Chapter 2 Cora
CORA
Ipush my salmon around the plate, the silence between bites growing heavier by the second.
Dad sits at the head of the table, scrolling through emails on his phone while Addison delicately cuts her food into perfect little squares.
The clink of silverware against fine China echoes through our too-large dining room.
“Cora, darling, you’ve barely touched your dinner.” Addison’s voice carries that practiced concern that never quite reaches her eyes. “Are you feeling alright?”
“I’m fine.” I take a deliberate bite. “Just not particularly hungry.”
Dad finally looks up from his phone. “You should eat, sweetheart. Big day tomorrow with the charity luncheon.”
Little does he know what tomorrow actually holds for me after the luncheon. The Hunt. My ticket to something real in this plastic world.
“Of course, Dad.” I flash the smile that always works on him. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint the donors.”
Addison reaches over, patting my hand with her perfectly manicured fingers. “Your father’s image is so important right now with the election coming up. We all need to do our part.”
I resist the urge to pull away from her touch. Five years of this charade, and it still makes my skin crawl.
“Our family values are my strongest platform,” Dad says, setting down his phone to cut into his steak. “The voters respond to stability.”
Addison nods enthusiastically. “Which is why we should discuss your wardrobe for tomorrow, Cora. That blue dress from Neiman’s would send exactly the right message.”
“I was thinking of wearing the green one, actually,” I say it just to see the flicker of annoyance cross her face.
“The neckline is a bit... low, don’t you think?” Her smile remains fixed while her eyes harden.
Dad chuckles. “My two favorite women, always thinking about the details.”
He reaches for both our hands across the table, squeezing them affectionately. Addison beams at him, the perfect political wife. I return his squeeze, hating how easily we all play our parts in this performance without an audience.
“Whatever you both think is best,” I concede, biting my lip. “Actually,” I set down my fork, “I’ve been thinking about the direction of my career.”
Dad’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth. “Your career?”
“Law school applications are due soon. I wanted to talk to you both about potentially deferring another year.”
The silence that follows feels like ice cracking under pressure.
“Another year?” Addison’s voice climbs an octave. “Cora, you’ve already deferred once.”
“I’m aware.” I straighten in my chair, meeting her stare. “But I’m not sure law school is the right path for me.”
Dad’s face darkens. “We’ve discussed this. Princeton was the beginning. You need the legal foundation for—”
“For following in your footsteps.” The words come out sharper than intended. “For becoming exactly what you’ve planned.”
“Watch your tone.” His voice carries that edge that makes junior staffers scurry from his office.
But I’m not a junior staffer.
“I think there might be other ways to make a difference. Real-world experience, maybe working with nonprofits or—”
“Nonprofits?” Addison laughs, the sound brittle. “Darling, you can’t build a political career volunteering at soup kitchens.”
“Your stepmother’s right.” Dad tosses his napkin on the table. “You need credentials, Cora. Power comes from institutions, not idealism.”
“What if I don’t want your version of power?”
The question hangs in the air between us. Dad’s jaw tightens, that muscle jumping the way it does when reporters ask questions he doesn’t like.
“You’re being naive,” he says finally. “The world doesn’t run on good intentions.”
“No, it runs on compromises and closed-door deals.” I push back from the table. “I’m well aware.”
“Cora.” Addison reaches for me again, but I’m already standing. “Your father only wants what’s best—”
“For his image.” I grab my plate. “I know exactly what matters in this house.”
“Sit down.” Dad’s voice cracks like a gavel. “We’re not finished.”
“I am.” I head for the kitchen, my heart pounding against my ribs. “I’ll wear the blue dress tomorrow. Wouldn’t want to ruin your carefully crafted family values narrative.”
His chair scrapes against the hardwood, but I don’t look back. I know what’s coming.
I make it three steps into the kitchen before his hand clamps around my upper arm, spinning me back so hard I drop the plate and it shatters.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me when I’m talking to you.”
His fingers dig into my flesh, the same spot he grabbed last week. The bruise there hasn’t fully faded yet.
“You’re hurting me.”
“I’m talking to you.” He releases me with a shove that sends me stumbling against the counter.
“William—” Addison appears in the doorway, her face pale.
“Stay out of this.” He doesn’t even look at her. “My daughter and I are having a conversation about respect.”
I press my spine against the counter, hating how my hands shake. “I showed disrespect by having my own opinion?”
“You showed disrespect by acting like an ungrateful brat.” He steps closer, crowding into my space. “Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed for you? The opportunities I’ve given you?”
