The curse of having an ambitious father is the long shadow he casts,

  so vast it engulfs his family, leaving us lost in its depth,

  unable to step into the light to cast shadows of our own.

  —HILLAIRE WALDSTEN, JOURNAL ENTRY

  CHAPTER 9

  The Husseys don’t just manufacture Bliss; they enforce its use. You cross them, and you disappear.

  The memory of Dad’s words remains as severe and unwavering as when he spoke them last winter. My sisters and I were with Dad in the study of our training compound, surrounded by tall, crested snowdrifts that buried half the Green District. Only the glow of a holographic screen cut through the darkness, casting its cold light as it displayed the ten most powerful high-citizen families and the sprawling empires they controlled.

  The Husseys and the Prews both made the list: untouchable, dangerous, best avoided at all costs. But at the time, Dad’s warning slid right off my back. Fresh from my weapons restriction, I was too angry to care which high-citizens had the worst reputations or how they ranked in their private games of power. They ruined my life. As far as I was concerned, I hated all Blues equally.

  Now, on my first day as a Public Person, I find myself caught between a Hussey and a Prew. Irene’s stance on Bliss is clear, but Edmund’s leaves me scrambling. Jack said Edmund doesn’t use Bliss, so he shouldn’t care about the ban, at least not personally. But Irene’s family made their entire fortune through Bliss. If Edmund is engaged to her, shouldn’t he be angry on her behalf as her fiancé? And if he is angry, why did he help me? Why didn’t he throw me out of his salon and let the Copper finish me off? Is it because he expected to win the shot duel and planned to demand a vengeful favor from me?

  None of it adds up.

  Jack drops Charlotte and me off at the Green Dormitory before driving on with Dickie to a gentlemen’s club. We linger on the curb, exchanging an awed glance as we take in the sight. The dormitories sit at the heart of campus, four ornate, domed buildings with columned entrances and arched windows that form a square around the Guillotine Yard. Every detail of the design is symbolic, intended to remind us who holds power. At the center of the yard, the guillotine rises like the middle finger of death itself, a tool of control rather than a mere spectacle. The sight of its sharp, angled blade reminds me of an old low-citizen slogan: We are the fools who buy diamonds at dawn and coffins at dusk.

  Each dormitory is carefully positioned to provide students with an unobstructed view of the guillotine from their private terraces. The layout is so precise that we could probably brush our teeth in the blade’s reflection. For those whose suites lack a direct view, there’s still no escape; executions are broadcast live every morning on our televisions.

  I hope my suite doesn’t have a direct view of the guillotine.

  Charlotte walks silently beside me until we reach the Green Dormitory’s portico. The emptiness in her stare tells me she’s retreated into herself, locking away whatever part of her still exists beyond survival.

  “Miss Waldsten,” she says. “I require some time to collect my thoughts.”

  “Certainly, Miss Deering,” I reply, maintaining the formality even though it feels like a bad joke to use it with her. “Thank you for your assistance on the train. Without you, I might not have reached Grandmaster at all.”

  Charlotte nods vaguely, then slips into the crowded lobby. My chest aches as I watch her climb a set of spiral stairs and disappear. The wound she’s nursing runs much deeper than I initially realized, so part of me understands she needs time to heal. Another part fears that this is it. After finally finding her, she’s slipping away again.

  I don’t want to lose her. After what she risked by bringing me into Edmund’s salon, I can’t be angry at her anymore. I just want her to stay.

  Five Pinkies await me in the foyer, their smiles matching the cold, sterile gleam of the marble floor. I check my Bond. A text from Dad says he’s ordered system checks on the robots every fifteen minutes to ensure none are hacked or reprogrammed.

  The Pinkies escort me directly to my suite. Students stare as we pass, some trailing behind and snapping pictures as if I’m an infamous criminal. But no one dares break through the barrier the robots have formed around me. For the first time, I understand what it must be like for Dad in the Rainbow District, always under scrutiny and cut off from the safety of home. Politicians aren’t allowed to travel anywhere without security teams because the threat of assassination by Heretics is too high.

