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A few of the men mutter in agreement, tapping their beer glasses on the table.
I spot my father out of the corner of my eye stewing in silence, and I hope my comment stung.
“Also, I’m not going to Harvard anymore,” I add.
My dad jerks his head to stare at me, his jaw dropping open.
“Harvard isn’t the only Ivy school,” the Canadian ambassador says. “Perhaps Yale or Dartmouth?”
“Or she could come to Oxford,” the British ambassador chimes.
“Or, I could take a year off,” I say. “My grades aren’t good enough for the Ivies, anyway. I’m a shit student.”
“Language,” my dad hisses. “And since when were you not a good student?”
“Since Mom got sick. Or don’t you remember?”
The table falls silent.
“This isn’t the time or place—”
“No, it isn’t. I should be at home with Mom, attending prom like a normal teenager and doing college campus tours. But I’m not. I had to be her caregiver instead of a daughter. And that whole time, you were abroad, getting drunk with your frat boys and fucking your maid who’s half your age—”
“Goddamn it, Willow, that is enough!”
My father’s hand comes down heavy on the table, punctuating the end of our argument. The other men are sitting in an uncomfortable silence.
Without another word, I throw my napkin onto the table and stand up. I have no idea where I’m going, but I have to get away from this party.
Away from the man who calls himself my father.
I bump into someone on my way out. In my haste, I don’t get a close look at her, but it’s another teenager. Her long, dark hair is tied into a braid, with a brilliant pink sari wrapped around her body. Round, brown eyes stare at me through thick glasses.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, pushing past her.
The nearest exit is a glass door, so I bolt toward it. A chill hits me when the door swings open, which leads onto a spacious balcony overlooking a vast garden. Golden light from the ballroom splashes across the stone pavers, and I set off down the steps.
The night is freezing, and I wrap my fur tighter around my shoulders. I didn’t dress to be outside tonight. A little fur is not enough to protect me from the harsh Andarusian weather, and rough goosebumps erupt across my skin. But I’d rather die of hypothermia than go back inside. It’s not my preferred way to go out, but it has its merits.
Soon, the noise of the party fades away, and the only sound is the clicking of my heels against stone, which pierce the silent night.
When I reach a fountain marking the entrance to the garden, I pause. I want to keep running, but I have nothing to run toward.
I’m aimless.
Anger and pain are ignited like a lit match dropped on gasoline. A cry is wrenched from my throat, and I throw my head back and scream toward the cloudy night sky.
I stop, and the scream echoes off the stone.
“Ah, yes,” someone says behind me. “The sound of pure, teenage angst.”
Startled, I spin around toward the low voice . Fresh rage bubbles beneath the surface at the individual who dares to intrude on my private moment.
Peering into the dark shadows, I narrow my gaze. “Who’s there?”
Silence.
I’m being watched, and it’s unsettling. I want to take a step forward, but fear keeps me rooted in this spot. My heart is pounding.
