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Chapter1
Brooklyn Bennett
Ishould have worn my brace. I’ve been standing in the same place, by the headmaster’s two-story bookcase and a grand piano I doubt is ever played, for nearly forty minutes, and my leg is shaking from the unbearable pain and strain I’m forcing my remaining muscles to endure.
My leg will never be as strong as it was. That’s what the doctors said after I woke up from surgery. Two pins and some stem cell therapy got me on my feet faster than expected, but the rest of my healing is going to be up to me.
“Unusual tear and damage.” That’s what they said before giving Mom and me the slim menu of options for recovery after the accident. I was lucky to have my leg at all. Lucky to have my life, really. My best friend in the entire world, Anika, wasn’t so lucky. She had a seizure and drove the car carrying us and two of our closest friends hood-first into the Solemn River. My friend Lily pulled me to shore. She saved me only months after Anika invited her into our friend group. Sometimes I wonder if my best friend knew that one day I would need an angel and that’s why she brought Lily to me.
“It’s a lovely get-together, don’t you think? I love that he hosts this for you all every year.” If Caroline Powell weren’t standing next to me, I’d collapse right now. But I can’t do that in front of the headmaster’s wife.Oh God, the scene that would make!
“Mmm, it is,” I agree, sipping the next inch from my sparkling water.
A perk of being a sixth form at Welles Academy is being invited to a handful of specialsoireesat the headmaster’s home. The parties are hosted a block away from campus, in a home that has been lived in by only five men and their families over the history of the academy. Headmaster Powell has been in the position for nineteen years, and I have waited for five of them to be in this position. These parties with New England’s elite are a privilege, and I should be roaming from room to room, shaking hands with every single guest. I can’t seem to find the motivation, though. And my legs are so tired.
“How is your father these days? I haven’t seen him since the inauguration.” My father, Walden Bennett, is Welles Academy royalty. He’s chief energy advisor for the White House, at least for the next year, until he formally enters the senate race. And there’s no questioning a win to serve the people of Massachusetts. Walden Bennett is loved by the public. He has meticulously sculpted his image for this moment, and one day I want to be just like him. Of course, that would require me to get off my ass and start mingling.
“Oh, you know, busybusy,” I say with a flash of a smirk.
Part of being a politician’s daughter is navigating the strange world of leverage and influence. People always need things, and my dad has a unique position that can sometimes get those things. Caroline runs the Welles endowment. She needs money, yes, but more than that, she wants a seat on a commerce board. I’ve been briefed about this by my dad at least a dozen times, and I’ve become adept at dodging the asks. If I weren’t worried about my leg buckling from strain, I’d make an excuse to move to a different room. But I’m trapped.Out maneuvered.
“Yes, he must be. I left a few messages with his office and have yet to get a call back.” She eyes me over the rim of her wine glass as she brings it to her lips and sips. Her burgundy lipstick leaves a Cheshire cat smile stain behind. “When you talk to him again, maybe you could . . .”
I pull my lips into a tight smile and nod.
“Of course.”
My turn to sip from my glass. I wish it were wine instead of water.I wish it was vodka.
“You know, there are a few people here who would love to meet Walden Bennett’s daughter. If you don’t mind joining me on the terrace.” She steps toward the open double doors. I move to follow, but my leg gives way and I stumble. Despite my inner prayers to be strong, my damn leg lets me down. Caroline’s arm is under mine in seconds and before I can stop her, she’s already shouting for help.
“I’m fine, really,” I plead.
I don’t need a scene. I don’t want an audience while I sit and work blood through my limb. Someone will want to run and fetch my brace and my crutches, and I’ll have to explain that they’re buried under my bed behind boxes of shoes—shoes I shouldn’t wear in my condition. Then will come the questions about the injury, shared versions of the accident everyone knows about, feigned shock and empathy. Someone will call me brave, and others will chime in with my favorite phrase, “poor thing.”
Headmaster Powell is the first to rush to his wife’s call for help, and he swoops in at my other side despite my insistence that I don’t need help to the piano bench that has a film of dust on it.
“Poor girl,” Caroline mutters. I cringe at the words, squeezing my eyes shut and reminding myself that telling people to fuck off and leave me alone isn’t part of my brand.
“What’s going on?”
My eyes open at the sound of a familiar voice. Cameron Hass can be a lot to handle, but he’s also an excellent distraction, causing a scene just by being in a room.
Thank God he’s in this one right now!
“Mr. Hass, good timing. Can you support Miss Bennett while I call on some help—” Caroline is insistent. I’m precious to these people, mostly because of my connections.Only because of my connections.
“Really, my muscle just spasms sometimes. I stood too long. Please . . .” My voice cracks pathetically, but I cover it by clearing my throat. My mind is racing through the possibilities, knowing there is probably a doctor in this house right now that she would no doubt drag over to look me over just to say she’s done something to help me. What she doesn’t realize is telling my father she helped me out when I was weak won’t impress a soul. Walden Bennett believes in powering through and never letting people see the cracks.
“We worked out too hard, didn’t we? I’m sorry, Brooky.” Cameron winks at me when he utters that appalling nickname he’s thrown my way since first form. I bunch my lips into a silent, sour response, but only because nobody is looking at my face. And really, if he saves me from this scenario, he can call me whatever the hell he wants.
“Probably, Cameron. He’s been helping me with my physical therapy exercise, andoof!He’s a stickler for not cutting corners.” I lay it on thick. He’s luckyI didn’t call him Cammy. If I weren’t so focused on selling this lie, I might have.
Caroline snickers.
“Sorry, just . . . I thought cutting corners was basically your career choice, Mr. Hass.” she utters.
“Only for the shit I don’t like,ma’am,” Cameron responds without missing a beat. I shake with a single, silent laugh.
