Chapter 32
It takes me an hour to stop shaking. I pace up and down various empty halls, searching for a quiet corner to freak out.
Finally, I find myself inside an atrium filled with plants and flowers, buzzing with bees and butterflies. This must be where second- and third-year biology classes take place.
Mercifully, it’s empty and silent, except for the gentle trickle of water from a few small fountains decorating the space. I inhale the humid air and the earthy scent of soil mixed with the fresh smell of flowers. This is exactly what I needed.
I approach a window and peer out, noting we’re high above the ground. New Manhattan stretches before me, twinkling with lights. I notice a few sections where the power has gone out, leaving everyone in the dark until the next storm arrives and General Sol siphons more Spark.
Fiama Society Tower A stands far in the distance, high above the world like a reminder and maybe an accusation. I have to tell my father what happened. Despite everything, he deserves to hear this from me.
I pull out my phone and stare at the screen, thumb hovering over his name. I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous in my life.
I inhale a deep breath.
Then I chicken out and text my mother first.
I just made her life harder, too.
Maybe it was selfish of me, but she also refused to protect me. She never said a word against my marriage to Knox or supported my desire to join the Storm Guard.
And though my father would have steamrolled over her objections, the effort would have been noticed and appreciated.
me: I need to talk to you.
mom: What is it? Everything okay?
I look around the space, ensuring I’m alone before switching to video call mode. My mother answers almost immediately, her worried face filling the screen.
“Baby?” she asks, her dark eyebrows drawing together. “What happened?”
I inhale a deep breath, willing strength into my body. There’s no point in dragging this out.
“I completed my second test,” I say. “And I’m pledging to House Aria.”
She goes completely still.
Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe for several long seconds. If I couldn’t see her sitting right in front of me, I’d swear she passed out.
“Mom?” I prompt when the silence stretches too long. “Say something.”
Her mouth opens and then closes. Opens again.
Finally, she speaks, and the sound is raw. Filled with grief. Like someone died. Maybe me. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
I drag a hand through my ponytail, my entire body trembling.
“I’m wondering . . . how . . . how do we tell Dad?”
“We?” she asks.
In that moment, I sense something snap between us in that single harshly flung syllable. A thin, fraying thread I didn’t realize I was still holding.
She exhales sharply. “Your father will hit the roof. The one I currently live under while you’re off having fun. There is no ‘we’ here.” Her eyes harden. “Why are you calling me with this? Were you hoping I’d do it for you?”
The words land like a slap.
I don’t know why I thought—just once—she might stand up for me instead of supporting him. I’ve built this version of her in my mind for years, but she’s never really been that person at all.
“How could you do this to me?” she asks, her voice a whisper. “He will . . . I don’t even know what he’ll do. You have to fix this. Go back and ask them for another try.”
I peer out the window, scanning the lilac-hued clouds as they dissipate across the sky. “I can’t,” I say quietly. “It’s done.”
“Your wedding,” she blurts, as if the idea has only just occurred to her. “What will Trey and Molly say?”
I press a hand to my chest. It feels hollow. Scooped out.
“I don’t want to marry Knox.” The words hang there, bare and exposed. I’ve never said them out loud. Not like this. “He is just like Dad.”
Her eyebrows draw together. “Poet, what do you mean?”
My eyes narrow, but I don’t hesitate. “You know exactly what I mean.”
Every raised hand. Every flinch. Every silent meal.
Each bruised moment settles between us.
She doesn’t deny it.
She doesn’t say anything at all.
I swallow. “Mom, I wanted to tell Dad before he heard it another way. I thought you might be able to help.” My voice falters. “I shouldn’t have assumed that. I’ll just call him.”
“No,” she says.
I blink. “What?”
“I said no.” Her tone snaps tight. “I’ll take care of it.”
“But—”
“I said I’ll take care of it. I know you think I’m helpless, but I do know how to talk to him.”
“Mom, what are you—”
She disconnects the call before I can ask any more questions.
What did she just mean? Relief balloons in my chest that I may get out of being the one to share the news. I’m nothing but a coward.
But then I worry about my mother and how he might react. She seemed sure she knew how to talk to him, though. If she really knows, why hasn’t she ever done it before?
Maybe she has?
I slump against the window and watch the city’s lights from my perch. I’m unsure how long I’m sitting there before realizing how late it is.
Slowly, I stand, surprised that my legs hold me up.
With another look around the atrium, I open the door before I head for my room, where I’ll spend my last night in the company of House Fiama.