Passion.
Literally anything even mildly aggressive so that I can give up control and be taken.
So… I ended it and ever since then, he’s been like a little puppy, walking around with those eyes that are heavy with sadness.
Dunno what he thought would happen, but we were never ‘forever’.
It’s starting to rain and it hits my jacket, rolling in fat drops onto the ground. I forgot my umbrella back home so I pick up my pace a bit.
Students litter the lawn and main walk, performing disinterest with the commitment of future politicians. I catalog them by reflex: sporty types, Lacoste and testosterone, the way they side-eye my body but never risk direct contact; a cluster of international students, louder, more animated, but go mute as I near; three girls with honeyed hair, who measure me in up-down glances before trading an inside joke at my expense.
I catch the fragments: “Don’s daughter.”
“Doesn’t look Sicilian.”
“Heard she’s killed someone.”
The last one is delivered in a whisper, but I hear it.
The campus is an architectural fossil—Gothic arches, needle spires, windows that refuse to let the light in. There’s out buildings all over the place and what looks like a cemetery just beyond a path to the left. The façade is flawless, but I’m more interested in the blind spots and bottlenecks. The entire west wing is ringed by cameras disguised as eagle gargoyles, each pointed toward a potential point of entry or congregation. I wonder if the other students even notice, or if they assume all academies are built to double as fortresses.
We round the main quad, past a fountain that’s iced over.
Father’s instructions were clear. “Treat this as you would a new territory. Do not posture. Do not back down. Do not let the Board see more than you wish to show. You are not to fight unless provoked. You are to participate in their games and do the Kings proud.”
I wonder if he realizes these rules are written for boys. He’s never known what it is to be watched the way I am watched.
Inside the main doors, heat slaps the frost from my skin. The marble foyer is huge and domed, with stained glass windows all around, it’s lit by chandeliers that dangle like interrogator’s lamps.
I keep my chin at the right angle, just shy of contempt. There is already a reception committee: a wiry man in Westpoint navy, hair silver and scalp shining through, flanked by two students in matching blazers. One male, one female, both tall, both perfectly forgettable. I’m told later that the Board sends a legacy representative to witness the other royal arrivals, but no one told me it was this performative.
The man steps forward. “Miss Bonaccorso. Welcome.” His handshake is dry and brief, his smile cut with calculation. “I am Dr. Leavitt, steward of the incoming class and professor of Professional Development and Business Acumen. If you’ll follow me, we’ll complete your registration and get you settled.” His eyes slide to my guards, who stand silent and stone-faced. “Your security detail may wait in the antechamber. You’ll find the amenities adequate.”
I unbutton my coat, gloves off finger by finger. “They stay.”
He blinks, then smiles wider. “Of course.”
He turns, and the two students pivot in unison to flank me as we’re guided deeper into the labyrinth. The marble underfoot is veined with black; each step echoes longer than the last. We pass trophy cases, ancestral portraits, and display cabinets containing silverware engraved with the Westpoint crest. I glance at my reflection in the glass, check my hair, smooth the fabric at my waist. My face is blank, eyes gold-shadowed and unblinking.
I am not here to make friends. I am not here to make enemies. I am here to solidify my own allies within the Academy for when I take over for my father.
And to hide from those who are looking for me.
There’s always someone trying to gain access to me to use against my father.
The hush is a vacuum, broken only by the click of my boots. The legacy girl on my right risks a glance. She’s tall, Nordic, the same as everyone else. Her nose is a surgeon’s masterpiece. The boy on my left is already sweating, or maybe he’s just allergic to my perfume. I let the silence stretch, see who cracks first.
It’s the boy.
“So,” he says, hands fidgeting, “you come from Italy?”
“Chicago,” I say, and watch him try to recalibrate.
“Oh. I just—” He glances to Dr. Leavitt, who is already fifty feet ahead, pretending not to listen. “I read your family was—never mind.”
I let the pause hang, then: “You read too much.”
He falls behind, embarrassed, but the girl keeps step. She smirks, a flicker of shared contempt. We are not the same, but we are not so different.
