You are hereby summoned to appear before the Board at 09:00 sharp. Your attendance is not optional. Administration Building, Room 3F.
Sincerely,
Mr. Steele, Board CFO
That’s it. No warning. No clue what I’ve done. Just a time, and the knowledge that I cannot say no.
My hands are shaking as I fold the letter, but I steady them on the edge of the desk. I check the clock. I have thirty minutes. Less, if I want to walk there and not show up breathless like a child.
The dorm hall is silent, most girls still asleep or hiding in their rooms. The sun coming in through the windows is harsh, washing everything out to grayscale. Each step echoes, loud enough that I wince. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, needing the punishment, the chance to count something other than my heartbeats.
Outside, the air is wet and sharp, the grass still bent with last night’s dew. I walk fast, eyes down, through Westpoint and out into the quad.
The Administration Building is glass and marble, an ugly new structure with no warmth. No heart. The Boardroom is up the main staircase on the second floor. The doors at the end of the hall are oak, so heavy they require both hands to open.
Outside the Boardroom, the Feral Boys wait.
Colton sits, bouncing his leg, his eyes light up when they see me. Rhett is there, pacing, jaw set hard. Julian sits with one ankle over his knee, scrolling on his phone like he hasn’t a care in the world. Bam leans against the wall, head back, eyes closed, as if already bored with whatever is about to happen. There are three more, all legacy, all variations on the same theme, predators in sport coats and pressed slacks, their faces a study in practiced indifference.
Rhett’s eyes catch mine. He looks at me, really looks, and I wonder if he can see the marks on my wrists, the hitch in my step. He doesn’t say anything. He just nods, once, and keeps pacing.
“Allen,” says Julian, not looking up from his phone. “Nice of you to join us.”
“Not much of a choice, is there,” I say. I take a spot on the bench as far from them as I can.
At 09:00 exactly, the doors open with a pneumatic sigh. A woman in a fitted gray suit beckons us in, her hair gelled flat to her skull. “Board will see you now.”
I enter first. The room is cold and blinding, the windows set high so the light falls straight down. The Board sits behind a marble table, five of them, each in a high-backed chair that makes them look like kings. Some old guy is sitting at the head, white-haired, angular, hands folded like he’s about to pray. On either side, two men and two women. All pale, all old, all watching me with identical expressions of boredom and faint annoyance.
At the far end of the table, a single chair.
It’s deliberate. Isolation made into architecture. I walk to it and sit, my heart loud in my ears.
“Boys, to the viewing spots, please.” The suit-lady says directing them to the left. Rhett looks feral, like he’s about to rip someone’s head off as they take their seats.
“Welcome. I am Mr. Steele and I am conducting today’s meeting.” Mr. Steele clears his throat. The sound is amplified by the acoustics, echoing back in layers.
“Miss Allen,” he continues. “Thank you for your punctuality.”
I nod, my hands tight in my lap.
“We have called this meeting for two reasons. The first is procedural. The second is… more personal.” He glances at the man on his left, who gives a fractional nod.
“Before we begin, I would like to introduce a guest,” Mr. Steele says. “Mr. Kent Harrington, one of our most generous funders.”
A man stands from the far corner. He is old, but not frail, his suit perfect, his eyes so pale they almost seem transparent. His hair is gray, cropped close. He walks with a slight limp, but every movement is precise.
He doesn’t shake hands or offer a smile. He just walks and takes a seat at the edge of the table across from me, folds his hands, and looks at me like he knows me.
“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Harrington,” Steele says.
Harrington’s voice is cold, but not unkind. “It is my pleasure to see the future of Westpoint in such fine form.”
The words make my skin crawl.
Mr. Steele turns back to me. “Miss Allen, your record here is exemplary. We note your academic achievements, your athletic pursuits, and your… resilience in the face of adversity.”
I say nothing. I know this is not a compliment.
