Page 87 of The Bargain

“That donation to the Pearsons didn’t seem very you, that’s all, especially given how they, uh, redistribute donations. Your mum’s been looking into it. But I’m not all that interested in the Pearsons—it’s the Lennox boy I want to know about.”

He catches the expression on my face and shrugs.

“What? Don’t tell me you’ve been buying the whole cool dad act I’ve had going on.” He rolls his eyes. “That was just to spare you embarrassment. You should know by now that I’m not a cool dad.”

“I’m sure you could be, if you put your mind to it,” I tell him, smiling into my water bottle, hoping the flush of exertion in my cheeks will hide the blush growing there.

“Nah,” Dad says, finishing his snack bar in a huge bite. “I was never cool when it came to your mother, and I’ll never, ever be cool when it comes to you.” He swallows his mouthful and tilts his head almost thoughtfully. “The opposite, actually. I love you so much I think I could kill for you—no, I know I would.” And then he shakes his head fondly and says, “Crazy, isn’t it? But anyway—back to the matter of this boy.”

“Do not kill him,” I tell him immediately.

His eyes narrow, a glint in the amused blue. “Would I have any reason to?”

“No.” I shake my head, my laughter weak in my throat, a giggle that makes me feel like I’m a little girl again. “Don’t be insane about this, Dad, please. Be normal, alright?”

“Alright.” He nods in an unconvincing iteration of obedience—a look he’s perfected against Mum over the years. “I’m listening. Normally.”

I lick my lips, gathering my legs to my chest, flicking a fleck of dust off my pristine white trainers.

“So he’s from Spearcrest—as you know. He’s there on a scholarship, like Mum was, so he’s not… What I mean is that he transferred late, so he’s not like… he’s…”

“Different,” Dad says. “Not a Spearcrest kid—something else.” He tilts his head. “He stands out?”

“Yes—and no. It’s like…” I gesture helplessly, feeling off-kilter and awkward as I try to explain myself. “It’s like he was late to a game everyone already knew how to play, and he didn’t have any of the pieces he needed to win. And the rest of the players didn’t even realise he was playing, they just thought he was something on the board. But—” I swallow, thinking, for the first time, of how Elias must have felt when he started at Spearcrest, how utterly outmatched and alienated he must’ve felt. “But instead of getting away from the game or ignoring the players, he just got to work, learning the rules, gathering pieces and tokens, trying different moves. And now he’s… he’s a player, playing at a disadvantage and sort of—winning?”

“Winning what?” Dad asks. His tone is open and curious, not judgemental like I expected, or even confused. “Winning you?”

Yes—the bargain, my money scattered on his bedroom floor, his arm around my waist at the Cyprian, him sitting on my desk chair in the head girl study, the Inquisitor writing about him, the Brotherhood and the parties, all the girls paying attention to him, the new hot commodity.

“No.” I shake my head, a lump in my throat.

No—the footage of Elias trying to protect the kids in the foster care, fighting two big kids at once, being dragged away by grown adults, and the photos of Elias at the charity gala, his ill-fitting clothes and protruding bones, the Pearsons handling him like an object, the caption From Broken to Brilliant.

Elias’s eyes in the darkness of Dominic House Observatory, the light of dying stars trickling from above us, the words he spoke that night.

Don’t fall for me, Desdemona Sutton-Knight, and I won’t fall for you.

“It’s complicated,” I tell Dad finally, throat tight.

“How?”

“You wouldn’t get it.”

Dad lets out a bark of laughter that startles me. I look up, watching his amusement puff out of his mouth in the cold air, his eyes narrowed, the skin crinkling around them.

“Oh, Dess, if only you knew.” He shakes his head. “Let me ask you a different question, then.” He sobers and leans forward, arms resting on his raised knees. “You like this boy, yes or no?”

So, so much. Far more than I ever thought I could. Far more than I know I should.

So much that it can’t possibly be wise or clever.

So much that this can only end in disaster.

“Yes.”

“What do you like about him?”

I don’t even need to think about that one.