Chapter 8 Rhett
There’s a hierarchy to every event at Westpoint, no matter how much the Board insists otherwise.
Every hand-shake, every nod, every measured smile is a ritual execution of power.
The annual donors’ masquerade is the highest of these sacrifices—the one where even the old money brings out its sharpest blades.
I send Isolde the invitation a week in advance, hand-delivered in a velvet envelope with her name in embossed silver. She reads it before Economy, standing in the corridor, blue eyes narrowing as she scans the calligraphy.
She doesn’t tear it up or drop it. She folds it, slides it into her pocket, and walks on.
I don’t need to see her reaction to know she’ll come.
The next morning, a courier arrives at Archer House with a box.
Inside: the dress, custom-ordered to fit her exactly.
White silk, sleeveless, hitting just below the knee.
Demure, but not enough to pass for innocence.
The mask is Venetian, half-face, paper-thin, the edge banded in gold, with fresh lavender and miniature white roses sewn into the crown.
I leave no note this time. There’s no need for one. She knows what I want her to do.
The day of the masquerade, the sky is purples and pinks.
By dusk, Westpoint’s main hall is already crawling with staff and early arrivals, all of them in various shades of black, blue, and gold.
The committee has outdone itself this year: the chandeliers drip with cut glass, the velvet drapes have been swapped for midnight blue, and the marble floor has been scrubbed to a lethal shine.
Every guest is masked. The men mostly stick to tradition—opera masks, sharp profiles, minimal ornament. The women, and the men who know how to win, go for spectacle: feathers, lace, fanged grins painted onto porcelain. Each mask is a challenge, a coded dare.
The Feral Boys arrive as a unit, all in formal suits.
Julian in blood-red velvet with a half-mask, black, of course; Colton in understated black with a simple cutout, his hair tamed and slicked back; Bam in blue, the mask covering his whole face except for a single eye.
I wear classic white, trimmed in gold, with a matching mask, a single line of black through the left eye.
We take our station at the raised platform near the orchestra, right where the real business happens.
The first wave of donors filters in: hedge fund titans, politicians, Euro trash with skin like milk and eyes like knives. The Westpoint Board is already present, hands clasped and jaws clenched, scanning the floor for threats or opportunities, depending on the time of night.
There’s no sign of Isolde for the first hour. The wait is a test, I’m sure… a way to see if she can exert control over the one domain I haven’t already stolen from her.
I nurse a scotch and amuse myself by watching the way the Feral Boys dissect the crowd.
Jules is already making a game of it. “Which one is the sex trafficker, you think?” he says, nodding at a blond man with an accent thick as syrup and a girl on each arm.
Bam snorts, “Does it matter? They all are.”
Colton barely glances up from his glass. “You’re both idiots,” he mutters, but the left corner of his mouth twitches.
They’re distracted enough not to notice her arrival.
But I do.
She steps into the archway at exactly nine PM, a minute ahead of the formal presentation.
The dress fits her perfectly. The mask covers enough of her face to render her anonymous to anyone who doesn’t already know the set of her mouth.
The flowers in her hair are fresh, a little too fresh, as if she clipped them herself minutes before walking in.
She stands for a full thirty seconds at the entrance, taking in the view. She walks with her shoulders set, her hands relaxed at her sides, her chin level.
Every man in the room tracks her path. Half the women, too. She cuts across the marble, weaving through clutches of laughing donors, never hesitating. Some of the Board wives make a show of noticing her dress, their whispers trailing in her wake.
All asking who she is.
She glides to the far end of the hall, feigning interest in the artwork. Her mask catches the chandelier’s light, making her look like she’s glowing. She’s playing the game to perfection.
But the dress is a marker. She’s prey. The room senses it and orients accordingly.
She’s cornered almost immediately by a pack of underclassmen, who belong to the people that will donate to the Academy, all in tailored tuxes, their own masks more bravado than anonymity.
One of them leans in, mouth so close to her ear I can see the brush of lips on cartilage.
She doesn’t flinch. She responds with a single word that makes the boy recoil.
The group disperses, snickering, but one keeps looking back over his shoulder.
She finds a corner and posts up, back to the wall, observing.
I finally signal Jules with a tilt of my glass. “There,” I say. “She’s arrived.”
He smirks. “She looks like a suicide note wrapped in a debutante’s corpse.”
