The hardest part about having daughters is knowing you can only protect them until they fall in love. After that, all you can do is hope they survive it. Because mothers cannot heal such wounds. We can only hold them while they cry, while their hearts bleed and break, and try not to
let our own hearts break with them. —EVELYN WALDSTEN
CHAPTER 47
The hospital room echoes with the beeping of scanners, the whir of synthetic- tissue printers, and the hiss of fluid pumps. A team of Pinkies moves around me, checking vitals and adjusting IVs as they monitor each stage of regrowth.
Three more days, they say, until the muscle and skin on my left leg fully heal and I can walk without the brace.
But I hardly notice the robots. I lie still on the bed, my head turned toward the window, watching the pale wash of afternoon light fade into dusk.
Mascara crusts the corners of my eyes, dried in streaks from when the crying stopped hours ago. What’s left now is a dull, silent ache that makes me feel like I’ll never draw a full breath again.
I keep replaying every choice I made, every moment I could’ve told Edmund, from the yacht to the elevator. If I’d spoken then, it would’ve hurt.
But not like this.
I think back to Rosamund, when she tried to shove a saber into my hand on the yacht, daring me to fight Irene. The moment I let the saber fall to the deck, as if the blade had cut me, was when Rosamund knew. It wasn’t fear. It was something else. From there, she dug until she found the sealed report on Charles. While I was unconscious in this bed, she pieced the truth together, building her case like a pyre, then struck the match.
Now, I’m burning in the aftermath.
Charlotte sits in the hospital chair beside me, her hand wrapped around
mine. She hasn’t let go once, not even to check her Bond. Every so often, her eyes drift to my hands, as if she’s still trying to process the sight of me drenched in blue blood and capable of such violence. But she holds back her questions, her thumb tracing slow, steady circles over my knuckles.
I don’t thank her. I couldn’t even if I tried. But I know she doesn’t need words. One glance tells us when to speak, when to stay silent, and when to hold each other through the pain.
I love her. I need her. And she already knows.
Light drains from the room as the sun sinks behind the campus buildings.
Evening gathers, violet and starless, softening the edges of the windowpanes until the world outside turns dark. I lie still and watch the world around me fade, feeling empty now. There’s nothing left to cry.
Somewhere in that vacant space, I know it wasn’t impulse that made me wish I could’ve answered Edmund differently in that elevator. What I feel for him has taken root in my chest, grown through the walls of me, and if I try to tear it out, my heart will tear with it.
It’s love.
Real and torturous.
Because only love could hurt like this.
When morning comes, there’s still no word from Edmund. The only clue about his state of mind is a text from Dickie: “Sorry, Loredana. It’s bad. Real bad. I gotta go dark for a bit. But if you need anything, I’ll find a way to get it to you.”
Even in its brevity, the message makes it all too clear what Edmund must be feeling, and worse, how deeply I’ve hurt him.
Still, he hasn’t removed me from his entourage. The badge glows on my Bond home screen like the last brick in a wall doomed to crumble from the start.
I push myself up in bed, wincing as my leg shifts. The sound of running water drifts from the lavatory, where Charlotte is showering. Given the situation, the Pinkies granted her special permission to stay with me overnight at the hospital. We talked about Charles, the video, Rosamund, the fallout, everything except Edmund. I couldn’t bring myself to say his name.
My hand reaches toward a side table, brushing the small, delicate daffodil he twisted from the wire of a champagne cork the night we first kissed. I take the flower gently in my palm and turn it over, the petals cool and slightly bent. I remember how Edmund asked what shape I wanted, how I told him to choose, and how it was as if he looked straight through my chest, saw the shape of my heart, and twisted the wire to match it.
Charlotte steps out of the lavatory a moment later, a towel wrapped around her wet hair. “Tattletale’s still cranking out articles,” she murmurs, dropping her bathrobe to the floor. Beads of water cling to her dark skin as she moves toward the vanity, where a Pinkie is already waiting to help her get dressed.
I sink back against the pillows with a tired sigh. I don’t need to read the articles; I already know what the Tattler is calling me: Guillotine Girl.
The name is everywhere, plastered across Quill and every other Grandmaster site. The Tattler hasn’t stopped posting for more than an hour at a time, and each update is hungrier than the last. First came the footage from the Cloning Theory exam: the moment the edited locker room clip was played, and the way I, Edmund, and the rest of the students reacted when I decapitated Charles. But now the Tattler has released the full, uncut locker room video. The truth.
