“Sit, Amara,” he says, not a command but an expectation.
I take the seat across from him. The chair is rigid and spartan, designed to keep your spine ramrod straight and your knees locked at a precise, subservient angle.
The room smells of dust and whatever cologne he started using after the divorce.
He waits until I’ve arranged my skirt, until I fold my hands in my lap and exhale, before he lifts his gaze. His eyes are blue, but in this light, they’re colorless—like water poured into an empty glass.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks.
I do, and I don’t. I suspect it’s not about academics. It never is.
“I assumed it was about my class schedule,” I say.
His lips flatten, then lift in a smile so practiced I almost admire it.
“You’re not here as a student,” he says, ignoring the joke. “You’re here as a Marcus.”
This is supposed to mean something. It does, in the way a hammer means something to a nail.
He folds his hands and leans forward, the fire casting his shadow across the desk. “Your position at Westpoint is… unique. You’re not only my daughter, you are the last of our direct female line.The Board has certain expectations—traditions that must be maintained. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nod, not because I do, but because it’s the fastest way to make this end.
He frowns, as if disappointed by my lack of conviction.
“They expect you to set an example,” he says. “To uphold the standards of conduct that define this institution. There are students who would kill for your privilege.”
“Then let them have it,” I say, almost under my breath.
He ignores me, as always.
“You will be… how shall I say it… working closely with Julian Roth,” he continues. “His father and I have agreed that your cooperation is essential to the interests of both families. You will not disappoint me.”
The words don’t sting. I am too numb for that. But I do notice, somewhere at the bottom of my skull, that he refers to me as an object. A piece in a transaction. Not even a daughter.
My thumb twists against my index finger. I keep my face neutral.
“With respect,” I say, “I was under the impression I was admitted here as a student. Not as a bargaining chip.”
He doesn’t blink. “Don’t be obtuse, Amara. Your value lies in who you are, not what you accomplish.”
I feel the blood drain from my cheeks. I’d always suspected, but now the truth is as heavy and cold as the desk between us.
He taps the desktop, once, a signal that the meeting is over.
“You will attend dinner with the Roths tomorrow night,” he says. “I expect you to be presentable. Dismissed.”
I stand, knees locking, and back away from the desk. I don’t look at him. If I do, I’ll shatter.
At the door, I pause, just for a second.
“Am I allowed to say no?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
The cold follows me out, pooling in the hollow space where a future should be.
The door closes behind me with a click so sharp it snaps the breath out of my lungs. The corridor is empty, as empty as my fucking soul after my father crushed everything that I could have been if I’d have been born with any other last name.