Bam grunts, “She’s hot,” like it’s an insult.
Colton doesn’t look, but I can see the tension in his hand on the glass.
On the far side, Dr. Abelard is deep in conversation with a cluster of alumni. He spots Isolde, and his expression darkens. Ms. Valence, beside him, turns with slow precision, taking in Isolde’s presence with a long, up-and-down assessment. She whispers something into Abelard’s ear. He nods.
The orchestra starts. The noise of conversation dims, replaced by the hollow echoes of string and piano. The first dance is a formality—donors and Board members pair off, making their circuit around the floor like sharks in formalwear.
Isolde stays put, unmoved. I catch her watching me, and for a second our eyes lock. I raise my glass, salute her. She doesn’t respond.
Her refusal is more effective than any display of submission.
By the end of the night, her rebellious streak will be put to rest. For now, she can wander by herself, enjoying the reprieve before the storm.
The first set ends and the crowd dissolves. I know her well enough to predict her next move. She’ll try to escape to the balcony for air.
It’s time to make my move.
She slips through the double doors, heading for the stairs. I give her ten seconds’ head start, then follow.
On the landing, I find her alone, facing the dark quad below. The air is freezing; the wind makes her hair whip around her face.
She doesn’t turn when I step up behind her.
“Nice dress,” I say.
She lifts her chin. “The mask is a little much.”
I lean on the railing beside her. “You wore it anyway.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
I tilt my head. “You always have a choice.”
She lets out a slow exhale, fogging the air. “Why am I here, Rhett?”
“Because you wanted to see what’s underneath the mask,” I say. “Of Westpoint. Of me. Of yourself.”
She laughs, bitter. “You’re not that deep.”
“Man, Isolde, you’re further solidifying why I can’t just be fucking nice to you.”
She pulls her arms around herself, hugging tight against the cold. “Let’s skip to the part where you tell me what you want.”
I take my time answering. “Tonight, I want you to obey me and let them see you.”
She glares. “Why?”
“Because you’ll never understand the Hunt until you know what it’s like to be stalked by every eye in the room. Until you know what it means to be the center, the object, the thing every predator wants.”
She faces me, the mask making her unreadable. “I already know what that’s like.”
I shake my head. “You think you do. But you’re still playing with firecrackers. This is where the real arson starts.”
She looks away, hands white-knuckled on the rail.
I slide closer, my hip pressed against hers. “You hate me,” I say, “but you love the game. You love being wanted. You love being prey.”
She turns, her mouth inches from mine before she steps back. “I hate you more than I love anything.”
“That’s a start.”
We stand like that, bodies aligned, not touching but closer than strangers should be. The wind rises and dies, the noise from the party dull in the background.
I reach up and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn’t flinch, but her breathing changes—shallower, faster.
“It’s time.”
She doesn’t argue.
Inside, the second wave of arrivals has begun. Some of the more aggressive donors have already gotten drunk enough to start circling again. Isolde’s presence on my arm does nothing to discourage them. If anything, it marks her as a challenge.
We make the rounds. I introduce her to everyone: faculty, the rest of the Board, alumni. She doesn’t try to hide her contempt, but she plays nice. She’s brilliant at it, sharper than the knives they use to cut the appetizers.
The ballroom is a ring, and I lead her through every quadrant. She’s recognized everywhere, the dead Greenwood sister floating behind her like a ghost. Every introduction is another little murder.
After twenty minutes, she’s ready to snap.
I pull her aside, into the shadow of a pillar. “You’re doing great.”
She looks at me, eyes gone icy. “Go fuck yourself.”
“I’d rather fuck you.” Anger surges through me. “But that can wait.”
She starts to retort, but then she sees the line of Board members approaching, Ms. Valence in the lead. She goes still, all her hate collapsing into one perfect, controlled breath.
Valence doesn’t smile. “Isolde. Lovely to see you.”
Isolde’s mask doesn’t move. “Can’t say the same.”
Abelard hangs back, staring at me. I give him nothing.
Valence turns to me. “We appreciate your efforts to integrate Ms. Greenwood. It’s important to show unity.”
I nod, mask in place. “She’s one of us now.”
Isolde’s body locks up at the words. She bristles, a spasm down the length of her arm. If she could, she’d deck this old biddie in the face.
Valence hands her a glass of champagne. “To the Night Hunt,” she says.