Chapter 3 Amara
My summons comes at breakfast, a rectangle of heavy parchment set beside my spoon. At first I think it’s a prank—some legacy girl’s way of reminding me who really runs Westpoint. But the paper is real, embossed in gold, the Marcus seal imprinted so deep it leaves ridges in the flesh of my thumb.
My name is written in my father’s hand: AMARA. Inside, he has demanded my presence in his office in the Administration Building, effectively immediately.
I stare at it until my eggs go cold. My leg starts to bounce with nerves, and the thin shake travels up my body, into my arms, into the rigid shelf of my shoulders. I set the letter down, afraid if I hold it any longer the bounce will migrate into my face and someone will see me slip.
He only ever summons me if he needs something or wants something from me. Which is rare, but something about this feels ominous.
The rest of the dining hall is a parody of normalcy.
Girls with perfect teeth laugh into their lattes, boys in pressed shirts wolf down protein bars, and every so often someone laughs.
The sound is high pitched and shrill, piercing through the chatter.
Nobody notices me, except one, who looks up from his phone just long enough to memorize my humiliation before going back to his screen.
And of course, Julian. Who sits on his platform, flanked by his friends, staring down his nose at me like I’m scum on the bottom of his shoe.
The fabric of my uniform itches over my skin. I tuck the summons into my sleeve and stand, trying to remember if it’s dignified to clear your tray when summoned by the Dean. I leave it.
My father scares me more than anyone else here ever could.
The corridors are even creepier in the murky, overcast light shining through the windows. The paintings hung on the walls sport knowing looks, including my father’s at the very end, staring down at me as if waiting for me to trip, or to dirty the Marcus name.
All look like they’re in on a secret no one else knows about.
They probably are.
Other students glide past, their footsteps loud against the harsh marble floors. But my shoes, an abomination of patent leather and custom insole, chosen by my father for their posture-correcting benefits, clack louder.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
Each step is a countdown.
By the time I get out into the quad and reach the Administration Building, my mouth is dry and my pulse is a thousand miles from steady. I have no idea what he wants. My father doesn’t do check-ins. He doesn’t do surprises. Every interaction is a transaction, and I have no currency left to spend.
The last stretch is mentally exhausting: ten meters of black-and-white tile, guarded at each end by a suit of armor.
The armor is apparently original according to the name plate, imported from France, and rumored to be haunted.
I glance at the nearest visor and half-expect to see my face, shrunken and scared, staring back.
At the end of the hall, the Dean’s door waits. Oak, twice as tall as any normal door, carved with the Marcus family crest. A lion’s head and two crossed keys, mouth open in a snarl. I run my finger over the bite marks in the wood.
Guess Westpoint has money to burn for novelties such as this.
I hear the click of the inner lock. He’s expecting me.
I smooth my skirt, once, twice, then press my palm against the chill of the handle.
This is the part where I stop being Amara, and become the Marcus daughter again. I squeeze until my hand hurts, then step inside.
The office is colder than the corridor.
I don’t understand how that’s possible, given the fireplace is fed with enough logs to roast a small family, but the cold here is different. It’s not about temperature; it’s about presence.
My father sits behind his desk—massive, mahogany, and old as the dynasty itself.
The desk is the only thing in this room allowed to be more important than him.
It’s layered with ledgers, leather-bound and hand-inscribed, their spines cracked and stained from decades of oil and sweat.
Each is a relic, and my father’s fingers rest on them like they’re precious stones.
He doesn’t look up when I enter.
“Sit, Amara,” he says, not a command but an expectation.
I take the seat across from him. The chair is rigid and spartan, designed to keep your spine ramrod straight and your knees locked at a precise, subservient angle.
The room smells of dust and whatever cologne he started using after the divorce.
He waits until I’ve arranged my skirt, until I fold my hands in my lap and exhale, before he lifts his gaze. His eyes are blue, but in this light, they’re colorless—like water poured into an empty glass.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks.
I do, and I don’t. I suspect it’s not about academics. It never is.
“I assumed it was about my class schedule,” I say.
His lips flatten, then lift in a smile so practiced I almost admire it.
“You’re not here as a student,” he says, ignoring the joke. “You’re here as a Marcus.”
This is supposed to mean something. It does, in the way a hammer means something to a nail.
He folds his hands and leans forward, the fire casting his shadow across the desk.
“Your position at Westpoint is… unique. You’re not only my daughter, you are the last of our direct female line.
