Chapter 17

Alister POV

"He said we were going to leave the house at 8. And it's only 19:43."

"You left," Mother points out with the brim of the glass near her lips. "That was the insult. So he took your brother instead."

My eyes leap back at her. "Eric?" I blurt with a disbelieving snort. "Now I know his intent is to spite me."

My mother draws a prim sip of her white wine before she places it down on the granite counter.

"Not spite. It's a men's function, it's intuitively imperative for fathers to bring along their sons."

"But he left me." My volume peaks. "Not because of a warped sense of disobedience, but because he despises the company I keep. He knows I went to go see her."

"No, I—"

"We both know he disapproves," I say, releasing a deflating sigh.

"Don't worry," mother says with a tinge of mock, placing a quick hand on my bicep as she passes me by. "Tomorrow is the dinner party, so there you will have your chance to shine."

It never ends,

¬¬¬

I stand before the standing mirror, critiquing the reflection, attired in a Stuart Hughes suit with a blend of Cashmere wool and silk. Fitted and bespoke. My hair is straightened and gelled, slicked back with impeccable neatness. I saunter to the window, watching the long line of luxury cars make their way to the manor of House King. An unknown, depthless void opens up in my chest—untraceable yet devastatingly infinite.

My brother and I reunite in the corridor.

I light up a smile as easily as drawing breath.

"Well, look at you, brother."

Eric strikes a model pose, his eyes smoldering whilst looking away dramatically. He is dressed in an Emporio Armani suit, evergreen, single-breasted, modern-fit. His dark hair is medium-length and tied into a low bun.

He spins on his heels, tugging at his lapels smugly. "You don't clean up so bad yourself, golden boy." His eyes darted to his bruise. "You talked to dad yet?"

I initiate the walk, heading to the stairway. "He has been avoiding me the whole day."

"You put everything and everyone before yourself. And he's going to have a tantrum just because you did something for yourself—for once?" Eric shakes his head, sharing my indignation. "I can talk to him after the party. He can't control you forever. I mean—"

"I appreciate the sentiment, but I have it handled."

Eric's mouth snaps shut with vague affront tinting his eyes. "Of course you do," he says with a distinct note of contempt. Embellishing, he outstretches his arms expansively. "You are the great Alister King. The man, the myth, the legend. The one that can do it all."

My shoulders slump at the weight, but impulse is quick to mend my posture.

"Don't be so sure of yourself."

We round the last corner. Our father stands at the gallery of the dual staircase, overlooking the masses from above. Lucia, the house steward, and other hired co-ordinators usher everyone inside, leading them to the dining hall. Our mother emerges from the east wing. Her chest is ornamented with a layered necklace, bejeweled with diamonds. Mr King nods me over. The gold of the signet ring glitters on his pinkie. His hands mounted on the veneered wooden railing.

Eric falls into line and follows after mother. Hooking arms, they descend the staircase to their left.

Father chucks a cursory glance at his me.

"Are we going to talk?"

Dismissing my request, he says, "Tonight, many overseas investors are in attendance. I don't need to tell you how important it is that we make a good impression tonight."

My eyes drop to my handmade Italian leather shoes. "Yes, sir," I say flatly.

As father and son, we descend before we walk down the main hallway to the dining hall. Passing the framed family portraits, going back centuries. And pedestalled marble busts that line the flanks from beginning to end, preserving the history of the Kings.

The moment we step through the Tudor archway. A veil of charm falls over our faces. Servers weave amidst the elite throng, serving gourmet appetizers. Women are wrapped in expensive fabrics and men are garbed in crisp suits, nursing their flutes of champagne. With practiced ease, I spur the small talk among men that are twice my age, engaging in topics that leave them impressed. I know how to expertly work a room.

"This is the golden boy I have heard so much about?" Robert Denning said, his voice gravelly and harsh-sounding. A billionaire that owns a chain of first-class resorts and a cruise line. "I might have heard from your lovely mother that you are the captain of the soccer team, yes?"

I nod stiffly.

