We gather around the main table. The woman in the silver suit stands at the head, holding up a smaller, more delicate glass. Her voice is clear, slicing through the chatter. "Ladies, tonight is a celebration of excellence. Of tradition. Of the future. Let us welcome our newest Scholar, Eve Allen, and remind her what it means to be part of the Westpoint family."
The word family lands with a thud. I’m boxed in by silk and perfume and the heat of so many bodies. There’s a weird, staged applause. A few girls whoop, but mostly it’s just polite clapping.
Someone shoves a fresh glass into my hand. "Speech!" they say, and it echoes around the room. "Speech!"
I shake my head, but they close in, hungry for a show.
Vivienne steps forward, her smile a razor cut. "Eve, tell us your vision for Westpoint. How will you change us? What will you leave behind?"
I want to disappear. I want to run. But the window is three stories up, and the only way out is through.
I raise my glass, hoping my hand doesn’t shake. "I don’t know about vision," I say, voice thin, "but I think it’s kind of amazing to be here. I never thought I’d belong somewhere like this. So, thank you, I guess, for not eating me alive. Yet."
There’s laughter, real this time. A softening, a moment where I think maybe I’ve broken through.
Then Vivienne claps, slow and mocking. "How charming. But why don’t we show our charity case what we really think of her pathetic little dreams?"
The words are a punch. For a split second, the room freezes. Then someone pops a champagne cork, and I’m being shoved towards it. The cork smashes me in the forehead. The liquid explodes over me, and someone tips their glass, slashing me down the front of my dress.
A shriek, a laugh, and suddenly the air is sticky with sugar and bubbles. I stand still, blinking, as the cold wet soaks into the red, bleeding it dark. My hands are wet. My face is wet. The laughter is a wall, and there’s no way out.
Flashes go off in my face and keep going, they keep jeering, until someone snatches the glass from my hand and spits in it before tilting my head back and pouring it over my face.
I look for Vivienne, but she’s already across the room, her back turned. I want to see her face, but I can’t push through the bodies.
I wait for the humiliation to end, but it doesn’t. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, taste the sickly alcohol and something bitter underneath.
They want me to run, to cry, to crack. But I just stand there, breathing, letting the champagne drip off my chin.
In the reflection of the black glass window, I see myself—dress ruined, hair soaked, eyes wide.
I smile, because it’s the only weapon I have left.
Then I turn, and walk out of the light.
I push through the doors, and the air outside is cool, but not cold and biting. My dress clings to my legs, each step leaving a trail of sugary droplets on the marble, red turning black as the fabric soaks through. My arms are goosefleshed, and I know my eyes are rimmed raw, but I don’t let myself check my reflection in the glass.
I walk the corridor, slow, the way you walk after a funeral. Not a single voice follows me; all the laughter and shrieking is still trapped in the dining hall, echoing behind closed doors. I take the stairs one at a time, trailing my hand along the brass rail, champagne slick on my palm.
At the landing, I pause. The only thing I hear is the blood in my ears, slow and thick.
Then, footsteps. Poppy and Astrid catch up to me. For a second, I brace for a second wave, but they just stop, stare, and then Poppy says, “Didn’t even cry. That’s almost impressive.” Astrid laughs, snapping a selfie with me in the background.
I keep walking, down the rest of the stairs and into the coatroom. I find my jacket, and pull it on, shoving my arms through the sleeves so hard the lining rips a little at the seam.
The limo isn’t waiting for me at the curb. It’s been replaced by a golf cart, a joke, with a driver in a red cap who’s scrolling on his phone. I climb in, ignoring the way he side-eyes me, and let him take me back to the Academy.
The driver parks by the dorm. I get out, catch my breath in the dark, and force myself to walk slow, not run, up the steps and inside.
The hallway is deserted. My feet squeak on the tile, wet with champagne and shame. I reach my door, fumble with the key, and push inside.
Once the door is closed, I stand there, unmoving, counting to thirty in my head. I wait for the tears, or the rage, or the urge to break something. But all that comes is a cold, quiet focus.
I strip off the ruined dress and leave it in the sink, rinsing it out until my hands are winkled, then hang it over the radiator,red against the rusty white metal. I stand in the shower, let the water needle my skin until every inch tingles, then scrub with the cheap soap from the vending machine.
When I’m clean, I sit on my bed, wrapped in a towel, and stare at the ceiling.
Then the shock sharpens into rage.
