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.
“But then… didn’t you predetermine your own winner?” I ask quietly. Every justification is met by contradiction. He widened the circle to keep the violence at bay. Violence is inherent to the nature of this competition, and he’s always known that. It’s been a consequence that he is willing to wade through, because consequence does not touch him. That is his truth.
Pierce shakes his head. “No. Well, yes. I just… wanted to produce my own ending. I want you to win, though you haven’t made it very easy, have you? I’ve had to help you because you’re… well, you need it, don’t you? You couldn’t possibly make it through without me, and I need you to. I do. Because… I’m evening the playing field. That will be my Remington legacy. And won’t it mean so much more after we’ve really earned it? Our own love story where you beat the odds, winning the Finish transformed. You’ll be perfect. We’ll be perfect.”
I freeze, and Pierce startles when he tries to spin me and I don’t move at all, an island in this desert of opulence. He frowns down at me and his lips move but I can’t hear him over the rushing of my own blood. I think he’s asking me what’s wrong. I stare up at this guileless, stupid boy.
“Let me go,” I think I say, hoarse.
“What?” he asks. “We’re dancing.”
“I don’t want to dance. Let me go,” I insist, louder this time. It feels like I’m in the bathroom again, like Esme’s voice is growing louder in my head as she spits vile, poisonous shit. About how she’s made me. About how I’m nothing without her. He wants to make me. For him.
“Adina, what are you even doing?” Pierce hisses. “You’re making a scene. Dance with—”
“No.”
It happens before I can even convince myself not to, or remember that the stakes are too high.
I slap him and his head snaps to the side. He raises a shivering hand to his cheek. He looks around, for anyone who saw. Thankfully, few did. But the ones who did elbow the others, whispering to one another. The quartet is still performing.
“You… you slapped me,” he says obviously.
“I would do it again,” I say, shaking with my fury, too late to turn back now. “This isn’t evening the playing field, you utter asshole. I’ll kill you.” I don’t sound like myself, my voice deeper, rawer than I’ve ever heard it.
It’s the same thing I said to Esme before I launched myself at her, all those months ago. But this time, I think I might mean it.
I do mean it.
Pierce’s eyes narrow, and suddenly he doesn’t look so beautiful. He looks like his father. “You can’t do anything to me, you little—”
Before it can escalate further, Penthesilea is suddenly there, stepping between us, her back to me. She stares up into Pierce’s face.
“Pierce, darling, look at me,” she commands, voice hard. Pierce keeps glaring over her shoulder at me, but Penthesilea grabs his face, redirecting his rage toward her. “Pierce, come on. It’s not that serious. Please, look at me?”
Pierce’s hands wrap around her wrists and squeeze down, hard. “You don’t tell me—”
“I understand, my love. It’s all right. She just… doesn’t get it. Your intentions. You are so well intentioned. Some people just aren’t grateful for it. I was always grateful, wasn’t I?” Penthesilea corrects. She sounds so soft-spoken, but there is something in her that’s completely in control.
But Pierce does not want to be controlled. He draws himself up and I am reminded of how tall he is.
“Let’s play a game,” he says, voice ringing out. He looks sharply over his shoulder. “Aunt Leighton! We’re playing a game now!” He jerks out of Penthesilea’s hold, stalking over and disrupting whatever conversation Leighton was in.
“What’s going on?” I whisper, shaking, looking at Penthesilea.
She breathes slowly and draws her shoulders back. “You’re finding out what I warned you about. The problem with saying no to him… is that he always retaliates. He’s petty that way.”
Pierce leans in to Third and Leighton, his hands growing more agitated with every moment. Third pulls away, grim.
“Attention!” Third calls, voice booming. He sounds far less jovial now.
The pinkness in Pierce’s face could be attributed to health, but I know that I’ve left my mark, and I feel a savage sort of triumph that soothes the roiling ache of fear. Leighton has a hand on his shoulder, but as her gaze falls to me, it sparks with amusement instead of the condemnation I expect. She likes that I’ve put him in his place, even if it means not winning—and just like that I know it was never about me at all.
“We have come to the game portion of the evening. For those who are attending their first closing Repartee, the rules are simple. A game is chosen that mirrors the next task and its goals. Tomorrow the final girl’s goal will be to become a Remington. That is, to be a cut above the rest. To demonstrate leadership but also to know… when to follow,” Third says, and he is a conductor to this orchestra of chaos. Each of them hangs off his every word, sycophants to the very last breath. “We present… our girls. In first after the Raid, we have Esme Alderidge.”
Esme tears off her mask and they all applaud. Her parents are louder than the rest. Esme stares out, proudly, and when her gaze flits over her father’s face, I can see her resolve return. She holds up her hand and gives a princess wave, flashing the prize on her finger, the diamond ring that still won’t go past her second knuckle.
“In second, we have Hawthorne Harding.” Hawthorne pulls her mask down to hang around her neck, and she curtsies.
As I look around, I can see the expressions of some people—those without personal stakes, there for the pomp and circumstance and blood—grow brighter.