  A weight presses down on my shoulders as we reach the third floor, where my suite is. With the adrenaline gone and the shock faded, I realize how tired and hungry I am. My head feels too heavy, and my thoughts are too loud. The fear of dying horrifically like Jane, of losing everyone I love, of being hunted by both high-citizens and low-citizens, and of becoming a target for anyone who sees me as a threat—all of it overwhelms me at once. But I hold myself together, hiding the cracks until I reach my suite. The door slams shut with a bang that reminds me of the falling blade of the guillotine outside.

  I realize, as I turn to the window, that I have a clear view of the guillotine from my balcony.

  I cry.

  ***

  My tears feel hot enough to burn my cheeks, spilling over until my makeup runs down my face. I kick the wall so hard my T-strap heel breaks. The loud crack startles me, but it’s not enough to snap me out of what I’m feeling. As I slide off the broken shoe, my Bond alerts me to an incoming call from Dad.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  I answer.

  He’s slumped at a desk in his private jet’s office, his legs spread wide. His collar is unbuttoned, his silk tie loosened, and his hair is a disheveled mess. The swelling around his eyes suggests he hasn’t slept all night, but I don’t care. The words burst out of me before I can stop them.

  “I had a second chance, Dad,” I shout. “I had a plan to fix my life, but now I’ve lost any hope of that. You never told us the fallout from a Bliss ban would be this bad. You never said people would want to kill us.”

  Dad’s face stiffens as if I punched him in the gut. “I’m… sorry, Loredana.”

  I know he means it, but the set of his jaw and the wrinkling of his forehead suggest disappointment. Unlike my sisters, I’ve experienced the Blues’ cruelty firsthand. I’m the one who should understand why he has to stand up to them.

  The screen flickers as Mom and my sisters join the call, one after another. Their pale faces crowd in, etched with fear and exhaustion.

  “Bruce, how far are you from home?” Mom asks, watching out the window for signs of his jet on the airstrip.

  Before Dad can respond, Vivian interrupts. She’s saddling her thoroughbred in the stable. The horse shifts restlessly, as if sensing her agitation. “Harry’s not answering my calls, Dad. If he ends our engagement over this, I’ll never forgive you.”

  “I told you this would happen,” Hillaire says from the shadows of our tree fort. Her voice is eerily calm as she sits in a corner, her robotic hand resting on her knee. “I warned you that if you banned Bliss, you’d be labeled an enemy of democracy. You’re the one who told us we can’t afford to care about other low-citizens. And yet here you are, risking us all over this vote.”

  “I meant what I said,” Dad retorts. “But I only meant that you can’t afford to care. Watching out for other Greens is my job.”

  “So, you don’t regret banning Bliss?” I ask.

  “I regret how it’s affecting you, not how it’s affecting our people.” He slouches further into his chair. “The fallout will be rough at first, but it won’t last. In a week or two, when the withdrawal symptoms die down, people will be thanking me—telling me I was right to unplug them from the toxic shit-pump that’s been screwing up our society for the past thirty years.”

  Vivian urges her horse into a clipped trot, her long black braid bouncing. “How can you say that when you’ve destroyed our lives? Our reputations? If I lose one more friend, I won’t have any left.”

  “The right thing isn’t always the easy thing, Viv.”

  “You see yourself as a hero, don’t you?” Hillaire accuses. “Well, you’re not. A hero takes care of his family. He doesn’t dangle them over a mob for a chance at personal glory.”

  Mom, silent until now, rises to Dad’s defense. Her face burns with defiance as she tries to prop him up, but even I can see it’s too late. Hillaire’s accusation lands. The chips in Dad’s resolve are starting to show.

  The sight of his lowered head, flushed cheeks, and shifting eyes makes me regret firing so many bullets. With Hillaire and Vivian here, I should’ve saved some of my anger for a private call.

  “I don’t expect you to understand why I did it,” Dad says to Hillaire, “but I do expect you to accept what’s happening as a result.”

  Hillaire opens her mouth as if to lash back, but he cuts her off with a raised finger. His voice turns mechanical as he announces that he and Mom will be traveling throughout the Green District for the next two weeks to quell the protests and convince the Greens of the Bliss ban’s merits. He adds that Hillaire and Vivian are forbidden to leave our property, and that I’m not to leave my suite unless it’s for class.

  “And starting tonight,” Dad says, “you’re all required to join a family call every evening at 7 p.m. No exceptions.”

  “7 p.m. for which time zone?” I ask.

  “Yours.”

  Then he hangs up.