Robert gives out a throaty laugh. "An honor student and a team captain?" He shakes his head, wagging a blemished finger at his father. "You're a lucky man to have a son like him. I have four and their only talent is blowing through millions in one day."

His entourage of men chuckle collectively.

Father laughs along, clasping a hand on my shoulder. My body bristles.

He concludes his rounds, cajoling his way through the party, mentioning all the good charitable work that the King foundation has been doing, as well as the upcoming gentrification projects. I expound on the go-green initiatives that their family business has undergone, alongside Mayor Smith, reducing the use of toxic substances and focusing on sustainable energy.

Time tumbles by and I steal a moment for myself to slip away. Slithering to the side-lines, sapped of all social strength, there I find my brother by the buffet table, snacking on a side plate of finger foods.

"Welcome to the fun side," Eric says, saluting me with a half-bitten puff pastry. "You know he's just jealous because your all about him, doing whatever it takes to please him but now your focus has shifted."

A scathing laugh escapes me. "I upheld his higher standard."

"I'm not taking about your endless achievements, you narcissist." Eric tosses the plate on the table. "He is threatened by Alex. Scared about what her influence can have over you."

"We've been together since the start of highschool and never once has my performance wavered. He has no reason to think that."

After the party culminates, and the populace thins to only the cleaning crew in attendance. Father returns to his childish stance of blinding himself to my existence. To the point that I follow him into his high-ceilinged private office.

"You're behaving like a child."

He brings himself to a jarring halt. And for a moment too long my heart stops.

He revolves slowly, facing me with a daunting and questioning glare, pausing as if sparing me the chance to recant. I do not.

"You act as if I came late or didn't come at all. I was perfectly on time."

He inclines his head, looking down at me with such a demeaning stare, it could erode anyone into nothingness. No words needed, it is all translated in that low-loathing glower.

"You disapprove of Alex," I blurt to identify the actual problem. "I don't know what you dislike most, her race or her class."

Father liberates an amused breath through his nostrils. "Is that what you think of me?"

I throw up my hands, as exasperated as I am uncertain.

"I am not so primitive-minded to condemn someone sorely because of something as natural as race. Nor something she had no choice over such as one's standing in society. Both something one could never choose."

"You say that as if both are equally unfortunate, when being brown or black is a cultural honor. It is why they have been so exploited, wheather it be in music, sport and even aesthetic."

Father shrugs faintly. "A conversation is a two-way narrative. Do not draw your own conclusions from the preconceptions you have formed and pulled from my mouth. My reservations never came from a point of triviality, as you so assume."

"Then what is it?"

He mutters something incoherent as he shakes his head carelessly. He turns back around and I rush in front of him, forcing him to face a question he has been evading for years.

"Tell me," I say, far too beseeching.

"I don't answer to you," he says, as if finding a demand in my plea.

"Then you will not continue to disparage her nor I with your subtle exclusivity meant to convey that she is not welcomed or wanted. You will not undermine her in any shape or way, you will—"

A flash of movement, followed by an explosive blow from nowhere that sends me to one knee.

"And you will never raise your voice at me with such an infernal tone," he barks with veins bursting through his neck and forehead. "This is exactly why is she unwelcomed and unwanted, because she is unworthy! Before her, you would have never have dared to speak to me in this manner."

I try to stand, but another fist to the same cheek keeps me where I am.

"The fact is there are people that matter and people who do not. People who serve and those that are served; it is the social order of things, and how it has been for centuries. I am aware some do break the mold and elevate themselves, gaining affluence. I do not see that in Miss Patel. I see someone who sees you as an investment. Someone who can drag herself and her brothers from pitiful poverty and away from that abusive drunk of a father."

Shock nearly shoves me over.

Of course, he hired a private investigator to do a background check on her.

I keep my head low, my cheek stinging, hot and aching with both of my hands balled.

"Now, of course, you don't see this." He takes a hold of my chin to lift my gaze so our eyes connect. "I know in your heart, you argue, you resent my insinuations because you claim I don't know her like you do. That she is caring, because she mothers her brothers. That she is hardworking because she obtained a scholarship at Braidwood. I see beyond that, and you cannot see it because all you see is her."