The Board has certain expectations—traditions that must be maintained. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nod, not because I do, but because it’s the fastest way to make this end.
He frowns, as if disappointed by my lack of conviction.
“They expect you to set an example,” he says. “To uphold the standards of conduct that define this institution. There are students who would kill for your privilege.”
“Then let them have it,” I say, almost under my breath.
He ignores me, as always.
“You will be… how shall I say it… working closely with Julian Roth,” he continues. “His father and I have agreed that your cooperation is essential to the interests of both families. You will not disappoint me.”
The words don’t sting. I am too numb for that. But I do notice, somewhere at the bottom of my skull, that he refers to me as an object. A piece in a transaction. Not even a daughter.
My thumb twists against my index finger. I keep my face neutral.
“With respect,” I say, “I was under the impression I was admitted here as a student. Not as a bargaining chip.”
He doesn’t blink. “Don’t be obtuse, Amara. Your value lies in who you are, not what you accomplish.”
I feel the blood drain from my cheeks. I’d always suspected, but now the truth is as heavy and cold as the desk between us.
He taps the desktop, once, a signal that the meeting is over.
“You will attend dinner with the Roths tomorrow night,” he says. “I expect you to be presentable. Dismissed.”
I stand, knees locking, and back away from the desk. I don’t look at him. If I do, I’ll shatter.
At the door, I pause, just for a second.
“Am I allowed to say no?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
The cold follows me out, pooling in the hollow space where a future should be.
The door closes behind me with a click so sharp it snaps the breath out of my lungs. The corridor is empty, as empty as my fucking soul after my father crushed everything that I could have been if I’d have been born with any other last name.
I walk, or try to. My legs feel distant, like I’m piloting them from somewhere three feet behind my skull. The birds are chirping as I step out of the building and back into the quad. Flowers are starting to bloom and it’s pretty, but nothing has color.
Not right now, anyway. With a heavy sigh, I head into the main building and head towards Business and Banking.
Halfway down the hall, I round the first marble column and stop. There is a shadow where there should be none.
Julian Roth leans against the far wall, one arm propped above his head, the other tucked into the pocket of his tailored coat. His shirt is open at the collar, and the tanned skin at his throat is marked by a bruise, shaped exactly like a bite. I wonder who left it. I wonder if he wanted them to.
He doesn’t move when he sees me. He just watches.
The silence is a new kind—electrical, shivery, full of teeth.
I try to keep walking, but his gaze hooks into me, reeled in on invisible line. There is nothing polite in it. Nothing even remotely safe. He looks at me the way my father looks at the Marcus crest: a thing to be wielded, not loved.
For a second, we just stare. My heart pounds so loud I’m sure he can hear it. I feel a flush creeping up my neck. It’s so quiet I swear I can hear the blood move in my veins.
Julian’s eyes are grey today, winter-light and glassy. They’re not cruel—not exactly—but they’re full of lust. Desire. It’s not just that he wants something from me. It’s that he understands, down to the bone, what it’s like to be caged.
He straightens, slow, deliberate, peeling himself from the wall in one seamless motion. He doesn’t come closer. He doesn’t have to. The entire hall bends around his presence.
I want to run, but my feet are rooted. My skin goes prickly, all the hairs on my arms standing at attention.
We’re the only two people in the world, and I know, with sick certainty, that he’s not going to let me leave first.
For a second, I think he might speak. Instead, he just tilts his head, eyes narrowing the tiniest fraction, and I realize he’s waiting for me to flinch.
I do and look away, hunching my shoulders inward, trying to make myself disappear under his scrutiny.
The moment breaks, and I speed-walk down the hall, trying to keep my composure. My pulse is erratic, thudding so hard I can taste it.
I don’t dare look back, but I feel him there, watching.
The school feels different now. The arches loom higher, the colors in the stained glass are sharper, more violent. I move through the corridors fast as I can, past the haunted armor, past the portraits of dead assholes.
My hands are shaking when I reach the dorms. I jam my key into the lock and slam the door behind me, the echo ringing out like a warning bell.
Inside, the air is warmer, but the chill lingers in my bones.
Pulling my boots off, I leave them in a heap and lean against the door, pressing my forehead to the wood.
My heart refuses to slow. Every cell in my body vibrates with the knowledge that this is only the beginning.
I close my eyes and see Julian’s face, not as it was in the hallway, but as it will be: closer, closer still, until there is no air between us.
I open my mouth to scream, but what comes out is something smaller and so much more dangerous—a name, spoken like a wretched hymn.
“Julian.”