“Opportunities you’ve given yourself, you mean.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
His palm connects with my cheek and jaw, the crack echoing through the kitchen. My head snaps to the side, ears ringing.
“William!” Addison gasps.
“Everything I’ve built, everything we have—” His face is inches from mine now, red with rage. “—is because I’ve played this game smarter than everyone else. And you will not destroy that by acting like some rebellious teenager.”
I touch my jaw, feeling the heat bloom across my skin. Tasting copper where I bit my tongue.
“You’re twenty-three years old, Cora.” His voice drops lower, more dangerous than the shouting. “It’s time to grow up and understand how the world works. You go to law school. You build the right connections. You become what I need you to be.”
“And if I don’t?”
His smile makes my stomach turn. “Then maybe you’ll find out what life looks like without your trust fund. Without this house. Without any of the privileges you take for granted.”
He steps back, smoothing his tie like nothing happened.
“Clean up this mess. We’ll discuss your attitude in the morning.”
I drop to my knees, grabbing pieces of shattered porcelain with trembling fingers. A shard slices my thumb, and I watch the blood well up, mixing with the tears that won’t stop falling.
His footsteps fade down the hallway. The clink of ice in a glass. The distant murmur of Addison’s voice, probably smoothing things over, making excuses for him the way she always does.
My cheek throbs where his hand connected. The familiar sting that I’ll cover with makeup tomorrow, that I’ll hide behind my practiced smile while donors tell me how lucky I am to have such a devoted father.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, leaving tears and snot smeared on the sleeve of my jumper. The expensive cashmere. Everything in this house costs a fortune and means nothing.
The plate pieces clink into the trash can. I grab paper towels, blotting at the sauce on the tile, my knees growing damp from kneeling in the mess.
“Cora.” Addison hovers in the doorway. “Let me help—”
“Don’t.” I don’t look at her. “Just don’t.”
She retreats without another word.
I finish cleaning in silence, my movements mechanical. Wipe down the counter. Rinse the cloth. Everything back in its proper place, like nothing happened.
My bedroom door clicks shut behind me, and I finally let myself breathe. I collapse onto my bed, pressing my face into the pillow to muffle the sob that tears from my throat.
The phone screen blurs through my tears. I blink them away, fingers shaking as I pull up Mira’s contact.
I stare at my phone, thumb hovering over Mira’s name. My cheek still burns. The pillowcase beneath my face is damp.
Me: You still up?
Three dots appear immediately.
Mira: Of course. What’s wrong?
Me: Nothing. Just excited about tomorrow.
Mira: Cora...
Me: I mean it. I can’t wait to get out of this house.
The dots pulse for longer this time.
Mira: I’ve been thinking. We should reconsider.
My stomach drops.
Me: We signed the contract. No backing out now.
Mira: There has to be a clause. Something. I looked into these guys more, and I’m not sure this is—
Me: Not sure what? I can handle it?
Mira: Not what I said.
Me: Then what?
Mira: These men aren’t playing games. The Hunt is real. Dark. People get hurt.
I sit up, wiping my face with my sleeve.
Me: Good. I want something real for once in my life.
Mira: Real doesn’t mean safe.
Me: Safe is overrated.
Mira: Your dad would lose his mind if he knew.
A laugh bubbles up, sharp and bitter.
Me: Perfect. One more reason to do it.
Mira: This isn’t about rebelling against your father.
Me: Isn’t it, though?
The dots appear and disappear three times before her response comes through.
Mira: I’m worried about you. Tonight especially. Something happened.
My fingers freeze over the keyboard. She knows me too well.
Me: I’m fine.
Mira: You’re lying.
Me: We signed the contract. Legally binding. You read all twelve pages.
Mira: I know, but—
Me: No buts. We’re doing this. I NEED this.
Mira: Why? Really why?
I stare at the question, my reflection catching in the darkened phone screen. Red cheek. Swollen eyes. The perfect daughter breaking apart at the seams.
Me: Because I’m suffocating here. Because every breath in this house feels like a lie. Because maybe out there, running from something real, I’ll finally feel alive.
Mira: Or you’ll get yourself hurt.
Me: Better than suffering in my father’s shadow.
Mira: Don’t say that.
Me: It’s true, though.
The dots pulse.
Mira: Then we do this together. All the way through. No matter what.
Me: Promise?
Mira: Unfortunately, yes. But Cora? Be careful. Trust your instincts.
Me: My instincts are what got me into this.
Mira: See you tomorrow.
I set the phone down and pull my knees to my chest. Tomorrow. The Hunt. Freedom, even if it’s temporary. Even if it’s dangerous.
Even if it destroys me.