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Syn
T hanksgiving was always JP’s favorite holiday. He used to say Christmas was selfish—people cared more about giving or receiving gifts than just being grateful for everything they already had in their lives. Thanksgiving, according to JP, was a holiday for the family.
Sometimes I wonder if me and him were really brought up in the same family.
The moment he started high school, all his free time was wrapped up. If he wasn’t doing extra-curricular activities to fill in his resume, then our father was taking him to all kinds of meals, meetings, and fundraisers.
If you were serious about being president, you started early.
Thanksgiving wasn’t a holiday to spend with the family. It was extra time to spend shmoozing anyone who could ultimately donate to your future campaign. The last Thanksgiving JP was alive had been no different. I spent more time with Royal and Gemini than I did my brother.
JP was murdered in the beginning of November. That same year, when Thanksgiving rolled around a few weeks later, instead of everything being cancelled, we continued like nothing had changed.
Only this time, I was the one schmoozing.
When I was younger, I used to tell JP that I was going into politics someday too, because I wanted to be his VP. Once I got a little wiser, however, I decided I didn’t want to be Vice President. I didn’t even want to be involved in politics.
But now, it’s the last thing I want to do. President was JP’s job, not mine. It almost feels like I’m being forced to wipe his existence away completely.
This week has dragged, more so because Royal and Gemini ditched me. Neither they—nor her —have even left campus. I may be in another state, but I still have my contacts keeping an eye on her.
I’m not surprised she stayed. No doubt, she made plans to snoop through the house on her futile mission to prove her brother’s innocence.
Royal’s been playing basketball since freshman year, and he’s never stayed behind to train until now. Even now, there’s more than a handful of girls who’d be willing to spread their legs and let him fuck them, so he can’t say it’s because there’s a tight cunt that needs his attention this year either.
It’s her.
At least with Gemini, I know he’s just letting his twisted little fantasies run wild. With him, it’s just another cunt, not her cunt.
I shouldn’t have cancelled Moran for the week and made him go feed Basil. Royal’s at least dependable enough to make sure he’s seen to, but if Moran was in the house twice a day, he’d be able to keep an eye on things while he’s feeding my basilisk.
Raising my arm, I watch the second hand of my brother’s Rolex complete a 24-hour cycle, marking the end of Thanksgiving.
Thank fuck.
Tonight, after eating so much food, my father and his friends drank whiskey, smoked a cigar, and called it a night an hour ago instead of dragging the evening out. They may have gorged themselves on the spread our staff had prepared, but I’ve barely had an appetite since I got here. Considering how little sleep I’ve had too, an early night might be a blessing, but no.
I’m lying on my bed, wide awake.
This week would have been easier if I could have just pulled the covers over my head and stayed in bed.
If Gemini were here, he’d have some pharmaceuticals on hand. Sedatives might get me to sleep now. Of course, if Gemini was here, I probably wouldn’t need them then. He and Royal would be enough to keep me sane—ironic though, that is.
I’m still awake an hour later, and after looking through all the streaming services, I’ve found nothing to watch. With a sigh, I get up, put my slippers on, and grab my robe. Every night this week, I’ve gone to bed with a full stomach of whiskey. Maybe that’s what I need tonight too.
Calling this residence the Keyingham Lodge seems to undersell the size of the place. With sixteen bedrooms, this place could be a hotel.
It might as well be. This place, the summer house in Southampton, the ranch in Montana, and the penthouse in Manhattan—none of them feels like a place I want to stay in anymore. They’re either always empty, or full of pricks I want to punch in the face.
There are over twenty people staying here tonight, but the house is silent as I walk downstairs to the library. The bar in there is one of the smallest in the house, but it’s the only one with Yamazaki.
I push open the door and walk in, about to turn a light on, but the room is already lit. Sitting in front of the fireplace, the contents little more than glowing embers, sit my father, Magnus du Pont, and his son—also my brother’s best friend—Preston. The three of them fall silent the moment we make eye contact.
“I think that’s our cue. I’ll speak to you tomorrow, William,” Magnus says before I have the chance to apologize for disturbing them. He stands, nods at my father and then walks towards me, with Preston right behind him. “Synclair,” he mutters, before leaving the room.
Preston pauses, only long enough to narrow his eyes at me, before closing the door behind him.
My father and Magnus have known each other forever. They went to college together, and the year my father was President of the Elite, Magnus was his VP.
I can’t stand Magnus, and I don’t think my father can either. If anything, I’d say their friendship was more of a frenemies thing. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.
