CHAPTER 24 #2
I understand why Charlotte calls Rosamund a spider now. It’s not just the smile or the strike; it’s the way she weaves her web around you, slowly at first, then all at once.
I flatten my palms against the elevator wall, hoping the pressure will stop my hands from shaking.
Rosamund’s words about Dad are already festering in my mind, rotting like dead tissue.
She’s not the first to insult him; he has plenty of enemies.
But Mom always kept that world at bay. She shielded us from the news reports tearing Dad apart and the gossip sites spreading lies about him cheating on her.
Now the lies are everywhere, closing in without filters or buffers.
There’s a sea of people frothing at the mouth, desperate to see Dad fall.
And the worst part is that I could silence them. I could make them eat their words.
If only I were allowed to use a saber.
I clench my arms against my chest, trying to smother the burning anger. It doesn’t work. My breath is still ragged, and my shoulders still shake. When the elevator dings open, I step out too quickly and slam into a wall of blue.
I stumble backward, arms seeking something solid, until a hand shoots out and catches me around the waist.
“Pardon me, sir,” I gasp. “I did not—”
I cut off when I see Edmund staring down at me. He rights me, then steps away and clasps his hands behind his back. His face is taut, his cheeks pale enough to dull his tan. A rapid twitch runs through his left eye, as if he’s tunneled up from underground and the sunlight is still too harsh.
He always looks like this after visiting Irene.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Prew,” I say, tugging my sleeve down to hide the scratches his sister left. “I must return to my suite.”
“Your suite?” He steps in front of me, eyebrow lifted. “Since when do you skip class?”
“When I have a reason, as I do now.”
“What reason?”
“It is not serious.” I tug casually at my earring. “I drank a little too much wine last night at Jolt & Jive.”
“Oh, really?” Edmund leans in, nostrils flaring slightly. “Well, if you’re bleeding from a hangover, you need a hospital, not a nap.”
“Pardon?”
“Enough bullshit, Miss Waldsten. I can smell it.”
“The bullshit?”
“The blood.”
I touch the wound on my arm, frustrated to be caught, even more so when I lose one civil credit for repeating the same curse in public that Edmund just did.
“The blood is mine,” I say. “I have not injured a Blue.”
He squints as if I’ve just insulted him. “You think I didn’t know that when I asked?” He gestures at my wrist. “Show me.”
I wince as I peel back my blood-dampened sleeve.
Edmund’s eyes track the long, clean scratches, one deep enough to leave a bloody groove on my wrist. The twitch in his eye vanishes, replaced by a hardening of his face until his jaw locks.
Then his gaze lifts, following the walls up toward the fourth floor.
“Which fucking Blue?”
I hesitate long enough to remind myself that the Blue isn’t a stranger in the Tangerine Tree. This is Rosamund, his twin sister.
“Mr. Prew, given the circumstances, I believe it would be wiser to—”
Edmund lowers himself to my level, clearly trying to be patient, but the twitch in his eye has returned. “You’re in my entourage, Miss Waldsten. This isn’t just a slight to you. It’s a slight to me.”
“That is precisely the problem. The Blue responsible is the only one on that floor you are not permitted to challenge.”
He tilts his head, looking confused. Then, when it finally clicks, the fire behind his eyes dies in an instant, like a blade sheathed mid-swing. “Rosamund?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason she attacked Miss Deering.”
His brow furrows. “Miss Deering? What the hell did Rosamund do to her?”
I suddenly realize how pointless this conversation is. Edmund is clearly on the outside of the situation. Jack might not know the full extent either. The boys are blind to Rosamund as she runs free, throwing knives at us behind their backs.
“I wish to leave now, Mr. Prew. Good day.”
“Wait.”
Edmund touches my arm, gentler than usual. Still, I keep walking until I notice a trail of blood dripping from my sleeve onto his fingers, forming a dark green smear. I lock eyes with him over my shoulder, waiting for him to recoil, to wipe the blood away as if I’ve contaminated him.
But he doesn’t.
“The deal was protection,” Edmund reminds me. “And that includes my sister. She won’t touch you again.”
He says it like a promise, and he might even mean it, but family changes everything.
No matter how much you might hate them or how deeply they might dishonor you, you can’t threaten what the law forbids you from destroying.
Death duels among family members are illegal, which means that when it comes to Rosamund, Edmund’s promises have no teeth.
“I am not requesting your protection in this particular conflict,” I say. “Nor do I expect you to choose me over your sister. However, I must ask: If Miss Prew attacks me again and I defend myself, what then?”
Edmund’s hand drops, and he steps back as if the question burned him.
I get the sense it hadn’t fully occurred to him until now what it would mean to bring me into his entourage, forcing me to share a room with Rosamund, his Bliss-addicted twin, while I remain the daughter of the man who banned it.
