Chapter one
Martine Lilian Huntington-Russell
Sophomore Year - 1998
Specks of beer dribble down my chest as I push my brother away, narrowly avoiding the full force of the embrace he hurls at me.
“Jesus, Dex! A peck on the cheek would suffice,” I carefully wipe the droplets of beer from the cardigan of my favorite cashmere sweater set, scowling.
Ford saunters up to Dex and me, full of his ever-present icy indifference. He’s a true asshole in the highest regard. Half the moody, pensive type, half nose in the air, sanguine snob. It’s easy to mistake his brooding for arrogance, a sign of his obvious belief that most people aren’t worth his time. I only know him as my fearless protector and am quick to refute anyone's sordid idea of him.
While they’re twins, Dex is endearingly indifferent to what usually sets Ford off. I’ve watched in awe for years as he lets the pressures of our life roll off his shoulders. Dex enters any room, desperate to find a good time, and is rarely unsuccessful. With a constant focus on finding trouble, sometimes bordering on deviancy, Dex is a force to be reckoned with when we're away at school.
And while the silly and somehow smug look is rarely wiped off his chiseled face, Father ensured Dex could also be cold. Even worse than Ford if you push the right buttons. It’s rare, I’ve only seen it twice, and I ran off and hid both times.
“You'd better be ready to go tomorrow evening, Martine. I’m already anticipating a difficult weekend. For the love of God, don’t add to it,” Ford chides, and Dex bursts out laughing, nearly sloshing his drink all over me again. I dodge the bottle just in time.
I reach forward and snatch it from him before he can drench me once more.
Looking between them, I try to ascertain the true meaning of this conversation so that I can strategically redirect it. The twins are nervous to go home, and I am, too.
Ford only sneers at Dex’s outburst before turning back around, hoping for something more interesting and finding nothing but me—rigid, chilled, and lost in thoughts of the weekend.
“Paradise” by Sade plays quietly in the background as students lounge on leather couches atop ancient rugs. Sweating glasses of expensive whisky are balanced on champagne stands strategically placed about the room.
For a private dormitory located on the Eulogia campus, this level of opulence is standard.
I don’t know why I convinced myself to come to this welcome-back mixer. I haven’t even grabbed a glass of wine yet, and I'malready subjected to my brothers' controlling nature. I would tell Ford he's reminding me of Father, but that would only earn me a swift drag back to my dormitory by a menacing grip on my upper arm.
“You would think refined Brotherhood members such as yourself would offer a lady a refreshment before forcing her to suffer lectures,” I find holding back my eye roll nearly impossible, “Did you forget your manners in that mausoleum?”
Turning to my brothers, I realize that my remarks are, of course, ignored. My brothers are distracted, quietly calculating strategies between themselves for the journey home tomorrow. I know the pressure they’re under, even if I don’t fully grasp the details, amounting to the weight of it. There is so much I haven’t witnessed, but I feel it like a stone pressing down on my chest, nearly taking my breath away. I’ve seen it in my mother's eyes, the way she avoids looks or wears her sunglasses indoors over breakfast to hide more than just her hangover.
Ford and Dex are discussing their weekend plans and who they’re hosting at the Estate. We’re required to leave Eulogia and return to our home every weekend, as our parents are known to host, rain or shine. Our Father almost always has guests, and my brothers have never had the privilege of staying on the outskirts of the formal dining room as I have.
Ford places a hand on my shoulder, the way he always does when he’s about to say something he believes is for my own good, but will hurt nonetheless. “Be smart, Martine. Go home,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “I don’t need menial things to worry about tonight.”
It’s meant to sound gentle, but I know better. No matter how tender he tries to be with his baby sister, it’s still a threat. And I’m just the lowest thing on his task list.
"I am many things, but menial is not one of them. I did not meticulously build the persona of the perfect daughter just towaste it on a hangover,” I shove the beer back to Dex. “Besides, this isn’t even mine.” He knocks it back in nearly one gulp, the rest dripping down his thick blue knit sweater, embroidered with an ivory “E” for Eulogia at the center of his chest. A bit of his slicked-back sandy blond hair falls into his eyes, giving a glimpse at the rumpled posh prince he is.
Ford wouldn’t be caught dead with a beer, let alone spilling one. His black suit jacket rests neatly over a perfectly pressed, crisp white button-up, not a wrinkle in sight. The same ivory “E” for Eulogia is stitched subtly at the cuff, a quiet reminder of Legacy rather than loyalty. His dark hair is immaculately combed, not a strand out of place, and his face wears that signature mask of unreadability. If Dex is the posh prince with a crooked grin, Fordham is the future president—polished, poised, and utterly unshakeable.
I look around, searching for something else to endure instead of my older brothers.
Heavy drapes cover the floor-to-ceiling windows, giving an oddly cozy feel to such a serious dormitory suite. While the fixtures are gold-plated, and the marble floors are shone to perfection, it’s the rumpled mixture of unfathomably wealthy students in their twenties spread out across the room, drinking and doing lines of cocaine that is the true sight to behold.
Eulogia is the Ivy you go to if your idea of partying consists of conversations surrounding the best translation ofCrime and Punishmentover a glass of Château Lafite. Everyone here knows someone from their boarding school, and everyone knows you can’t get into Eulogia without attending one of the top three in the world.
I turn my gaze back to my brothers only to see Ford narrow his eyes, cutting straight through me.
“God, this is beneath us. Why are we here again?”
“Because, Ford, sometimes you need to do things other than seances at the Brotherhood of Death. You know things do exist outside of that cult, right?” I suck my lip between my teeth and quickly release it, remembering I had only just reapplied my favorite Black Honey from Clinique.
The Brotherhood of Death is a private men’s social club, and I’ve always been a bit sour because of the old-money elitism that makes the membership exclusive to men, and men alone.
The twins and various men around the room arrived at the mixer fresh from their first Society meeting of the year. They have them weekly, but Ford always says the first meetings of the school year arequite ceremonious.
