soil, test the moisture, and then start the ritual of transplanting.
I do it slow. I have always moved with discipline—nothing wasted, nothing showy. I remove the stake, set it to the side, and turn the pot upside down over my palm, coaxing the orchid free with gentle taps. The roots are pale and strong, and the new shoot at the base is already curling upward, hungry for more. I set it in the next pot, fill in around it with fresh substrate, and tamp it down, careful not to bruise the stem.
This work is grounding. It’s the only thing I do that isn’t for an audience. Plants don’t care about legacy or betrayal. They just want what they want.
A drop of sweat slips down my spine. The greenhouse is so humid my shirt sticks to my ribs, and I’m glad—no one can see the red coming and going in my cheeks. I run my tongue over my lower lip and taste blood, faint and metallic. I must have bitten it during the fight, or the kiss, or whatever it was that happened.
I should hate him.
I don’t.
I push the thought away, focus on the orchid. Its petals are velvet, blushed at the tips like it’s embarrassed by its own beauty. I touch each one with my pinky, memorizing the texture. My hands are steady now.
I finish the transplant, wipe the dirt on my thigh, and set the pot on the bench. The sunlight cuts across my lap, spotlighting the ring of bruises on my wrist. I flex my hand, stretch my fingers.
It’s beautiful. Like a string of pearls, if pearls were purple instead of off-white.
Outside, a branch cracks. Someone’s coming, but I already know it isn’t him. I can always feel when he’s around. Like some sick sixth sense trained to know when he’s near. This is someone trained to tread soft, and I know who it will be before the door opens.
Ciro enters, stoop-shouldered, wiping his brow with a handkerchief that’s seen too much. He starts sweating the minute he steps inside and the door swings shut. He wasn’t built for heat. He scans the greenhouse, finds me in my corner, and nods. The look in his eyes is part concern, part apology.
He stands at the end of the row, hands folded behind his back. “Your father would like a word,” he says.
“Tell him I’m busy.” My voice is flat, not unkind. This is our routine.
Ciro waits, watching me. He has known me since before I had words. He was the one who taught me to box, who taught me to shoot, who taught me never to trust a lock without testing it twice. He taught me that the family was everything, and that everything outside it could be used to harm me.
He takes a step closer. “It’s important, Lia.”
“I know.”
