Their Vicious Games(20)

“Oh. Very good,” Mr. Remington says, and now he sounds impressed. He licks his thin, dry lips like he’s hungry, even greedy. “So, you’ll know all about your father’s stance on moving into the American market—”

“Ah, ah, Mr. Remington,” Saint says with a placid smile. “That’s insider information. For now.” She turns and plucks two champagne flutes off a passing platter, then offers one to me.

I take it, knowing the bubbles will take off the edge that has me wary, but it’s exactly that wariness that tells me I need my wits about me. I hold the flute close to my lips and mime taking a sip. I can taste the champagne on my tongue, but I don’t swallow.

“And, Miss Walker,” Mr. Remington begins, finally turning toward me. “Oh, I’ve heard about you.”

“Have you?” I ask, my voice pitching higher with my rising discomfort.

Mr. Remington looks thoughtful. “Yes. My boy says that you were very kind to him at the bonfire, when you didn’t have to be. You listened. Kindness is harder and harder to come by, the higher you ascend. Pierce knows that better than anyone. You must have made quite the impression.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I lie.

Mr. Remington sees right through me. “You want to go to Yale. My other son goes to Yale. A… safe choice.”

“Your son did say that Harvard was the better one of the two. I could be convinced by a well-structured argument,” I say with a lipless smile.

“Could you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. He puffs out his chest, as if he means to do just that, when a striking figure of fire and gold catches all of our eyes. “Penthesilea!”

“Third!” Penthesilea sways between us, her dress spiraling around her. “Third” or Mr. Remington or whoever the fuck takes Penthesilea’s hand and spins her under his arm. Penthesilea laughs, so pretty and delicate. “It’s been ages.”

“I was just telling your father that I haven’t seen you in months. Pierce doesn’t bring around his best influence much anymore,” Mr. Remington says.

Penthesilea giggles. “He wanted there to be an even playing field. That’s all.”

“Is it? Even?”

Mr. Remington’s smile flakes away, revealing a far grimmer expression as Graham swaggers up. His eyes aren’t bloodshot, but he and his father have matching glasses, full of shimmering brown liquor, and it’s clear he’s been keeping pace.

“Yes. It is. We make the Finish as fair as possible. The girls are all presented with the same accommodations, the same goals,” Mr. Remington says stiffly. “Graham, we’ve gone over this.”

“Hello, Graham,” Penthesilea greets him, but she isn’t smiling anymore.

“Hey, Penny. Four’s over there if you’re looking for him,” Graham says, barely sparing her a look. Instead, he inspects me. “Adina Walker,” he declares, his voice just a little too loud, garnering attention from some of the others. “The good girl. That’s… that’s disappointing.”

“Looks like I did have what it takes,” I say pointedly.

Graham nods. “Maybe. But you still don’t belong here.”

It’s the way he says it that sparks anger in me, that same anger that I felt in the woods.

“I don’t need to be reminded,” I say. He doesn’t know me, but I know what I’m capable of, what I could be with the same opportunity as these girls.

“You are making our guests uncomfortable. Graham, if you would please remove yourself,” Mr. Remington says through clenched teeth. Graham ignores his father with the practiced ease of someone who’s been doing it for years.

“It’s not an insult,” Graham says. “It just means you have a soul.”

Of course, he’s one of those. A sad, disillusioned rich boy who thinks that money is dirty. He’s only able to think that because he’s had it all his life.

He leans in close, close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath. It’s sweet and strong and hot against my cheek. “I hope you and that soul survive this,” he confesses.

Then Mr. Remington wrenches him away from me. “Do you have any goddamn sense, Graham?” he demands, dragging him off.

They make it only a few steps before Graham shakes off his father’s hand. Mr. Remington is taller and broader, but there’s something in Graham’s stance that makes him hesitate for a moment. It’s just enough time for Graham to storm across the ballroom and open the balcony doors. Mr. Remington stares after him before stalking off toward his other son, jerking him away from the gaggle of girls, pointing violently after Graham.

“I’m so sorry for Graham,” Penthesilea says in earnest.

“Why are you apologizing for him? He’s not your brother,” I retort, sharper than I intend.

Penthesilea seems surprised by the barbs in my words. I down the champagne and pass the empty glass off to the nearest server with a murmured thank you. I pinch the bridge of my nose as my stomach roils. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have gotten so aggressive so suddenly. That’s my problem. I have so very little patience left to give. I need to find some.

“I think I need… a moment,” I murmur. “Excuse me.”

“Adina, careful—” Saint begins, reaching for my wrist.