2. Aries
Aries
Graduation Day
T he tassel feels foreign between my fingers as I move it from right to left, a symbolic gesture marking the transition from student to graduate. Around me, classmates celebrate with genuine enthusiasm—whooping, hugging, and tossing caps despite the dean’s explicit instructions not to. Their joy feels distant, like I’m observing it through glass.
Bachelor of Business Administration, Summa Cum Laude. Father’s expected path, executed perfectly. The first step in the predetermined march toward Hayes Enterprises, toward the legacy I’m meant to inherit, but increasingly questioning.
“Aries Hayes,” Dean Richards had announced minutes earlier, hand extended with rehearsed congeniality. “Exemplary academic achievement.”
I’d smiled the perfect Hayes smile—practiced and revealing nothing—as I accepted the diploma. Another performance in what feels like a lifetime of them. Despite the incredulous laughter and ribbing of my classmates. I’ve played the brute a little too well if they think I bought my way to this distinction.
Now, navigating through the chaos of post-ceremony crowds, I scan for the familiar grouping waiting precisely where they said they would be. The Hayes family is nothing if not punctual, positioned for maximum visibility and optimal networking opportunities.
I spot them near the central fountain—my father in a tailored suit despite the June heat, my stepmother, Patricia, in a cream dress that probably cost more than some students’ tuition, and slightly behind them stands Lilian.
My steps falter momentarily at the sight of her. At twenty, she’s fully transformed from an awkward teen into a young woman of remarkable poise. Her green dress complements her eyes, and her soft blond hair is styled in loose waves rather than her usual practical arrangement. She’s beautiful in a way that makes me pissed at myself for noticing.
“There he is,” Father announces as I approach, voice carrying just enough to draw attention from nearby families. “The newest Hayes business graduate.”
His hand lands heavily on my shoulder—pride indistinguishable from possession. I endure it as I always do.
“Congratulations, Aries.” Patricia steps forward, social smile perfectly in place. “We’re so proud.”
The platitude rings hollow. We both know her pride extends exactly as far as my achievements reflect well on her position in the family. Still, I return the appropriate smile, accepting the expected cheek kiss.
“Thank you for coming,” I respond, the social script flowing automatically.
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Father says, already scanning the crowd over my shoulder. Networking never stops, even at his son’s graduation. “The Henderson family mentioned their daughter graduated today as well. Investment banking track. We should find them before we leave.” Of course. No moment is complete without a business angle.
I nod appropriately, gaze carefully avoiding Lilian, who stands slightly apart from our trio. I can feel her watching me, waiting for an acknowledgment I won’t give.
“You’ve made the family proud,” Father continues, his standard praise always feeling more like confirmation of expectations met than genuine admiration. “First step toward your future at Hayes Enterprises.”
My future.
Already mapped, already planned, already suffocating me beneath its weight.
“These are for you,” Patricia says, producing an elegant arrangement of deep blue hydrangeas and white lilies from behind her back. Along with a fifteen-year-old bourbon. “A small token of our pride in your accomplishment.”
I accept the gifts with appropriate gratitude, though something about the arrangement immediately feels wrong. There’s an unusual heaviness to the blooms, and a faint powdery residue barely visible on some of the petals, making me instinctively hold them away from my face.
“They’re beautiful,” I exclaim, examining the careful composition while trying not to breathe too deeply near them. Allergies get me every fucking year, and I don’t need to be red-eyed at the party tonight. “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. When they arrived at the house this morning, I knew they’d be perfect,” Patricia continues, adjusting a slightly wilted bloom. “The blue complements your hazel eyes nicely. Lilian and I kept clear of them, of course. Allergies, you know.”
Despite my caution, a wave of dizziness washes over me as I breathe in their scent. There’s definitely something off—a subtle chemical undertone beneath the natural fragrance. I blink, trying to clear the fuzziness developing at the edges of my vision.
“Congratulations, Aries,” Lilian says, voice soft but steady as she steps forward slightly. “Your speech was really impressive.”
The class-voted speaker address I delivered earlier—words now growing strangely distant in my memory, though I’d rehearsed them for weeks.
“Thank you, Lilian,” I respond, voice deliberately formal, gaze focused just past her shoulder rather than meeting her blue eyes directly. “I appreciate you all coming.”
She shifts, moving into my line of sight in a move that appears casual, but I recognize as deliberate. Seeking the eye contact I’ve denied her consistently at every meeting for years. A necessary cruelty that keeps her at arm’s length.
“We wouldn’t have missed it,” she says, sincerity evident in her tone.
It’s an honest sentiment that should touch me, considering the frigidity of my parents’ own compliments, but I’m increasingly distracted by the strange heaviness in my limbs and the blurring of peripheral details. I shift the flowers farther from my face, a suspicion forming that I can’t quite fully articulate.
