Eve Allen thinks she can protect her. She’s welcome to try.
The only person Amara needs to protect her, is me.
Which, ironically, is also the one person she needs protecting from, because when she falls for me, and she will, I will have the power to shatter her heart.
Or to allow it to beat the rhythm of my name.
Chapter 3: Amara
Mysummonscomesatbreakfast, a rectangle of heavy parchment set beside my spoon. At first I think it’s a prank—some legacy girl’s way of reminding me who really runs Westpoint. But the paper is real, embossed in gold, the Marcus seal imprinted so deep it leaves ridges in the flesh of my thumb.
My name is written in my father’s hand:AMARA.Inside, he has demanded my presence in his office in the Administration Building, effectively immediately.
I stare at it until my eggs go cold. My leg starts to bounce with nerves, and the thin shake travels up my body, into my arms, into the rigid shelf of my shoulders. I set the letter down, afraidif I hold it any longer the bounce will migrate into my face and someone will see me slip.
He only ever summons me if he needs something or wants something from me. Which is rare, but something about this feels ominous.
The rest of the dining hall is a parody of normalcy. Girls with perfect teeth laugh into their lattes, boys in pressed shirts wolf down protein bars, and every so often someone laughs. The sound is high pitched and shrill, piercing through the chatter. Nobody notices me, except one, who looks up from his phone just long enough to memorize my humiliation before going back to his screen.
And of course, Julian. Who sits on his platform, flanked by his friends, staring down his nose at me like I’m scum on the bottom of his shoe.
The fabric of my uniform itches over my skin. I tuck the summons into my sleeve and stand, trying to remember if it’s dignified to clear your tray when summoned by the Dean. I leave it.
My father scares me more than anyone else here ever could.
The corridors are even creepier in the murky, overcast light shining through the windows. The paintings hung on the walls sport knowing looks, including my father’s at the very end, staring down at me as if waiting for me to trip, or to dirty the Marcus name.
All look like they’re in on a secret no one else knows about.
They probably are.
Other students glide past, their footsteps loud against the harsh marble floors. But my shoes, an abomination of patent leather and custom insole, chosen by my father for their posture-correcting benefits, clack louder.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
Each step is a countdown.
By the time I get out into the quad and reach the Administration Building, my mouth is dry and my pulse is a thousand miles from steady. I have no idea what he wants. My father doesn’t do check-ins. He doesn’t do surprises. Every interaction is a transaction, and I have no currency left to spend.
The last stretch is mentally exhausting: ten meters of black-and-white tile, guarded at each end by a suit of armor. The armor is apparently original according to the name plate, imported from France, and rumored to be haunted. I glance at the nearest visor and half-expect to see my face, shrunken and scared, staring back.
At the end of the hall, the Dean’s door waits. Oak, twice as tall as any normal door, carved with the Marcus family crest. A lion’s head and two crossed keys, mouth open in a snarl. I run my finger over the bite marks in the wood.
Guess Westpoint has money to burn for novelties such as this.
I hear the click of the inner lock. He’s expecting me.
I smooth my skirt, once, twice, then press my palm against the chill of the handle.
This is the part where I stop being Amara, and become the Marcus daughter again. I squeeze until my hand hurts, then step inside.
The office is colder than the corridor.
I don’t understand how that’s possible, given the fireplace is fed with enough logs to roast a small family, but the cold here is different. It’s not about temperature; it’s about presence.
My father sits behind his desk—massive, mahogany, and old as the dynasty itself. The desk is the only thing in this room allowed to be more important than him. It’s layered with ledgers, leather-bound and hand-inscribed, their spines cracked and stained from decades of oil and sweat. Each is a relic, and my father’s fingers rest on them like they’re precious stones.
He doesn’t look up when I enter.
