Chapter 1 Amara
Westpoint is a cathedral built for humiliation.
I tell myself that as I pass through the arched front doors, inscribed with the Academy crest and a motto in Latin I’ll never admit I had memorized at age six. Not my choice, mind you.
The hallway swallows me whole, cold marble and shadow, echoing with the steps of a hundred legacies and even more failures. Every inch of the place was designed to remind you that you’re walking in the footsteps of men and women who could buy and sell you a thousand times over.
Today, I am supposed to belong here.
My father’s private driver pulled up so early I had to do my hair in the backseat.
I pressed every blonde strand flat with an iron, then again with my hands, like I could paste the nerves to my scalp if I tried hard enough.
My uniform is the same cut as everyone else’s but newer, tighter, more starched.
My family crest neatly embroidered into it above my heart.
I spent last night with a seam ripper removing the tracking chip from the hem, then sewing the silk back into place. It left the tiniest seam, and I trace it with my finger as I move.
I feel it: the flaw, the rebellion. The only thing about me that doesn’t belong to my father… my mind.
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’t speak.
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.
“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.”