I nod acknowledgment but maintain careful distance, shifting to include Father in my response. “Just reflecting the values the family has instilled in me.”
The deflection lands as intended. Father nods approvingly while Lilian’s expression flickers with recognition of the deliberate redirection. Two years of similar exchanges have taught her the pattern—her attempts at connection, my systematic rejection of them.
Still, she persists. “Will you be at the Mill House party tonight? I heard they’re doing a big celebration for all the graduates.”
“Briefly,” I answer, keeping my tone polite but distant, fighting against the increasing difficulty in focusing my thoughts. “Lee’s expecting me.”
Patricia’s hand lands lightly on Lilian’s shoulder. “Don’t monopolize your stepbrother, darling. It’s his special day.”
The reminder of our relationship—stepbrother, stepsister—lands with intended weight. The boundaries Patricia unknowingly reinforces while I struggle to maintain my composure through whatever the hell is going on saves me the trouble of continuing the conversation further.
“You’ll be joining us for the Northstar Foundation gala in a month or so, right?” Patricia says, her tone making it clear this is a statement rather than a question. “The Hendersons have confirmed, along with the Whitneys and Prescotts.”
My mouth feels unusually dry as I respond, “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”
Another performance on the social calendar. Another opportunity for Father to parade his perfect son before business associates and potential investors. The thought should irritate me as it usually does, but the emotion feels distant, muted beneath the increasing fog in my mind.
“Excellent.” Patricia beams, perfectly satisfied with my compliance. “Maintaining these connections is important now that you’re stepping into the business world.”
Father checks his watch—a gesture so predictable I could time it to the second. “We should find the Hendersons before they leave. His daughter’s internship at Goldman could provide valuable insight for Aries.”
The flowers in my hand have become almost unbearably heavy. I need to put them down, and I need to figure out what’s happening to my increasingly uncooperative body.
“Actually,” Patricia interjects, surprising me with an unexpected lifeline, “why don’t we let Aries go celebrate with his classmates. It’s his graduation day, after all.”
Father’s expression flickers with brief annoyance before social expectations override his business instincts. “Yes, of course. Go enjoy yourself with your friends, Son. We’ll see you at the house tomorrow for brunch.”
“Oh,” Patricia scoffs and bats at Father’s arm. “Like he’ll want brunch after a night of celebrating. Let him be.”
“Thank you,” I manage, grateful for the dismissal despite knowing it comes from Patricia’s desire to network rather than any genuine concern for my enjoyment. “I appreciate you both coming.”
My gaze deliberately skips over Lilian again, though I can feel her attempted eye contact like a physical touch. The distance I maintain is automatic now, a reflex developed over years of necessary separation.
“Congratulations again, Aries,” Lilian says softly as I turn to leave.
I nod acknowledgment without looking back, clutching the pollen-ridden flowers as I make my way through the dispersing crowd. The minute I’m out of their sight, I drop the arrangement into a trash bin, but the damage is already done. Whatever was on those petals has entered my system. I’m snotty, itchy-eyed, and woozy.
What the fuck?
My vision swims as I navigate the parking lot toward my car. Beads of sweat form against my brow, the cap and gown I’m wearing suddenly stifling in the June heat. Or perhaps it’s not the heat at all, but whatever is increasingly affecting my coordination and thought processes. After reaching into my pocket, I tug out my keys.
They slip from my fingers and onto the asphalt. I barely manage to retrieve them, and the world tilts alarmingly as I straighten, forcing me to brace one hand against my car for stability.
Something is very wrong.
The Mill House party is nothing more than a distant thought now, a concern from another lifetime. My focus narrows to the immediate challenge of remaining upright and fighting off whatever is slowly shutting down my motor functions.
I need to call someone. Need help. Where the hell is my phone? I pat my pockets, but I can’t seem to locate it within my suit and gown. The prospect of tracing my thoughts back to the last time I had it is impossible. Not when it feels like someone took my brain and put it in a blender.
That’s fine. It’s going to be okay. Just make it into the car, I tell myself. Lock the doors. Call for help.
It’s such a simple plan, but success feels far out of reach. Dark spots start to fill my vision, and I can barely get my limbs to move. The world tilts and swirls around me as I struggle to press the right key on the fob.
My fingers tingle with numbness, disconnected from my brain’s increasingly desperate commands. When the button fails, I try to unlock it manually, but the key scrapes uselessly against the lock, missing its target by millimeters that might as well be miles.
This isn’t normal dizziness. Not stress, not exhaustion, not the aftermath of weeks of graduation preparation. Definitely not allergies. This is deliberate. The flowers. The faint powder on the petals. Not pollen.
