At seven thirty sharp, a bell rings. The woman in the silver suit gestures for us to follow her.
As we walk to the dining hall, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The red dress is too bright. My skin is too pale. My eyes are too sharp.
But for a second, I feel like I belong.
I follow the herd, wondering how long the illusion will last.
The dining room is cathedral high, built for grandeur and for intimidation. The ceilings arch so far overhead they seem to vanish into dusk, while the chandelier throws fractures of white and gold across the marble floors. Long tables stretch in parallel, set with linen and gleaming silver, but no one sits. Everyone stands, glasses in hand, drifting in loose clusters.
It’s like a wildlife documentary, every clique and class performing for the cameras.
Vivienne steers me to a knot of girls who introduce themselves as if they’re handing out business cards. Each name is familiar: daughters of politicians, CEOs, old money legacies with teeth like razors. They’re all wrapped in custom dresses that glimmer just a shade more than is tasteful, their jewelry understated in the way only true wealth can be.
The conversation is light, a surface tension of champagne and forced laughter. They talk about ski weekends, European launches, how their fathers hate the new Headmaster. Every few minutes, someone will turn to me and include me in the banter, the way you might throw a dog a treat for performing the right trick.
I nod, smile, answer when spoken to, careful not to show my real teeth.
It almost feels real. For five minutes, maybe ten, I exist in the same bubble as them, a temporary member of a club I never auditioned for. But the edges are sharp, and the reminders are constant.
Poppy leans over, her breath a mix of mints and citrus. "So, Eve, what does your father do? He must be some kind of genius, getting you in here on a full ride."
I grip my glass by the stem. "He’s a mechanic," I say. "Runs a shop off 32."
The silence after is short, but cold. "A blue-collar scholarship? That’s actually kind of hot," Astrid says, laughing, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it.
Vivienne watches me the way a surgeon watches a patient’s eyes for pain. "You’re not from money. But you are interesting."
"That’s one way to put it," I say.
There’s a moment where I think she’s going to let me off the hook, but instead, she hooks her arm through mine and leads me to the main window. The glass is so clean it doesn’t look like it’s there at all, just a wall of black and gold-lit campus stretching away below.
"You know why they did this," she says, low so only I hear.
"Did what?"
"Invited you. Put you on display. There are a dozen legacies every year who get a perfect score, but they wanted a story. A spectacle." She pauses, sips her drink. "You’re here to makeWestpoint great again, Eve. But maybe you can be a queen, if you don’t play like an idiot."
My head swims with the booze, but I hold onto the words, twist them around in my mouth. "Is that what you’d do? Use the attention?"
"I’d use everything," Vivienne says, voice gone steel. "But I’m not the one the Board’s obsessed with. You are. Even the Feral Boys are talking about you."
This stops me. "What?"
She laughs, low and throaty. "You don’t know? Colton has you on his radar. That’s like being stalked by a panther. Or a vulture."
I try to keep my face blank, but I know I fail.
"Don’t take it personally," Vivienne says. "He picks someone every year to torment. It’s like his way of blowing off steam. Last year it was a prince from Riyadh. Before that, it was a senator’s daughter. Sometimes he breaks them. Sometimes he makes them famous. There’s no pattern."
I stare out into the night, refusing to give her the reaction she wants.
"I’m not here to be a story," I say.
Vivienne’s eyes flick over my face. "That’s where you’re wrong, Eve. At Westpoint, everyone is a story. You just have to decide who writes it."
There’s a call from the other room and champagne glasses being tapped in a rapid, random rhythm. A girl in a sapphire floor length dress stands on a chair, raising her glass. "Toast! Toast!" she shouts, and the crowd migrates that way.
Vivienne nudges me. "Come on. It’s tradition."