Charlotte scrolls through her Bond, her eyes flicking across the updates.
She frowns as the Pinkie fastens the last hook on her dress and gestures for her to sit for makeup. “Just a second,” she mutters, still reading.
Then her expression brightens. “The Tattler says Charles’s parents are pissed—like lightning bolts shooting from their eyes pissed.”
“At whom?”
“Rosamund. Apparently, Charles’s parents are pushing Phillipa to expel her.”
I don’t need to ask why. The video exposed their son attacking me outside a sanctioned duel, and now the Blackwell name has been tarnished.
Rosamund twisted the whole thing into theater, turning Charles’s death into a petty grudge grenade. I pity his parents, today more than ever. But I doubt it’ll come to anything. Phillipa is already knee-deep in damage control. She called Dad before I could form a single sentence through my tears, spun the story her way, and promised repercussions. Rosamund will be sent to a mandatory therapy institution over the summer. Phillipa promised the video of Charles’s death would stay within campus borders and warned of penalties
for anyone caught spreading it.
But her threats haven’t slowed it down.
If there’s one small grace, it’s that—for now—the story hasn’t left Grandmaster. The campus is its own world, loud, brutal, and all-consuming, but it has borders. Beyond them, life goes on. Politics churn. Markets rise and fall. Bogart streams his daily broadcast to millions and wouldn’t spare a
breath talking about me.
That’s good.
Because soon, Dad will announce his run for Governor of the Rainbow District, and the last thing I want is to be the reason his poll numbers drop.
Charlotte is fixated on her Bond again, scrolling as the Pinkie leans in to apply foundation across her cheek. She remains still, her mouth set in a thoughtful line. As I watch her, I wonder about her experiences. She was part of Edmund’s world for a full year before her breakup with Jack. I can’t help but think she’s holding puzzle pieces I don’t have, pieces that might explain what Edmund is thinking and why he hasn’t cut me loose. Why am I still part of his entourage, even now, when he knows I killed his cousin?
“Char,” I murmur. “Did you ever meet Charles?”
“No. Edmund never even mentioned him.”
That surprises me.
Charlotte lights a cigarette, still reading. “Honestly, if you’d said his name back when you told me you killed a Blue, it wouldn’t have meant a thing. I had no idea who Charles was until the Tattletale articles started dropping.
Word is, Charles’s mom was the sister of Edmund’s dad, Lionel.”
I nod slowly, more confused than before. Charles feels like a ghost no one ever spoke of, yet his death was enough to tear everything apart.
“What about the rest of Edmund’s family? Did you meet any of them?”
Charlotte draws on her cigarette, then blows out a steady stream of smoke.
“Yeah, his grandmother. She and Edmund are really close. I also met his older brother, Richard. Totally the opposite of Edmund in every way. And Richard’s eyes… those things are scary as shit. Between you and me, I sometimes wondered if Phillipa had a secret side piece—if Richard wasn’t really Lionel’s son but the son of some other guy, someone less lion- hearted.” A wry smile tugs at Charlotte’s mouth. “Edmund and Richard got along well when Jack and I were together, but Dickie said they had some kind of falling out around the time that Edmund and Irene got engaged. Don’t know the details.”
She drapes an arm over the headrest of her chair, eyes narrowing in thought. “I met a couple of Edmund’s cousins, too. Mixed bag. Some were decent. Some were assholes. But Edmund seemed okay with most of them.”
My mind drifts back to Charles, and he’s almost become faceless. Why is he the one cousin no one knew about or mentioned? Something about it feels off.
While the Pinkie finishes Charlotte’s makeup, she returns to reading Tattletale. She scans in silence for a moment, her expression turning severe, then stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray with a curse.
“What is it?” I ask.
“The Tattler says two students were arrested last night. A Purple called
Mendoza and a Green called Linwood.”
“Patricia Linwood?”
“Yeah. You know her?”
I think about the few times Miss Linwood and I met, lingering on the day she told me she was on the expulsion list, and I gave her civil credits. The transfer had seemed to help, and every time I saw her afterward, she looked happy, as if the problem had been resolved.
“What were they arrested for?”
“Being Vulgars.”
Oh, shit.
“Apparently, Linwood was skipping her Steriline shots,” Charlotte continues. “She’s pregnant.”
The heat drains from my face so fast I shiver. If Miss Linwood and Mr.
