She turns, too fast, and in that instant the illusion of composure shatters. Her face is naked. No mask, no defense, just shock blooming into recognition. Her left hand finds the edge of her father’s desk as if she can appear more put together than she is.
I move further inside. The Dean’s office is not large, but the space between us is a no man’s land, riddled with questions she’s dying to ask.
She tries to recover, straightens her spine. The effect is comical. She’s not a woman trained to command rooms, not yet. She’s still in the phase where survival is an act of salvation. I could be charitable and call it resourceful, but I prefer to think of it as deliciously naïve.
“Looking for your father?” I ask.
She hesitates. “He said he’d be here.”
“Yeah, well I’m looking for him, too.” I say this with a smile, because it’s obvious, and because I want to see what it does to her. She flinches, the motion so small it barely ripples the air between us.
“I—” she starts, then stops.
I circle the room, letting my fingertips trail over the top of the desk. The surface is immaculate, except for a single stack of papers by his fountain pen: contracts, ledgers, the apparatus of transaction. At least a hundred pages, all arranged in a neat pile.
She doesn’t want me to see them. She moves to block my line of sight, but it’s too late. I pluck the top page off the stack and examine it.
The letterhead is heavy, dark blue with gold finishing. The wording is clinical, brutal in its efficiency: “Agreement of Binding Alliance, Amara Marcus to Julian Roth, per Westpoint Board Authority.”
I flick the sheet with my thumb, savoring the clean snap.
“Did you know your value has a line item?” I ask, holding up the page.
Her cheeks go white, then red. “That’s not—”
“Not what?” I prompt. “Not binding? Not final?”
She shakes her head. “It can’t be legal.”
The lie is so naked it’s almost endearing. I set the paper down, careful not to wrinkle it.
I move around the desk until I am close enough to see the pores in her skin. She is sweating, but refuses to step back. The proximity is a test—hers, not mine.
“You’re not here as a student or a daughter,” I say, my voice velvet. “You’re here as an asset. Nothing about Westpoint is legal because they are what makes things legal. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
She blinks. For a moment I think she’s going to hit me, but her hands remain tight on the desk. “I’m here because it’s my duty,” she says. Her voice is quiet but it doesn’t tremble. “Legacy isn’t just a word. My family built this school. I’m here to fulfill what my father needs from me.”
I lean in, close enough that I can feel her breath catch between her lips. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not all I am.”
I laugh, a true laugh, letting the sound curl around her. “Of course it isn’t. But it’s all you need to be.”
She glares at me, jaw set, but her pulse betrays her. I can see it at her throat, frantic and wild.
“You know why your father didn’t show?” I ask.
She shakes her head, but I can see the answer blooming behind her eyes.
“Because everything is a game.”
She swallows. “He wouldn’t do that to me.”
“When was the last time he told you he loved you? Was proud of you? I’m going to wager a guess and say a decade? Maybe more.”
She sags, just a little, as if the tension left her muscles all at once. But I can see the gears turning. She’s trying to calculate the angle of my next attack, trying to brace for impact.
She’s not ready.
