“You can hate me all you want,” I say, “but you’ll never hate me more than you hate them.”
I close the door behind me, but not before I see her look down at the mess of contracts on the desk, her fists tightening until the paper tears.
It’s done.
She’s not broken. She’s remade.
And when she comes for me, it will be glorious.
Chapter 7: Amara
Thereisbloodundermy fingernails. I look down and see the half-moons of my nail beds purpled from pressure, then flex my hands looking at the indents of my anger on my palms.
The walk back to my dorm after being savagely fucked by the guy I should hate was somehow both shameful and freeing. His come dripping down my thighs and every time I thought about what he said, it triggered a blush.
And yet, now I’m here, not knowing what the fuck to do. What the fuck to think.
A deep breath in… and out… calm down.
It doesn’t work.
This room is too small for the violence inside me. I pace it anyway, one wall to the next, slippers silent on the old hardwood, the only sound my breath tripping over itself. Every pass brings me closer to the mirror, but I can’t bear to look at the wreckage of my face. Instead, I count the cracks in the paint above the door, the number of times I’ve circled this cell, the seconds between heartbeats.
I should be studying. Should be fixing my skirt, should be calling my father to demand he undo what he has done, but the words wither before they reach my tongue. It’s all muscle memory at this point. Obedience coded into the tendons of my hands and the arch of my neck.
This morning, I belonged to myself.
Now, I belong to the Board.
And to Julian Roth.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him, feel him. The way his jaw flexed. I feel the bruises on my hips, the raw scrape of his palm when he forced my face up to meet his. There is a fingerprint on my thigh, faint but real, proof that he could do whatever he wanted and I would be powerless to stop it.
Do I even want to stop it?
I can’t decide if I want to run or beg for more.
The thought disgusts me. I press my knuckles to my mouth and bite down until the taste of iron overwhelms everything else.
A knock at the door, soft, hesitant.
I freeze, body tightening as if I’ve been caught mid-crime.
“Yeah?” My voice is raspy so I clear my throat.
The door opens just wide enough for a sliver of light to spread across the floor. Eve’s face appears.
She doesn’t ask if she can come in. She just does, her steps slow and deliberate, a stack of books balanced against her hip. There’s a thermos in her other hand, steam curling from the lid.
“Didn’t see you at dinner,” she says, tone neutral.
“I wasn’t hungry.” I cross my arms and back up until the edge of the bed hits the back of my knees.
Eve takes in the room with a single sweep of her eyes. She sets the books on my desk and places the thermos on top, then slides her hands into her pockets. “You look like shit,” she says.
I almost laugh. “Thanks.”
She sinks into my desk chair and spins it around to face me. “Do you want to talk about it, or should we do the shit you missed from class first?”