He releases my chin. My eyes clamp shut, bracing for another blow. Instead, he strokes my head, brushing his hand over my hair with fine and deliberate strokes like one petting his hound.

"I see the truth."

He walks away, striding to his desk. "At your age, you know nothing of life and people. Nothing about love. I could leave you to discover those horrors on your own." He moves to settle on the wingback leather chair before he steeples his fingers, staring back at me thoughtfully. "But what kind of father would that make me be?"

Wordless, I stare back at him.

"I have not restrained you nor forbid you. You do not acknowledge my discontent, but I will not enforce my counsel. Do as you wish."

With that, he is done with me like we're at some executive board meeting. He takes a folder from a neat pile and places it in front of him to rifle through it before he pulls out a document and reviews it. Still lunging on the floor, I release my fingers, trembles rattling my hand. I clench them again and I spurt to my feet as I rush out.

The pall of that ordeal looms over my night, dawn and day. Too many for it to show, with time comes proficiency. Though I am calm and composed at school, that carefully crafted exterior, durable and hard-wearing is something that conceals the upheaval within, something unceasing and irremediable.

Suddenly, a strong arm hooks around my neck.

"What's this, Your Majesty?" Ethan asks, vice captain of the team. "Even looking beat up as you do, nothing can mess up that pretty face. What happened?"

"Got in it with my brother."

He laughs and untangles his arm to clap a congratulatory hand on my back. "We've all been there, man. See you in the second session."

"Wait, why?"

"Got an op after school, so I have to miss the first half but I'll be there for the rest."

"I appreciate the dedication."

He heads forward, walking ahead of me before he tips his head in greeting. "Alex."

She ignores him because she's too busy gawking at me.

As she comes closer, her mouth starts to move, lips stuttering, struggling to speak. I rope her into a hug and she responds warmly, and I reaping relief.

I needed this. I needed her,

Still holding onto her, she looks up at me with more shock than concern.

"Don't make me ask the obvious."

"It's nothing," I say, pushing out a laugh. "Just got into it with Eric."

She shoves me away, pushing as I pull, but she eventually breaks free.

"Eric, did this to you? That's what you're going with?" she asks in a way as if I insulted her intelligence. "I love the man, but he is a walking toothpick."

"Eric and I sometimes workout in the morning, whilst practicing my shots we got into an argument. He hit me, I hit him, then we had croissants."

She eyes me down suspiciously... my pulse starts to pick up.

She snorts and looks away. "If Kiaan ever put a bruise on me, I'd put him in the hospital. Which is where Eric would be if he wasn't your brother."

She brings her hand to my face and I nearly melt into her touch, leaning in for more. Her fingers graze against the most sensitive part, but even in that delicate pain I find pleasure.

"Come."

She takes my hand, interlacing our fingers, and leading me through the hallway to her locker. She grabs something out. An ointment that I suppose is meant to help with the bruising. She opens it up, squirts a touch on the thumb of her pad before she gently paints it under my eye, and the whole cheek area on the left-side, savoring the sensation before it soaks into my skin.

"It contains quercetin, with a combination of bromelain and vitamin K. It will help it heal faster. If you're still in pain, I got pain meds, too. Just say the word."

"Why do you have all that at the ready in your locker?"

"Just in case my boyfriend pulls up with a battered face. Then lies about it."

Our eyes lock, two emotions collide and tension bursts forth.

"Like you're lying?" I throw back. "Why do you have that?"

"I have three brothers, Alister. I carry a medic kit wherever I go. I kinda have to. Kiaan is always getting into fights, and Nahsir is always gettin fought with."

She has her tells of when I am lying. And I have mine.

Since neither of us is in a sharing mood. I change the subject.

"What was with Vance and Amara? They clearly know each other."

Somehow, the tension only magnifies.

"Yeah, next time you think about wanting to do a double-date. Let it be with anyone but him."

"Why?"

She exhales deeply. "I'm still trying to figure that out."

"Why he knows her?"

"More like why he came back for her."