Because my father’s grandfather may have founded the university they attended, the town it was built in, and established the Elite, but just like the government, it’s never the president holding all the power. Not behind the scenes.
The current government, and most of them for at least the last century, were bought and paid for by a small group of people. Fourteen families—fourteen men—pulling the strings, determining who will hold what seat, and which bills will be passed or even make it to the president’s desk. Fourteen men who had once been thirty-seven until someone realized the less people know, the more you can achieve.
My father might have been the President of the Elite, but the President of the VII is Magnus. Ultimately, he’s the one who decided JP—and then me—were to be put on that presidential track.
So if he leaves the room so my father and I can talk, I doubt I’m going to enjoy the conversation. But it’s too late to leave now.
I walk over to the bar and pull out a bottle of whiskey—not the Yamazaki like I wanted, because a part of me needs to keep this last connection to my brother a secret from my father—and pour myself a glass. “Would you like one?” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer, and as I turn, something flies towards my head.
My reflexes are quick, so I have to fight every instinct not to duck out of the way.
“Are you fucking insane?” My father yells as his glass explodes against my temple.
There’s a sharp pain in my head and face, and I’m almost certain there’s at least one piece of glass there. My shoulder and chest are wet from what was left of his drink, and I can see shards of glass twinkling from the corner of my eye as my chest rises and falls with my ragged breaths.
But I don’t move.
If there’s one thing my father despises, it’s weakness.
My brother was murdered, and it was business as usual the next day.
Weakness can be exploited.
And if my father sees weakness, he’ll do whatever necessary to make sure that weakness is eliminated.
“No, sir,” I say with a firm yet respectful tone.
“Then why the fuck did you allow Cole Reynalds’ sister to take part in the Elite initiation?” His previous question may have been loud, but this one is back to normal levels.
My brother—his son—was murdered, and my father practically moved on before we even lowered his coffin into the ground. As far as he was concerned, pushing for a fast sentence and trying to swing for the death penalty was enough for William James Keyingham.
If he was in my position, maybe he wouldn’t have done the same thing. Maybe that’s why I never told him. I wasn’t keeping it a secret, exactly. If anything, I’m surprised it took this long for the news to reach him.
But his level of anger over my choice is far greater than I ever expected.
“Victoria Reynalds will never become a member of the Elite,” I tell him, wondering if that’s his concern. “But in the period that she’s here, I’m going to make her pay for what her brother did to mine. I will break her. His whole family will suffer.”
“A member of the Elite? She should never have made it through admissions to James Keyingham, which I’m told is also your doing.”
There’s liquid in my eyes. The sting from it tells me it’s part of father’s whiskey, and the red tainting my vision also confirms my suspicions when I thought the glass had cut me. But I fight the urge to touch it, or even blink away the blood.
“I’ve had Gemini watching her since school. When she applied, it was under a different name. I was curious as to why she would even want to go to James Keyingham University, of all places. It turns out she’s under some delusion that her brother didn’t kill James Patrick.”
Something shifts in the air then, and I know in that moment, I said the wrong thing.
My father is on his feet walking over to me, and even though I want to get out of here, I don’t. Running will only make things worse.
Instead, I look him in the eye and wait.
My father stops in front of me, glass crunching beneath his slippers. He reaches out, taking the hand I’m using to still hold onto my glass of whiskey, and wraps his around it. “The problem with people like her, is that they are weak and stupid.”
He starts squeezing my hand, and I try hard not to make it obvious that I’m resisting him.
“The moment there is too much pressure…” He squeezes so hard, the glass implodes in my hand, raining whiskey and glass down over our feet. My father doesn’t flinch, nor does he let go, continuing to squeeze his hand around mine like a vice. “Things shatter.”
I wasn’t quick enough to empty my hand when the glass broke. Shards scattering can be seen as much as felt as they slice through my skin. I’m almost certain my father is pushing them to the bone, and the pain is agonizing. Blood fills my mouth as I bite down on anything to keep myself from even responding.
“And the problem with things that shatter, is that even the smallest of pieces can leave lasting marks. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
My father gives one last squeeze before he releases my hand and steps back. “James Patrick was murdered, but we are lucky, because the scum who murdered him is rotting in jail, and his family is rotting below the poverty line with him. The VII worked hard to make sure we had justice without this being linked back to us, so that you can one day take up residence in the White House. So, when you get back to college, you make sure that she is gone, so nothing will crop up in ten years’ time to jeopardize that. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
I wait until my father has left the room and closed the door behind him before I uncurl my fingers. Bright red blood is pools in my hand, staining my skin and the glass shards that are buried deep into my palm. I can’t feel pain—I can’t feel anything.