Eve is quiet a moment. “All of them, Amara. Every girl who ever came through here. You just got the front-row seat because your family’s at the top of the heap.”
The words settle in my chest, heavy and final.
We page through the records in silence. Every few sheets, Eve stops me and points out a detail. “Look—see how they paired the daughter of a senator with the son of an oil tycoon? Or how this one was slated for military legacy, even though she flunked out in her second year? We’ve had scholarship women, women sold for debts, all have one thing in common… high IQ, breeding hips and a disposition that is meek. It’s all about the next power move.”
My pulse spikes. “So my whole life—my mother dying, my father never looking at me like a real person—it was all… preordained?”
Eve nods. “I’m sorry.”
The apology almost undoes me. “How can you stand it?”
Eve’s eyes are tired, but kind. “Because I get to choose what I do with it. That’s all there is, in the end.”
I keep flipping pages, hands numb. Every girl’s story ends the same—claimed or broken or dead. My mind whirls, desperate for a loophole.
At the back of the folder is a list. Hunt Runners, 2025 Candidates.
My name is circled in red.
I want to cry, or puke, or both.
Instead, I close the folder and look at Eve. “What now?”
She smiles, fierce and a little wild. “Now we figure out how to rig your Hunt.”
I nod, but the rage inside me is no longer cold. It’s molten.
The archives are silent as a tomb. But when we leave, I can feel a thousand ghosts at my back.
And I promise every one of them that I will burn these fuckers at the stake.
The world feels strange now. Eve is laying on my bed, texting someone, giggling, while I sit at my desk, unable to think.
“Get dressed,” she says, suddenly jumping to her feet. “We’re getting out of here.”
I blink at her. “Where?”
She tosses a hoodie at my face. “Coffee shop. Off campus. No Board, no boys, no ghosts. Just caffeine and normal people who give zero fucks about legacy.”
I don’t argue. The idea of air that isn’t filtered through tradition sounds better than therapy.
After I dress, we cut through the quad, then the old staff lot, until the Gothic arches of Westpoint shrink behind us. A few blocks away, Eve ducks into a side street and gestures at a squat brick building squeezed between two used bookstores. The sign in the window says THE MUSEUM, but the only artifacts inside are chipped mugs and a pinball machine older than my father.
The place smells like burnt espresso and vanilla. The heat hits my face and instantly softens the knots in my stomach.
At the far corner, two women wait in a booth. Both look like they could shatter me with a word, but in totally different ways.
The first is Dahlia Bonaccorso. She’s not tall, but she takes up space—jet black hair scraped back in a severe ponytail, eyes sharp, nails blood red. She’s wearing a tailored skirt and white button-up blouse, but the way she sprawls in the seat says she doesn’t give a shit if it gets coffee on it. Her phone buzzes twice, but she ignores it.
The other is Isolde Greenwood. She’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t feel engineered—like she woke up, shrugged on the first sweater she found, and went out to hunt something. There’s a silver locket at her throat and a ring on every finger. She smiles when she sees us, one hand on her stomach, the other extending in an excited wave.
Eve slides in next to Isolde and nods at me to take the spot beside Dahlia.
“Girls, this is Amara,” she says. “Officially in the club.”
Dahlia doesn’t shake my hand. She just looks me up and down, then gives a slow, approving nod. “Nice to meet the new princess.”
Isolde offers her hand, warm and dry. “It gets easier,” she says.
