There is a landing where the main staircase splits into two wings. The floor is checkered marble, so clean it looks wet, and above it is a ceiling painted with a fresco of angels and devils entwined, fighting over a crown. Gargoyles leer from every corner. The light is filtered through stained glass in panels of red, blue, and the gold of Westpoint’s legacy. It turns the crowd into stained creatures—proud faces, cruel lips, all gleaming with a sacred hunger.
Leaning against the wall is a man who looks like he was carved from stone. His ears are pierced and he has a tattoo down his neck, disappearing into his shirt. His hair is perfectly styled, flopping to one side in careful waves. From here, I can see his eyes are light, but something in them crawls with darkness.
His stare roots me to the spot and a smidge of panic rises in me at his fixed gaze.
The crowd parts, not out of courtesy, but morbid curiosity. I’m the Marcus girl. I’m not supposed to be here. Daddy’s little girl, the forbidden fruit, the girl with the pedigree so high they had to invent new rules for her. My file is thicker than the city phone book. Every face is cataloged, each movement mapped for potential scandal or threat. I’m the last of my line, or so the rumors go. Who knows with my cheater of a father how many more there are. If they can break me, they break Westpoint itself.
The man moves towards me and after a few moments, I step around him towards the reception. I move like a ghost, untouchable and already dead.
The first whisper comes from a knot of girls near the stained-glass alcove. They wear the legacy uniform, with big, ugly ribbons braided into their hair, their shoes shined to a mirror. The ringleader is a tall brunette with high cheekbones and perfectly applied make up. Her laugh is polished, expensive, the kind that bounces off marble and comes back sharper. “Look, she made it out of quarantine,” she says, not even pretending to whisper.
The others giggle in chorus.
I keep my chin up. I count my steps. It was bound too happen. I know the rumors.Kept away because I’m fragile. I’m special.Guess that changed when the Vicious Kings stepped away. My father needs a sacrificial lamb and that fell on my shoulders.
Another voice, this time from behind: “Marcus girl, finally allowed to play with the rest of us.” It’s a boy’s voice, cracked with boredom and something sharper.
The hallway closes in. It always does. The first time I visited Westpoint as a child, I thought it looked like the inside of a whale. Now, I know it’s a mausoleum, a place where you bury the parts of yourself that have a shred of humanity.
You can’t be kind here. You have to shove that shit deep inside you and bury it, or you’ll wake up with a hatchet buried in your back.
“Daddy’s precious jewel,” someone hisses as I pass. A girl this time. She’s wearing last season’s shoes, but her lipstick is fresh as blood. “Wonder how much it cost to keep her hidden all these years.”
I want to answer. I want to tell her the price, that it costs everything, every waking minute, every ounce of yourself that might not be good enough. Instead, I tighten my grip on the strap of my satchel, which isn’t supposed to be allowed—Westpoint girls are forbidden from carrying bags bigger than a portfolio. I’m an exception, like always. That makes me a target.
My hands are shaking. I hide it by pretending to adjust my skirt.
The corridor narrows before the grand staircase, forcing me closer to the mean girls. Their perfume is offensive, equal parts jasmine and venom. The brunette blocks my way. She doesn’tspeak. She just looks me over, top to bottom, her eyes pausing on the seam in my skirt where my fingers are fidgeting.
I wait for her to move. She doesn’t.
There’s a protocol for moments like this. I’ve been coached, rehearsed, programmed since birth. Smile, but not too wide. Bow your head, but not like a servant. Speak only when spoken to. Apologize for your presence without using the word sorry.
I inhale, steady and slow. I channel my father’s voice.
“Excuse me,” I say.
The girls don’t move. They smile, in sync, like sharks with fresh blood in the water.
Behind me, the man whistles.
It is all a show. I am the show.
Immediately, I starting looking for exits, the way I always do in a new space. There’s the front door, guarded by a staff member with a Westpoint lapel pin. The marble staircase, leading up to the dormitories and the boardroom, watched by cameras hidden in the chandeliers. The side corridor to the faculty offices is the only one unpatrolled, but to reach it I’d have to shoulder past these girls, draw more attention. I do the math in my head. There is no clean escape.
I feel my breathing falter. I force myself to exhale through my nose, not my mouth. Crying is forbidden. A Marcus does not cry.
The brunette tilts her head, like she’s examining an insect under a lens. Her tongue flicks over her red lips. “Didn’t think they let you out of the tower,” she says. “Did your handlers get the week off?”
Her friends snicker, ugly and high-pitched. I recognize one: daughter of a federal judge, rumored to have blackmailed her last roommate into a suicide attempt. The rumors at Westpoint are never far from the truth.
My mouth is dry. I think I might faint, but I hold my ground.
The stained glass above us throws a halo of red and gold around her head. I wonder, for a moment, what it would feel like to be the kind of girl who laughs at the suffering of others. I wonder if she knows what it’s like to be property, to be spoken for before you’re old enough to spell your name.
“Move,” I say, softer than I meant to.
She leans in. I smell mint on her breath, and something like whiskey.
