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My sphere of control, as it turned out, was that back corner of the playground.
The satisfaction I gained from tugging on the back of his uniform, rearing my fist back, and feeling it crunch in his nose was unholy. A rush of power that I’d never experienced.
That was the day I decided I’d rather have them think I was a bitch than view me as weak.
His nose bled a little, and that little prick ran straight to the dean’s office.
My dad was called within the hour, and the look he gave me when he walked into that meeting sent ice through my veins. Because there were no witnesses, and the kid being bullied refused to speak against me, the asshole’s parents couldn’t do much except point at the bruise on my knuckles.
“She did that at home last night,” my dad lied smoothly. “I’m quite sure our housekeeper was in the room as well, if you also need her testimony.”
I kept my hands still in my lap, no fidgeting to be seen during the entire meeting, and I was allowed to return to classes.
The bully left me alone, though. And he left the other kid alone too.
When I got home that night, I asked him why he lied.
He looked at me for a moment and said, “Because I’d rather live with that on my conscience than have your reputation tarnished in the slightest amount. Once that happens, you can’t undo it. Not in our world.”
Because Lynches were above reproach.
Lynches didn’t act like everyone else.
My father never spoke of it again.
Until today.
I sat across from him in the plush leather chairs opposite his purposely intimidating desk.
His hands were steepled in front of him, and he hadn’t spoken a word since he walked in. He made me wait, of course, because if you wanted to talk about power plays, this first meeting since my incident in Portland was textbook.
My father was the master at establishing dominance within a room, and I’d had a front-row seat my entire life. It didn’t matter that I was his daughter—his only child. That dominance included me too, especially when I was guilty of a transgression in his eyes.
I shifted, brushing some invisible lint off the hem of my fitted black sheath dress. Hair was pin straight, brushing my collarbones. Legs were crossed at the ankle, nude heels off to the side, allowing for a small flash of bright red bottoms.
Back was ramrod straight, away from the surface of the chair.
He couldn’t fault me my posture or find a single flaw in how I presented myself.
Always look like you’re in charge of the room, Ivy. People will respect you more when you walk in looking like the boss.
Nerves crawled through my belly, and I took a few deep breaths to erase them, but it was impossible.
Still, he stayed silent.
As much as I looked like my mom, I had my dad’s eyes. Normally, they were warm when aimed in my direction. Pleased and proud.
But not today.
He was wearing a charcoal gray suit, fitted to his barrel chest and wide frame, with a silver tie and white shirt. Onyx and silver cuff links winked in the overhead lights of the room. The look on his face—like he was carved in stone—was the same one I’d seen him give a boardroom full of executives when he was really, really pissed off.
Not once, in my entire life, had that look ever been directed at me.
My dad wasn’t the warm and fuzzy type. But he always told me when he was proud of me. Always affirmed me immediately when I got an A, won an election or a competition, or beat him in one of our countless chess games. Those affirmations carved out the basis for our relationship, and I craved them with a fierceness.
Knowing I’d just knocked the legs out from under him in this really, really big thing … no positive affirmations were coming my way anytime soon.
I blew out a slow, quiet breath and held his gaze because even if my ribs trembled from the force of that look, I would not cry.
