Page 13 of Breaking Ophelia
It’s tradition.
I stand on the bench, looking out over the sea of faces. From this height, I can see the glint of the serving knives and the way some of the students have already lost interest, heads bowed over their plates, while others are alive with hunger, eyes wide, waiting for the show.
Colton gives another nod.
I wait for the command.
For a moment, no one speaks. Everyone else at my table looks down at their pathetic meals. I keep my hands at my sides and force myself not to wipe my palms on my jeans. I’m still standing, higher than almost anyone else in the room, but it doesn’t feel like power; it feels like standing in front of a firing squad and watching them load the rifles.
Colton clears his throat, but it’s Rhett who takes the spotlight, all teeth and dimples, his tongue flicking at the corner of his mouth as he talks.
“Tradition, tradition,” he croons, standing and pushing his hands out in a sweeping motion. “When a girl of no means is offered a seat at the table, she must show proper gratitude. Not just for herself, but for her entire defective bloodline.”
Laughter, nervous and mean, rattles the cutlery. I set my jaw.
He addresses me directly. “You’re supposed to say it, you know. The Oath of the Unworthy.”
I search my memory. I’ve heard rumors about it, something that started as a joke, now codified into ritual humiliation. The lines come to me, half-remembered from some gossipy website about legacy schools. I could refuse, but the only thing worse than performing is not performing, and I already know how these things escalate when you try to fight them.
I square my shoulders, make my voice even, flat.
“I, Ophelia Morrow, daughter of a fuck-up, swear on my poverty and bad genetics to uphold the dignity of Westpoint Academy.” I pause for effect, and a snort comes from the back of the room.
Bam leans forward, fingers steepled under his chin. “Louder, love. The ghosts of the founders are hard of hearing.”
I raise my voice. “I pledge to keep my mouth shut, my legs crossed, and my hands clean, even if I was raised by a whore.” The words don’t fit my mouth, so I spit them out like bile.
The laughter is sharper this time. I catch a look of honest surprise from a girl near the window. Maybe she expected me to crack.
Rhett gives me a slow clap, then turns to Caius. “Your move, boss.”
Caius doesn’t react, not yet. His fingers tap the rim of his glass, one… two… one… two. His eyes are unreadable, but there’s a darkness there that makes me shiver.
Bam is next. He stands, looming, shoulders bunching under his blazer. He lifts a goblet from the table—something viscous and brownish inside. He walks it to me, holding it out. The liquid sloshes, splattering my boots. It smells like vinegar and something worse.
“Drink,” he grunts.
I meet his eyes. They’re cold, metallic, a shade of steel you only see in hardware stores and old wounds. I don’t break the stare as I grab the cup. The room is dead silent now, every breath waiting for me to gag or refuse.
I sip. The taste is chemical, burning. I force it down, counting the seconds until my stomach lurches and decides not to revolt. My tongue is numb, but my pride is intact.
Bam smiles, lips splitting to show a jag of tooth. “Respect.”
Somewhere, a fork drops.
Julian saunters over, and his walk is haughty, proud. “We’re forgetting the most important part, aren’t we?” He glances at thecrowd, gathering momentum. “A display of loyalty, a show of fealty, the little dance from the peasant to the king. Come, step down and stand in front of us, soul bare, humbled by beneath our feet.”
He bows, mocking. “You bow to each of us, and maybe we let you sit the rest of the year without incident.”
A hush falls, then a ripple of ugly amusement. Everyone knows how this will go. Most girls cry, or run, or freeze.
I do none of these things.
I set the goblet down with care. I don’t hurry, don’t let my breath speed up. My face is hot and my mouth is full of bile, but I make the choice to move anyway. If they want a ritual, I’ll give them a ritual they’ll never forget. Stepping down and walking forward, I don’t look down.
Sure, I may be poor, I may be wearing thrifted clothes, but by no means am I any less than them simply because their mommies wiped their asses with golden threads.
I start with Colton. I bow, but only by a fraction, more a nod than a collapse. He tips his head back, a glint of challenge in his eyes.
