Sunslashesthroughthewindow and it burns my eyes. Eve is still in my shirt, still sleeping, knees pulled up, the braid she did yesterday already undone and fanned across the pillow like a casualty. I watch her for a long time. There is no reason to rush.
At 07:01, someone shoves a heavy envelope under the door.
Fuck.
I roll out of bed, careful not to wake her, and collect the envelope from the front door. Thick paper. Wax seal with the Board’s crest. There is always a seal, as if tradition reinforces what’swaiting inside. The handwriting is not the secretary’s this time. Someone wanted this to feel personal.
I open it with my thumbnail, peel the wax off in a single strip, then tear the flap.
There are two cards inside, both heavy enough to double as shanks. The first is formal, printed with the same gothic font the Board uses for expulsion notices:
You are cordially required to attend the First Annual Successor’s Gala in honor of Mr. Ellis and Ms. Allen. Attendance is compulsory. Formal attire. Eight p.m., Harrington Hall.
The second card is handwritten in a woman’s script:
The Funders will expect a public display. Don’t disappoint.
I flip the card over. No signature, just a single pressed flower taped to the back. Protea. Eve’s favorite.
They never miss an opportunity for a jab.
Heading back to my room, I toss the card on the table, grab a protein bar from my stash, and eat it slow, thinking about how to get out of this without putting a target on our backs.
I come up with nothing.
Eve sits up, squinting. She makes a noise in her throat, more animal than human. I like that, too.
“What’s wrong,” she says, not a question.
“Ceremony. Tonight. Eight. Harrington Hall.” I keep my voice even. No reason to let her think this is anything but another duty.
She rubs her eyes, the movement raw. “Do we have to?”
“Yes.”
She glances down, sees my shirt on her body, the bare skin of her thigh, the scar on her knee. She sighs. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
Her voice is small and it creates an uncomfortable tightness in my chest. She feels inferior when the reality is, she’s a fucking goddess.
I will never let her feel that way again.
I open the walk-in closet. She’s never been inside. She doesn’t know what I’ve built here.
Half the racks are mine—suits, black and gray, a shelf of ties in every power color, three identical pairs of shoes. Everything folded, pressed, lined up by shade. The other half is hers. Dresses, each on its hanger, tagged with her name, size, and atiny profile printout clipped to the sleeve. Some are black, some red, one is white. I’ve been collecting them since she enrolled.
It became an obsession.
She walks to the closet and stops, jaw actually hanging a little open. I count to four before she finds her voice.
“These are… for me?”
“Yes,” I say. “You’re expected to look the part.”
She pulls the first dress from the rack, holds it up to her body. Black, high-collared, with slits up both sides. She puts it back and grabs the red one, runs her hand over the fabric. “How did you know my size?”
I shrug. “I measured you in your sleep.”
She laughs, but there’s something wild in it. She’s not used to anyone taking care of her. She’s not used to anyone being nice to her at all.
