Their Vicious Games(77)

I am reminded that I do not inhabit the same body that I had before I came to the Remington Estate. I can’t believe that before, I thought I was broken.

The Finish is aptly named, I see now, because they are finishing us here, using our weaknesses and breaking down our needs to harden us into cartilage. I mourn us all.

Hawthorne, and her undying loyalty.

Saint, and her resolve.

Even Esme, and her relentlessness.

And of course Penthesilea for…

“I… I need to see Penthesilea,” I say suddenly.

“Pentecostal?” Saint asks, the same tired joke that doesn’t sound so funny anymore, now that she does it listlessly, like she’s trying for normalcy and failing. “Why?”

“She saved me in the maze. From Reagan. She killed her. And she saved me from Esme. And I want to know why. She told me… to ask afterward why she’s here. Because it’s true: she doesn’t need to be here, but she is,” I whisper quietly.

Saint scoffs. “I didn’t need to be here either.” Then she grows quieter, and her forehead falls against the nape of my neck, her fingers lingering over the hook at the top of my zipper.

“But I know why you did come here—”

“I came here because I had something to prove,” Saint interrupts. She’s embarrassed, not looking at me. “My father didn’t send me here. They don’t even know. I told them I got an internship in New York at some hedge fund. And then, instead, I came here. I really did suggest teaming up with them, but Father turned them down last minute. And they were offended so they… cut off all our prospects here. And then they sent the invitation to the Finish as a way to offend my father further in retaliation. That solidified to him that it was a bad deal, but I was so sure that the Remingtons were our only way of breaking into the market, I came here. I thought I could outsmart them, blackmail them. I thought I’d… prove myself capable and ready.”

She wasn’t. She isn’t, but my heart twinges for her.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. Saint shakes it off, even though the words rub her raw. “Maybe that’s true, but it’s also true that you’re still okay. And the only reason that they’re okay and still alive is because you are not a monster—”

“Oh, I can be,” Saint warns.

It’s a promise.

I nod, my words getting caught in my throat. At least I know that if I don’t make it but Saint does, she will find a way to ruin this family. And I want her to almost as much as I want to do it myself. I look away and step back, barefoot.

“I still need to talk to Penthesilea,” I repeat, and Saint nods slowly again.

I wander out of our room and don’t knock on her door, choosing to just walk in. Her room is like mine and Saint’s, but not. The dying sun breaks through her windows, turning the gold wallpaper into hazy pinks and the burn of fire. This room hasn’t lost its charm yet. It still looks like an illustrated storybook, a room for princesses. Or Remington wives. Whichever.

When I see her, of course she’s put together, ever the fairy queen, ethereal in a way that I have only ever dreamed about being.

“Why are you here, Penthesilea?” I ask sans greeting.

Penthesilea doesn’t shift from where she sits before the vanity, carefully applying a shiny pink gloss to her lips. She sets the wand down, smacking her lips and leaning back. She takes a deep breath, her palms biting into the edge of the wood, and squints at her own reflection. Her fingers drum for a moment before she takes up her brush, dragging it down her hair in precise strokes.

“I’d hoped you’d forget to ask,” Penthesilea says thoughtfully.

“I couldn’t possibly. Is this about Harvard?” I whisper. “You want the free spot so you can get back together with him?”

Penthesilea blinks at me, and then she laughs. “Is that what he told you?” She giggles. “I suppose it’s true. In a manner of speaking. No, I’m not here for Harvard. Not really. I’m here because it is expected and I have to be perfect.”

“I’m sorry?” I say, questioning.

“I have to be perfect. And Pierce is perfect. And we will be perfectly perfect together.” Penthesilea sets down her brush, sitting up sharper. She exchanges it for a blush compact. She dusts pink to her face, painting life to her cheeks. She meets my eye in the reflection of the mirror. “I know that you tried to fuck my boyfriend, Adina.”

I flinch, nearly tripping backward over the edge of the Persian rug. Penthesilea lets out another huff of a laugh that is so devoid of humor, it’s nearly a sob. My tongue feels swollen in my mouth.

“I—I—”

“Don’t bother with apologies. I’ve heard so many of them throughout my life that they all sound the same,” Penthesilea says gently. Her gaze never wavers from me and I can’t look away; it would feel like the ultimate disrespect. Cowardice. I can’t afford that.

“When did you know?” I ask instead.

“When you appeared in front of your friend, defending her from Esme, I saw the way that he looked at you,” Penthesilea murmurs. “He’s never looked at me like that.”

“I’m sure he has—”

“I didn’t say that was a bad thing,” Penthesilea snaps. She slams her compact closed, shoots to her feet, and turns around.