  Both Hillaire and Vivian curse under their breath.

  The rules mean Hillaire will miss her shooting competitions and the Society Club’s weekly science presentations. Vivian’s social life, including her pilot lessons and wedding planning, will take a nosedive. But with Dad gone and no one left to argue with, they both hang up.

  A long, suffocating silence hangs over the call, one I have no intention of breaking.

  Finally, Mom gets up from her desk and, with an air of forced calm, says, “You can still drop out. If you come home now, you’ll avoid the worst of it.”

  “No,” I say firmly. “I’m already a Public Person. Dropping out won’t change anything. It’ll just be a sign to the high-citizens that Bruce Waldsten can’t protect his family.”

  Mom’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t flinch. “He can protect us, and he will. But that doesn’t mean we won’t suffer, Loredana. Pain is the price of change, and whether we like it or not, we’ve been called to pay it.”

  A faint scream echoes in the background, followed by a slamming door—Vivian and Hillaire fighting again. Mom hangs up abruptly, probably rushing to defuse the chaos before Dad arrives.

  Silence.

  I move to the window of my suite, my chest rising and falling unevenly as I consider Mom’s words. The Bliss ban itself doesn’t upset me. Even I have to admit the drug is a piss-stain on the pants of our society. It’s the fallout I’m not sure I’m ready for.

  The afternoon slips by. A Pinkie orders my lunch while I shower to wash away the sweat and mascara smudged across my face. Clean, but not refreshed, I emerge and look around my suite. I want comfort, even if it’s only surface-level, and it’s there in a luxurious blend of green and gold. My suite includes a salon, a private study, a bedroom, a terrace, and a chamber with pods for the Pinkies to recharge. There’s no kitchen, but plenty of space to dine in the salon or outside on the terrace.

  The sight of my unpacked belongings hits me with an unexpected wave of homesickness. My clothes are neatly hung in the walk-in closet, and the patterned wool-silk carpet feels soft beneath them. My diary rests on the rosewood vanity, next to three makeup kits and styling tools. A tap dancing trophy gleams on the marble mantel above a carved fireplace adorned with peacock feather motifs. My boxing gloves dangle from the headboard of my upholstered bed. Even my Grandmaster University acceptance letter is framed and hung on the wall, partially obscured by teal drapes fluttering in the late-summer breeze.

  The suite isn’t home, but at least it’s a piece of it.

  I search through my closet until I find my fencing stick, a dull practice blade that can barely harm a fly. My weapons ban extends to anything other than a steak knife. The stick is lightweight and flexible, perfect for practicing and maintaining my form. I order my Pinke to draw the curtains, not wanting to risk being seen with the practice blade, even though it’s harmless.

  My bare feet glide over the carpet as I make sharp advances, quick retreats, and parries that slice through the air, as if responding to an unseen opponent. Gradually, calm settles over me, burning away the fog of anxiety that’s been suffocating me since I stepped off Harrison’s jet.

  An hour later, breathless and sweating, I stash the stick in the back of my closet, inside a bag of custom golf clubs I’ve never used. I feel energized, like I could go for a long run. I stare at the golf bag, which hides the stick, and remind myself that this is why I’m here. In two years, I’ll be able to fence again. In the meantime, I’ll train. I’ll study physical education, play sports, and stay focused until I can legally join Grandmaster’s elite fencing program.

  While I review my class schedule, a Pinkie delivers my lunch. I eat the roasted duck and spiced cabbage with toxin-cutlery, a set of titanium utensils fitted with microsensors that analyze each bite. If the food is poisoned, I’ll get an alert on my Bond.

  I finish everything on my plate, then crawl into bed. It’s only mid-afternoon, but I suddenly feel too low on juice to make it until evening. Tomorrow—my first day of classes—will set the tone for what’s to come. If I’m going to survive the two-week Bliss withdrawal, I’ll need all my wits to avoid whatever attack people like the Copper, who killed Jane, might be planning.

  I stay in bed all day, drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep. When I wake up around 7 p.m., for the family meeting, I feel groggy, like I have a bad hangover.

  On my Bond, I find a message with a video attachment from Dickie. I don’t know how he got my Bond number or why he can’t write in a simple, straightforward way like a normal person, but I understand what he means.

  “Guess who just bagged the goose?”