“What’s the magic word,princess?”
The memory of my father’s hand at the base of my skull flashes behind my eyes. The pressure, the threat disguised as affection. My palms sweat.
“Please,” I whisper.
The brunette steps aside, all the way to the wall, as if presenting me for inspection to the crowd that has gathered behind her. I can feel the eyes, hungry and glinting, waiting for me to trip or shatter.
But I don’t.
I step forward, my shoes silent on the marble. I keep my posture perfect. I pretend I am already somewhere else—somewhere the people are softer, and every movement isn’t judged by an invisible jury.
At the foot of the stairs, I pause. I can’t look back, but I can feel them, the entire room, watching to see if I’ll run or climb.
The main hall is a mouth, waiting to swallow me.
I climb.
Each step is a small defiance, a prayer that I might make it to the next one without falling. The girls’ laughter follows me, but it’s fainter now, muffled by the beating of my heart. There are paintings on the landing, and I fix my gaze on them, letting their dead eyes carry me to the next floor.
I reach the top, turn right toward the reception, and let myself exhale.
The corridor up here is quieter, less crowded. My hands are still shaking. I flatten them against my thighs, feel the silk, the seam. I keep moving, counting my steps.
On the landing behind me, the crowd disperses, hungry for fresh meat. The show is over.
But I’m still here.
My name is Amara Marcus. And for the first time in my life, I’m not sure if I want to be.
After checking in and getting my dorm key, I head up another flight of stairs to the quadrant reserved for the legacies.
I don’t make it three doors down before I realize the girls are following me.
They’re so loud that I hear them before I see them.
I focus on the shape of my breath. I can’t remember if I’m supposed to count to four or six. By the time I decide, the girls have rounded the corner and are closing fast. I know what comes next. At Westpoint, escalation is the only tradition more sacred than blood.
The brunette flanks me at my left, her shadow darkening the wall. The other two fan out, forming a kind of perimeter. I wonder if they practiced this in front of a mirror, or if hierarchy just breeds this kind of choreography. I slow, then stop, letting my back touch the cold stone.
She gives me a look that is supposed to read as concern, but I see the glee beneath it. “You seemed lost,” she says, lips curling around the words. “We thought you might need an escort. First week can be… disorienting.”
I stare at her, willing myself not to blink. My mother once told me that the only way to tame a wolf is to pretend you’re not afraid of being eaten. I never believed it, but right now I’d believe in alchemy if it got me out of this hallway.
“Nice uniform, Marcus.” Her gaze flicks over my body, cataloging, calculating. “Did Daddy have it custom-made to match him? You know,weheard your Daddy fucked a prof last year and that your mom just lets it happen. Oh, and your brother is still single. Hmmm… maybe I’ll take that Marcus for myself. Then we can be sisters.”
The other girls laugh. It’s not real laughter, just a performance for whoever might be watching from the shadows or the securityfeed. I picture the Board reviewing footage at the end of the week, rating the cruelty on a scale of one to ten. The smart money says I break by Wednesday.
My throat closes up. I taste copper.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Their words have become distant muffles as I transport myself to my happy place, just like my therapist says to do.
I want to scream at them, claw their perfect faces until the only thing left is the truth. But the scream won’t come. All I can do is press my fingernails into my palm and hope the pain brings me back to the surface.
The brunette leans in. Her lips are so red they look painted on. “You’re awfully quiet for someone with a legacy like yours,” she whispers. “Or did Daddy take your voice when he sold you to the Roths?”
The surprise on my face must have alerted her to the fact that I have no idea what she’s talking about.
