Page 15 of Broken Queen
Everyone clapped, and I politely joined in. Ernest Dumas was the same man who had had the remote when my mother died at the guillotine. His jet black hair was annoyingly fake, like he got his hair dyed in a punk rock bathroom rather than an actual salon, but in all honesty, it was probably natural. Still, he irritated me; always had, and always would. I never cared for men who sacrificed their Marked Bloom Wives, especially when they were already members and didn’t need to sacrifice a goddamned thing. Just like my father had sacrificed my mother, Ernest had let his wife die.
You know you’ll never be the director, right? he had said. All hail the heiress.
“Ernest Dumas’s connections within the medical industry will be key to the evolution of the board. I’m confident that having him in a position of leadership will bring wonderful things to everyone in this room, and to every member in the Syndicate.”
More applause like a cacophony of drums. My father lifted his red palm, and the room fell silent.
“As for the last open seat,” he said, his nose wrinkling in concentration. “Now, this was a difficult decision. This secret society has been in my family for centuries, and to know that it now resides on the decisions I make in these next few years, makes me anxious to protect my legacy. There’s no other person better fit for that final seat.”
I lifted my chin, ready to take my place at his side.
“Logan Astor.”
A polite chorus of applause echoed through the room again, and the plastic surgeon sitting on the other side of Logan slapped his back.
“Well done, lad,” he said.
Logan turned bright red with embarrassment. As if he had no idea that this was coming.
“We did it,” he stammered.
My jaw was rigid as my insides burned with fury. The words wouldn’t come out.
We? We?! You did it, you fucking asshole.
Logan stood, finding his place on the other side of my father. My father, Ernest, and Logan, the board members that now oversaw all Syndicate affairs. This meant that I had not only a father on the board, but a husband on the board as well. In reality, I had access to anything I wanted.
But stars flecked my vision. I smacked my hands together, forcing myself to applaud with the rest of them, but my nervous system was completely numb. My lips pulled back into a careful smile, my hands clenching and unclenching underneath the table.
The rest of the dinner passed by in a blur. Eventually, Logan found his way back to his seat beside me with a hoard of members following him.
“Congratulations, babe,” I said. He winked at me, then turned back to his new followers.
My throat was dry; I needed to get out of there before I did something I would regret. But I couldn’t make myself leave; I needed to be here. To see it through. To be a part of one of the biggest changes of the Syndicate’s history. I drifted through the room on autopilot, making the same jokes I always had, giving out the same lines, wondering why I had even been invited to this ceremony in the first place if my father was always going to choose Logan.
Logan. My weak, submissive husband. Another little tool for my father to use.
That was the only good thing about it; I could use Logan too. If I wanted to.
But I wanted more.
Off to the side of the room, my father was speaking privately with one of the financial controllers many of the members used for money laundering. A light bulb flashed in my mind, urging me forward. I had found the financial controller for the Syndicate; my father couldn’t forget that. Maybe there was still a chance. Maybe my spot would be taking my father’s place once he died.
Maybe I had to murder him.
Killing my father wasn’t off of the table for me, since he had essentially killed my mother, then treated me like an object as he used me for sex, sadism, and sacrifices. Sometimes, I even dreamed about what it would be like to see him in pain for once. To watch the life flow from his eyes. To make him beg for death.
He wasn’t trained in accepting torture like I was. It would be so much more brutal for him.
I went to his side, shifting back into my faithful daughter persona once again.
“Father?” I asked. He tilted his head and I waved at the member, wiggling my fingers flirtatiously. “Can we talk about this?”
My father let out a clipped breath, then excused himself from the conversation with the financial controller. His palms rolled down his summer jacket as he angled toward me.
“What is there to say?” he asked. “It’s finished.”
“Logan isn’t blood,” I said. “He isn’t truly part of our lineage. I’ve done far more for the Syndicate in my twenty-eight years than he’s done in his thirty-three.”
