Chapter 36 Mara
THIRTY-SIX
MARA
The mirror is a liar and I love that for it. It shows what I want it to—my hair brushed, my skirt straight, my lipstick perfectly placed. But it can’t show the parts that move under my skin.
A week. Seven days until election night. Seven days until my father stands under the lights and the country swallows his mouthful of promises. The thought sits in my chest like a brick.
I fiddle with a button until my fingertip goes numb.
Milo’s boys pad past, outside my door, laughing too loud—the sound of the jailers escorting me through my own life.
My father thinks putting me here, under Milo’s roof, under Milo’s friends’ watch, keeps me safe.
Keeps me tidy. Keeps the scandal off his suit. He’s wrong.
The knock is polite, but he doesn’t wait for a response. My father fills the doorway with his tailored suit.
“You look presentable,” he says.
I let the correct smile practice itself across my face without permission. “Thank you.”
“I came by because I thought you’d enjoy me picking you and your brother up, rather than having you meet us tonight.”
“I don’t need an escort,” I answer lightly, keeping my eyes on the lipstick in my hand.
“You don’t decide what you need, Mara. I do.” His gaze lingers on me in the mirror. “The last thing this family needs is another slipup from you.”
Heat climbs my neck. “I haven’t slipped.”
“You keep sneaking around with those Omega Chi boys, right? I know you keep running around with that trash. You think I don’t have eyes everywhere?”
I freeze, hand stilled on the lipstick.
“You are an embarrassment. If you don’t stop, I will pull you out of Ashen Grove. Do not think I won’t. I will do whatever it takes to protect this family.”
My pulse hammers, fury sparking through the fear. “Protect, or control?” I hear myself say.
His eyes narrow, a flicker of warning. “You don’t know what control is.
You’ve been indulged, spoiled, and still, you spit in my face.
” He steps closer, lowering his voice until I can feel it press against my skin.
“But that ends. At the end of election night, I will announce your engagement to Chase Harrington.”
The words slam through me so fast it takes a breath to catch up. It feels like skipping a stair in the dark—one moment I’m steady, the next I’m falling, ribs rattling from the drop.
“No.” My throat tightens until my voice is a thin wire. “You can’t do that.”
“You will learn to accept your role. We all play it.”
Role. Pawn. Asset. Is that all I am to him? Not a daughter?
“Not me,” I snap, the words cutting out of me before I can smooth them. “I’m not in a role. I’m not your—”
“You are an extension of this family. And if you think you’re free of it, you are more foolish than I thought.”
I force my hands to still on the vanity. “You can’t just sell me off like—”
“I can. And I will. You think this campaign is about me? No, it’s about the legacy we build. About our name standing for power. And you, Mara, will not be the weak link that undoes it.”
The room seems to shrink, walls pressing in. My mouth goes dry.
He straightens, smoothing his jacket, mask of composure sliding back into place. “Seven days. How exciting. Now, finish getting ready and I will be downstairs.”
My father walks out of the room, and with him, all of the air I was breathing.
My first impulse is to move, to act. Instead, my hand finds a glass bottle and I send it skittering across the floor. It explodes, and the smell of flowers and vanilla fills the room, suffocating me.
Then, I put my fist through the mirror.
Crystal spiderwebs spider across my face and then to my knuckles. Blood warms the skin. Pain grows across my hand and I laugh maniacally at the throbbing. In the mirror, is a thousand fractured Maras—obedient daughter, publicity prop, the pretty thing they’ll parade.
None of them are the one who will burn the board.
They think they can arrange my life as if I were a cog in their machine.
They have the donors, the cameras, the list of men who look good and sign checks.
They have the Syndicate in the wings, comfortably placed.
They have Chase, the perfect handsome lockbox of Harrington money and connections.
They have the speeches ready and the smile rehearsed.
What they don’t have is my willingness to die quietly.
I promised mayhem.
Now, the promise is a coal at my throat. It glows and I can feel the heat through my ribs.
Mayhem doesn’t have to be structural. It can be a single splinter shoved into the right place until the whole thing collapses.
It can be a whispered rumor at a fundraiser, a grain of truth salted into a lie that grows teeth.
It can be misfiled documents, late calls, an innocuous photo posted in the wrong place.
Tonight, I will smile at dinner and pretend to love my father’s jokes until someone smaller than him slips up around the hors d’oeuvres—because people are worse with their mouths full.
I press my palm to the mirror and feel the jagged glass press into my skin. “I promised,” I tell the reflection. It’s a whisper made loud in my head. “I promised to cause mayhem, and I will.”
My hands shake, but the tremor is different now. It’s the tremor of a person who knows an action is coming and accepts the consequences. I am not the same girl who wanted to be gentle. I am not the pawn who will wait politely for a husband.
They think they’re buying a daughter. I will sell them back the house, burned to ash.
I don’t have to destroy everything in one night. I only have to make it unsafe for them to parade me around. I only have to make the comfortable people uncomfortable enough that their hands start to twitch and their smiles become brittle.
Let them come for the cameras. Let them line up the speeches. Let them practice his victory.
I will be there, smiling. I will be the daughter who looks like what they want.
And while they clap under the chandeliers, I will pull the strings they thought were mine to hold. I will cause mayhem. I will flip the board and watch them scramble in the ruins.
One week. That’s all it takes to start a war.