I brace both hands against my car, forehead pressed against the cool metal while I try to center myself, try to fight against whatever drug was put on those flowers. The parking lot has emptied considerably, most graduates and families having moved on to celebration venues, leaving me dangerously isolated between rows of vehicles.
“Focus,” I mutter to myself, the word slurring slightly. “Just...focus.”
The sound of footsteps on asphalt registers somewhere in the distance behind me, careful and deliberate. Not the random patterns of another graduate or family member, but purposeful. The steps of a hunter. I try to turn, to face whatever threat approaches, but my body responds with agonizing slowness.
The movement only makes me dizzier, forcing me to lean against the car for support.
Through blurred vision, I make out a figure, my height, dressed in nondescript dark clothing, face obscured by what looks like a surgical mask and cap.
Professional. Prepared. This person is here for me.
“Who...?” I manage the single word requiring tremendous effort.
The figure doesn’t respond, continuing their steady approach. I try again to unlock my car, to create a barrier between us, but my fingers refuse to cooperate. The key falls from my nerveless grasp, landing with a soft clink on the asphalt.
“Help,” I call out to anyone within hearing distance. It feels like I’m screaming, but the words are nothing more than a whisper. Why did I opt to walk over here rather than using the valet service? The masked figure is on me now, moving with calculated efficiency.
A gloved hand grips my arm, steadying me with false solicitude that might appear helpful to any distant observer.
“Don’t fight it,” a voice murmurs, oddly familiar despite its deliberate softness. “It makes it worse.” My attempt at pulling away is useless, each limb moving in slow motion. My elbow connects weakly with my attacker’s midsection—a defensive move that should have created space but barely registers as an inconvenience.
“Always so predictable,” the voice continues in an almost amused tone.
What does that mean? The opportunity to make sense of anything disappears when the attacker wrenches my head back with unnecessary violence. I’m forced to meet the person’s eyes—the only feature visible between mask and cap.
Hazel. The hard gaze stares back with cold calculation.
Recognition blooms in my mind, my brain trying to tell me something I’m not comprehending. Thoughts scatter like marbles when I feel a sudden prick on the side of my neck, a needle sliding into flesh with practiced precision.
“Nighty night,” the voice whispers as fire spreads through my body from the injection site. Those eyes. So familiar yet belonging to a stranger’s face. Cold. Calculated.
And filled with hatred I can’t comprehend through the chemical haze. Something about them triggers a distant memory—a childhood photograph hidden in Father’s study, whispered conversations that stopped when I entered rooms, a name never spoken but occasionally written in institutional payment records I wasn’t supposed to see.
No. It can’t be. He’s locked up. Has been for years. Secure in an institution after the boathouse incident. After Father deemed him too dangerous, too unstable to remain in the family.
“Who—” The question dies on my lips.
“Shh,” the stranger soothes, supporting my weight as my knees buckle. “It’s just the beginning, Aries. Just the beginning of everything.”
The voice carries no recognition, no familiarity beyond the general cadence of someone educated in the same privileged circles as I.
Yet in his tone is a personal hatred, an intimate rage.
“Graduation day,” the stranger continues, half dragging, half carrying me between parked cars. “Symbolic, isn’t it? You, graduating from freedom. Me, graduating from the past.”
Nothing makes sense. Why me? What freedom? What past? The words float just beyond comprehension, meaningful yet impossible to fully grasp through the chemical fog.
I try to struggle, to resist whatever is happening, but my body no longer obeys even the simplest of commands. My head lolls against the stranger’s shoulder as he maneuvers me toward a nondescript van parked in the service area behind the main lot. The rear doors stand open, revealing an empty cargo space prepared with what looks like restraints.
“In you go,” the stranger grunts, hefting my deadweight with surprising strength. “Your new accommodations await.”
My body hits the metal floor with a dull thud, pain registering distantly through the chemical buffer. The last of my consciousness rallies in desperate self-preservation.
“Why?” I manage, the word barely audible.
The stranger pauses before closing the doors, considering me with a head tilt sparking another flash of déjà vu. Then he pulls down the surgical mask, revealing a face I don’t recognize yet can’t help feeling that I should.
“Because,” he says simply, “someone needs to pay for what happened. Might as well be the golden child.”
The doors slam shut, plunging me into darkness broken only by thin lines of light around the edges. The engine starts. The van starts to move. My graduation gown tangles around my legs as I make one final, futile attempt to orient myself in the darkness.
Questions swirl as my consciousness fades.
Who is this stranger? What demands payment? Why target me specifically?
The darkness deepens, chemical and physical, as the sedative claims the last of my awareness. Will anyone notice I’m gone? The question follows me into darkness, unanswered and terrifying. But one thought swims above the dragging flood… at least it’s not Lilian.