Their Vicious Games(80)

I can read the intense scrutiny from the horde of the rich. They don’t bother with being discreet, staring at my curls, at the shadow of bruises hidden underneath foundation on my shoulders, at the brown of my skin. They know who I am, at least, which brings it down to four—Who are the four other girls? they wonder. Only one is brave enough to approach me.

“I miss the black dress,” Graham says.

“Good for you,” I say bitterly, Penthesilea’s words still ringing loudly in my ears. “Nice speech from your dad.”

Graham scoffs, rubbing over his jaw. “Yes, it was very much his brand. Self-congratulating. Self-important. Self-obsessive. An unholy glorification of the Remington name.”

“Your name.” I can’t help the jab.

Graham stills. “Did I… do something wrong?”

It’s not what he’s done, per se, but what he might do. I sidestep the question, unwilling to get into it here.

“There’s a senator,” I observe, looking at him covertly as Third schmoozes him, all smirks and smiles. The Bonaviches are across the room with someone I might’ve seen in the news once or twice. Maybe something to do with oil. Esme’s parents are at the periphery of their little group. The rumors have clearly made their way to the adults, too.

The senator most definitely isn’t the only political piece they have in their stranglehold, ensuring their secrets are kept. Graham nods like he can hear my every thought. He whistles to himself. “This is fuck—”

“Graham, give us a moment.”

It’s like we’re being visited by goddamn Apollo. He swings out of whatever conversation he’s having, his lips pulled into his permanent smile. But all I can think is, Penthesilea calls him a monster.

When Graham gives him his full attention, my mood sours entirely.

“We were talking,” I say roughly.

Pierce looks back at me, wounded, like I’ve honestly hurt his feelings.

“You said you would save me a dance,” he says quietly. His tie is the same emerald as my gown, proving Saint right. Everyone’s eyes track him, making the connection. There’s a new sense of curiosity now, divorced from a Who is she? Now it’s Who will she be? I look down at his offered hand, then past him at Penthesilea where she stands, tall and frigid, between Leighton and Third.

She looks like she belongs. But she doesn’t have the same indulgent expression as Pierce’s father. Penthesilea is still as a sentry. A jail guard that is allowing her prisoner a privilege.

“You should dance with him,” Graham says, subdued. He’s so easily dismissed by his brother, like he can’t help but give him everything, like I’m something to give, and it makes me resent him, too.

“Don’t dismiss people like that, Pierce. And ask nicely,” I insist.

Pierce smiles, suddenly delighted again. It’s exhausting.

“May I have this dance?” he asks, bowing with a flourish, like I expect ostentation. Like I want the show, for everyone to see me take his hand, when I just wanted him to be fucking polite, like a normal human being.

But still, I take his hand and let him draw me onto the dance floor.

My silk skirts are made for dancing, swirling around my shins as we whip across the floor to the waltz, a dance that I don’t know but that he guides me through, one hand low on my back, the other holding my limp hand tight.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, leaning in with a teasing smile. I don’t feel up to smiling, but I force out laughter, suddenly grateful for the mask. “You do look really lovely in that dress. Green is your color.”

“Looks like it’s yours, too,” I point out.

Pierce nods. “Do you like it?”

I stare hard at Pierce, tilting my head. “Pierce, you have been very kind to me throughout this entire… journey,” I begin, unsure of another word to describe it. Pierce nods, like he’s agreeing. “You’ve given me clues and assistance and answers. May I ask another question?”

“Always.”

“Why did you want a Finish?” I ask slowly.

Pierce stares down at me, blinking owlishly. “What do you mean?”

“Your brother didn’t have a Finish, did he?” I insist. “But you wanted one. Everyone has told me why you did. But I want to know from you. Why did you have one?”

Pierce sighs deeply. “Tradition is a hard thing to break, you see. It is baked into the fabric of a space. A house. This house. My face is tradition. I have my father’s face. My name is tradition. I have my father’s name. I couldn’t do what Graham does and disappoint them.” He says it so easily. He has no idea what Graham has done to give Pierce the life he has as the golden son. “So I had to have a Finish… but I wanted it to be mine. Every moment of it. It’s my future, after all. So I’m making my own traditions. My own happily ever after.”

It’s that turn of phrase that haunts me, sitting low in my belly.

“How?” I force out through a clenched jaw.

“I expanded the definition of what a potential Remington wife might be. That’s not how it’s usually done. My father would select candidates from our circle, with the winner all but predetermined, but I wanted a real competition, like Matilda intended, not just a show that Pen would skate through. And then… I saw you. I’d heard of you. You were the girl who turned Esme into a monster, and showed her a monster right back, so I suspected you had it in you. And then you said that thing about evening the playing field, and I knew. You had to be here. It was a calculated risk, inviting you. But I knew Leighton would understand, would relate to you,” he says.