Page 122 of Queen of Nothing

I can’t hold his stare. I’m too weak. So I drop it to the newspaper; turned beige with age.

I can’t make out more than that across the office. Not the edges of the paper, if they are smooth or torn from overreading, or the headline, if the ink is faded or well preserved.

But I don’t need to get a closer look to have my suspicions prickled.

No doubt about it, that is the newsletter from the academy. The one with the article.

The corners of my mouth pin to my cheeks.

Father’s fury is caged behind those hollow green eyes. “Let us start with this.” He straightens up and digs his fingertip into the paper. “What could have possibly possessed you to do this, to think for even a moment that this interview would not put everything at risk?

“The atrocious accusations in this piece have fractured the bond between our two families. Harold is furious. Our relationship with the Sinclairs is more than an alliance, Olivia. You know this. I should not have to explain to you what could happen, what would happen, to the world if our families separated.

“But your selfish mind apparently does not comprehend the entire economic crash of the world.

“It is evidently fortunate for us that Dray understands that you have an inclination for chaos when things do not go your way. That understanding from him is perhaps what has saved the world from your tantrum—”

“Barely,” Oliver adds, a dark mutter.

Father goes on, as though not at all interrupted, “Harold has not been so forgiving. If it was not for Dray continuing the family alliance, both The Quin-Que Group and CS United would have collapsed within the first year. The Sinclair-Craven Corporation shortly after. Consider it.”

Father’s stare levels with mine.

He continues, “Truly let yourself imagine what it would mean for those three companies to collapse. The world’s leading manufacturer and distributor of steel, copper, and ammonia—gone. The leading financial institute, the bank that holds the majority of this world’s wealth, gone. And our joint corporation that owns over sixty percent of this world’s mining industry—gone.”

He strikes his hand down on the table again, and a flinch jolts me.

“All destroyed by your tantrum.” His shout booms off the walls. “Do you not recognise what the consequences of such catastrophic failure would be?”

Oliver jumps in, “People would starve, Olivia. The economy would crash, corporations across the world would fall, crops would die, and transport would cease. Thank the gods Dray was more forgiving than Harold, who has refused to even entertain the continuation of our alliance until your shame of his son is resolved.”

“You didn’t listen.” My voice is small, my cheeks aflame, and I can’t even bring myself to look up at Father. “I tried to talk to you—”

Father throws himself away from the desk, and his shout rages through the room, “You are not the only victim of this system, Olivia! You are not the only unwilling bride. For every unwilling bride, there are just as many unwilling grooms! Your utter narcissism cannot come at the cost of the Videralli!”

Tears trickle down my cheeks.

I cringe into the couch, away from Father’s crimson face.

“We are not the wealthy families of the krums,” Oliver says, darkly. “This is the Videralli. You know what we worship. You know who owns us. Do you aim to disrupt the order—to displease them?”

A sickly churn coils in my gut.

Father’s lethal stare, and Oliver’s dark warning, is a stark reminder of the gods.

Not the good kind. Not the kind the krums worship.

I whisper my answer, my waning defiance, “I don’t think the gods care about an article.”

“What?” Oliver snaps—

And it takes me a moment to realise he actually didn’t hear me.

I clear my throat. “Since when do They care about our arranged marriages?”

Father’s eyes almost bulge out of his head. He looks at me like I’m a stain of stupidity poisoning his couch.

Oliver scoffs. “Marriages are arranged with purpose. It isn’t first come, first serve, or any old offer will do. Prints matter. Why risk a brewer reproducing with a predictionist, when the prediction print could be lost to the brewer bloodline?”