Myphoneringsat5:03 a.m. I recognize the number—Board business. I let it vibrate to voicemail. I have other priorities this morning.
Amara is asleep next to me, her hair fanned across the pillow. She’s on her side, hands curled up near her mouth. If I wanted, I could slip my fingers between her lips and she’d probably suck them in her sleep, gentle, docile, animal. Her body is still recovering from last night. As much as I tried to take her gentle, I was still full of rage from the club.
She didn’t complain, just let me take my anger out on her perfect little body.
I watch her sleep for a full minute before I move. The urge is to wake her—drag her out of the dream and into mine—but that would ruin the delicacy of this moment.
Instead, I reach for the sheet and slide it down, exposing her bare skin to the cold. Goosebumps rise across her shoulders, and she burrows deeper into the mattress. The flex of her muscle, the subtle arch of her spine, the faintest sheen of sweat at her hairline. Her lips are parted, still swollen from the way I bit them raw. She doesn’t know how beautiful she is when she’s defenseless.
I do.
I think about leaving another mark. Maybe waking her up with my hand around her throat, or my tongue inside her cunt, but I restrain myself. There’s a ritual to mornings, and I respect it.
I check my phone again. Two new messages, both urgent. I sigh, then set the device face down.
There’s a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand. I take a sip, then swing my legs out of bed. Amara doesn’t stir.
My clothes are scattered on the floor. I collect them, careful not to make a sound. The shirt is wrinkled, blood splattered on them. The collar smells like her, alcohol and smokes.
It’ll have to do until I can get to my dorm and change. But first… a shower.
I take my time. The water is cold for the first thirty seconds, then scalding hot. I scrub myself until the skin is raw, until there’s no evidence left of last night’s violence except for minor cuts. There’s a cut along my knuckle, still oozing; I reopen it under the spray, squeezing until the water runs pink. I think of the man in the club, the way his face broke under my fist. There is no memory of guilt, only satisfaction.
I rinse out my mouth, check my teeth in the fogged mirror. I look good. I always do, but today there’s an edge—a crack in the surface, a question of how far I can push it before something breaks.
Before I break.
When I return to the bedroom, Amara is still sleeping. She has pulled the blanket up to her chin, hiding every inch of herself from the world. She is the only person who’s ever managed to look fragile and feral at the same time. I envy it.
I get dressed without looking away from her.
I lean over the bed, close enough to feel her breath on my face. She smells like sleep, like my cologne, come and sweat. I want to crawl back in and suffocate in it, but instead I brush a strand of hair from her eyes.
She sighs, just once, then goes still again. I wonder if she’s pretending, if she’s awake and cataloging every detail the way I am.
I whisper, “I’ll be back,” then grab my phone and keys, grabbing my shoes from under the window, putting them on as I leave her room.
The hallway is silent. I pass two girls in matching blazers. They don’t look at me, but I hear the whispers after I turn the corner.
My reputation is currency, but it only spends one way.
In my room, everything is exactly where I left it. The sheets are clean, the desk organized, the closet color-coded from black to midnight blue. I select a suit from the far end, Italian wool, tailored to my shoulders and narrow waist. The tie is blood red. I knot it tight.
I stand in front of the mirror and take inventory.
Face: clean, unbruised, jawline sharp. Hair: a little wild, but that’s on purpose. Eyes: blue enough to make girls cry, or so I’ve been told. Hands: steady. There’s blood on the cuticle of my left index finger. I rub it off.
I look good, but it’s not enough. I want to look dangerous. I want every person in that boardroom to see me and know I’m not afraid to take what’s mine, and what’s theirs, too.
I finish dressing, slide my phone into the inside pocket, and pull on the overcoat. The fabric is heavy, a reminder of the expectations stitched into every seam.
Before I leave, I text Amara.
Don’t move. I’ll come to you later.
I don’t wait for a reply.
The morning is brighter now, the sun creeping over the edge of the campus. I walk with purpose, every step a rehearsal for the violence to come. The Board will want a show, and I intend to give it to them.