He starts to speak, then stops. The way his eyes tighten at the corners is the same as after the Heretic attack, when he defended Jack against one of his own.
It makes me wonder if this is why he’s always so restless, constantly wired with a hair-trigger energy, one wrong word away from springing like an animal.
He’s walking a knife’s edge, caught between two sides, with a choice he can’t avoid forever.
Maybe Rosamund won’t be the breaking point, but something will.
And when that time comes, there won’t be any room left for neutrality.
Because that’s how it always is.
You can either stand with the high or with the low. But you can’t stand with both.
I know I shouldn’t go back to my suite.
I’ve got three more lectures today, and skipping out means losing civil credits. I still need to buy Edmund another birthday gift, too. All I’ve got so far is a measly gold chain for his Altimor pocket watch. I was supposed to hit the shops on the Swing Strip after class.
But I still can’t calm down.
I don’t want to show my face like this, still twisted and sweating. If I have to go back to class and sit beside Rosamund again, I’ll break. I’ll throw myself at her, pin her down, and beat her until Edmund drags me off.
In my suite, my Pinkie pauses in the middle of vacuuming my salon. The robot’s mouth opens as if to greet me, but I walk past, straight into my bedroom, and close the door behind me.
A moment later, the door creaks open again, and my Pinkie enters, setting a package on a bedside table. “Miss Waldsten, you have received a delivery.”
“From who?” I say, barely getting the words out. I didn’t order anything. And my parents would’ve messaged me if they’d sent something.
“The sender is unclear. It was addressed to you with no other labels.”
I turn to the small box, which is secured by a blood sample. Curious, I press my thumb to the biometric scanner, and a whirring sound emerges as it verifies my identity.
My Pinkie opens the box and peels back the wrapping paper. I lean in, and as I examine the contents, a sudden wave of emotion washes over me. What changed? I thought Vivian said no deal.
I lift the Vanguard badge from its velvet cushion, and the cool weight of the metal sends a charge through me, as if I’m holding a fragment of a hero’s soul.
The badge is beautiful, a finely crafted double-headed eagle medallion in gold and dark titanium, wings spread wide.
The filigree edges lend it a fragile elegance, yet the metal weighs at least five ounces.
Etched in the center is the callsign Hellion, with a unique numerical code beneath.
In the middle, glowing as if lit from within, is the name “Ernest Prew.”
I dig through the box for an explanation until I find a delicate, scented note. I unfold the paper slowly, and when I recognize Vivian’s elegant handwriting, my hands tremor.
Because my sister asked.
The words blur. I set the note back in the box, barely able to breathe as I turn toward my closet. There, bathed in the soft glow of the light, hangs Coquette. The gown is removed from its garment bag to air out, the green silk shimmering like leaves after fresh rain.
My fingertips tingle with the memory of the fabric’s texture: cool, weightless, like a whisper against my skin.
Still, I reach out anyway, careful to avoid staining the silk with my blood.
The sewn-in diamonds prick my palm, conjuring an image of my scabbard at my waist, the graphene saber blade gleaming as I slide into en garde.
My heart races wildly until the image falters and breaks.
Now I see Vivian instead.
She’s seated at her rehearsal dinner, candlelight dancing across the soft curve of her smile as she leans into Harrison’s shoulder.
She’s flawless, radiant, a blushing swan smiling around the table at our family.
Then her gaze finds mine. For an instant, I see her quiet disappointment, the single imperfection in a day meant to be perfect.
I close my eyes as hot tears sting my cheeks. My fingers curl tighter around the lace, trying to squeeze the guilt from the fabric, but the thoughts slip in anyway.
The dinner will pass. The night will end. But the photos won’t fade, and the videos won’t disappear. That moment will live on, etched in my memory, waiting to poison Coquette before I ever wear it.
Because one day, when my weapons restriction is finally lifted, and I step into the gown, I won’t just see the glittering diamonds or the way my saber blade gleams against the silk.
I’ll see Vivian. I’ll see everything I could’ve given her and chose to keep.
I’ll see my sister and remember that when she asked, I said no.
I open my eyes, trembling as I’m torn between love and longing, knowing that whichever choice I make, I’ll lose something.
“Miss Waldsten?” my Pinkie asks from the corner. “Do you require further assistance?”
I stare at the gown again, memorizing how it looks unworn and unspoiled. Even if Vivian only borrows it, the promise I made to myself will be broken. And yet, the moment she asked for Coquette, I already knew I’d no longer be able to wear it as I’d hoped.
“I need you to mail a package,” I say.
“Right away, Miss Waldsten. Where to?”
I pull my fingers away from the fabric. The effort makes my body tremor, and a sob escapes as I step back from the closet. Then the word comes, sharp as the snap of something breaking.
“Home.”