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I was a firm believer that most women had a dark layer to them. Some kept it hidden better than others, with sweet smiles and apologies. Some never showed it at all, but gawd, they probably ended up on an episode of Snapped.
But underneath the sweet and feminine desire to please, to be liked and loved and universally adored, was a spiked-heel, blood-red-lipstick wearing badass who wanted to command every fucking room she walked into.
That woman wanted to be feared. Because if she was feared, then no one hurt her.
And when it became just a little too difficult to keep playing that role, when someone squeezed just right, when the right bruise was poked, that was when shit hit the fan. The vessel couldn’t withstand the pressure, and when the slightest release was available to me, I followed every screaming instinct inside my head, no matter the consequences.
Less than a week ago, it was the wedding dress incident. Followed swiftly by the momentary weakness in the elevator.
I was still working on erasing that one from my memory, which was difficult because if we’d been in that elevator for another ten minutes, I would’ve let that man screw me through the wall.
Not the easiest of rebellions to forget.
In college, it was my one-night stand with the study partner. Relatively mild and completely understandable in the grand scheme of things.
In high school, I snuck into my dad’s wine room downstairs and plucked a 2008 Chateau Petris from the massive wall—on a dare from a group of girls who said I never did anything fun.
That wasn’t worth it because fuck those bitches for peer pressuring me, and me for caving so easily when all they really wanted was some free booze. That bottle of dark red wine, as it turned out, tasted like dirt and was worth close to six grand. My father noticed the empty spot immediately and grounded me for a month.
It was the first time he told me he was disappointed in me. Felt like he’d slapped me across the face, considering how much it stung.
And when I was in middle school, I punched a boy bullying one of my classmates, despite the fact that I’d never been prone to violent outbursts. No one did anything about him because his parents were ostensibly richer than God Himself. The teachers never saw anything because he was one of those smart bullies—the absolute worst kind.
I tried telling my father once at the dinner table.
“It’s unfair,” I told him. “Can’t you do anything about it?” I demanded.
I’d never forget how he calmly set down his salad fork and steepled his hands in front of his face.
“Ivy, for the rest of your life, you will see unfairness play out in front of you. When you’re the adult, you get to make a choice how you react when it happens to someone else and the outcome is within your sphere of control.” He lowered his brows, carefully setting his hands down on the table. “This is outside my sphere of control. I can’t do anything about this child, no matter what he’s doing at the school.”
“Does that mean I can do something about it?” I asked.
Dad didn’t answer right away. “I’d think carefully about that. One of those unfair things you’ll face is being a powerful woman in a man’s world. I’m raising you to be that kind of woman in your sphere of control—which is this family and my business. Men, and women, will challenge your authority because they trust you less, simply by the nature of who you are. If you’re overly emotional, they will call you hysterical. If you’re cold and firm, they will call you a bitch. If a man was all those same things, he’d be passionate. A great leader with a level head on his shoulders.”
“Well, that’s stupid,” I said at the time.
“It’s life, Ivy. And that’s the reality you need to prepare for. Just because we don’t like it doesn’t mean we can pretend it doesn’t exist.”
At the age of thirteen, that was the kind of dinner conversation we had—the nuanced topic of gender dynamics in the workplace. It wasn’t difficult to wonder why I kept everything locked down like a nun in a whorehouse.
I’d be judged ten times as harshly for making any of the same decisions my dad’s nonexistent son would have.
Like punching a bully who deserved it because all my classmates were absolute cowards.
Dad didn’t outright answer my question. That wasn’t usually his way. He’d tell me the challenges I’d face. Tell me why those challenges existed. And then he’d remind me—not too subtly—how a Lynch would handle it.
I remember him leaning forward. “Lynches are above reproach, Ivy. Have you ever seen our family lowered into a scandal?”
I shook my head.
“It gives them ammunition.” Then he picked up his fork again. “I’ll never hand a weapon to someone who’d use it to destroy me. That’s beginner’s folly.”
I thought about his words the rest of the night and tried to pick apart exactly what he meant. And the next day, when that little asshole started right up again, it was the begging of his victim that had me marching over to him.
I didn’t even know how to throw a punch because I was certainly never taught that in etiquette class, but something tucked way back in the hidden recesses of my brain knew what to do.
He’d cornered that kid—smaller than him, with less money than him—and kept shoving him back into the brick wall when he tried to walk away, laughing that stupid nasally laugh every time he did.