Mendoza are proven to be Vulgars, the punishment won’t stop at arrest. I glance at the clock and see it’s a few minutes to seven.
“Are they being executed today?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady.
“The Tattler says they are.” Charlotte reads a second longer, then deactivates her Bond. Anger flickers across her face. “What the hell were they thinking? How could they do that to each other?”
I blink at her, caught off guard. “What do you mean? They’re in love.”
“Love?” Charlotte snorts. “Getting each other killed is a lot of things, but it isn’t love.”
I sit upright, startled by how deeply her words cut. I don’t know whether I’m defending Miss Linwood or myself anymore. “So, you’re okay with what’s happening to them?”
“What? No. Of course not.” Charlotte’s eyebrows slant into a frown, as if
surprised by the hostility in my voice. “But this is how it works. Me hating the law doesn’t change the fact that you and I can’t mix with non-Greens.
Linwood’s baby was dead the moment she skipped those shots—execution or not. I’m not saying it’s right or fair. I’m saying that unless the law changes and they stop engineering us to be incompatible, being with someone outside your blood color is wrong.”
“Wrong? Just because you’re executed doesn’t mean you’ve done something wrong,” I say. “Maybe Miss Linwood thought the sacrifice was worth it.”
Charlotte sighs, then cuts a grim look at the clock as it strikes seven.
“Well, I hope it was. Because there’s no getting out now.”
I avoid looking at the clock, as if doing so could keep my mind from filling in the rest. I picture Miss Linwood’s fear for herself, her Purple lover, and, most of all, her child, who never stood a chance in a world like ours. In the string of images, the line between Edmund’s world and mine grows clearer than it ever was. He’s a Blue. I’m not. Feelings like ours aren’t just unlikely; they’re forbidden. We can’t marry. We can’t have children. And if we ever tried and were caught, his status as a high-citizen would no longer matter. He’d be executed right alongside me.
When the Pinkie finishes Charlotte’s hair, she fluffs her curls and takes a slow, steadying breath, as if heading into battle.
“Are you going somewhere?” I ask.
“Yeah. To meet Jack. If this thing’s about to blow, I need to know how far you and I need to stand to avoid the blast radius. With Edmund, you never know.”
I manage a faint, trembling smile. “Thanks, Char.”
She glances back at me, her voice softening. “Hold on, Lore. It’s not over yet.”
Then she’s out the door, the click of her heels echoing down the hall. I know she’s doing this for me, gathering intel and staying ahead of the chaos, but I still wish she hadn’t left. The pain only deepens when I’m alone. I lie back on my bed and try to sleep, but all I can think about is Miss Linwood and how her execution mirrors the future that might’ve been mine.
At last, I push myself upright and open the alert panel on my Bond to find a new text from Dad: “I’m so sorry, honey. I know Edmund was your friend.
Call me if you want to talk. I’ll be here.”
For the first time in my life, I don’t want to call Dad. Not because he
wouldn’t listen, but because he wouldn’t understand. I don’t need politics or plans right now. I need a girl, one who understands what it’s like to grieve someone who’s still alive.
I wish Hillaire and Vivian hadn’t shut me out. They’re still refusing to talk to me. Maybe if I told them the truth about Charles, they’d forgive me. But I don’t want forgiveness to happen through a guilt trip. I want them to come back because they miss me.
Still, I’m tempted. More than anything, I need my sisters right now.
Or I need… someone.
Someone I love. Someone who loves me.
And then, as if she heard me, heard my heart crying out from across the
Civilized World— Mom calls.
Before answering Mom’s call, I shift into a position that hides where I am.
Neither of my parents knows I nearly died, that a swarm of piranhas tore my legs apart only a week ago. I sit up in bed, turning to obscure the machines beside me, then accept the call.
Mom’s Bond screen shows her outside, beneath the six willow trees bordering the garden behind Waldsten Mansion. She’s wearing her gardening gloves, her hair swept back, kneeling at Daisy’s grave as she arranges fresh flowers in neat, careful clusters. The Pinkies aren’t allowed to do it. Every week, like clockwork, Mom removes the wilted flowers herself with steady, reverent fingers.
As a child, I thought she tended Daisy’s grave for Dad’s sake. But as I grew older, I noticed how Mom’s hands trembled and how her eyes glistened whenever she thought no one was watching. That’s when I realized it was for her. For Daisy. Mom loved her too, and like Dad, she’s never let her go.
But Mom’s love for Daisy is one of the few things I’ve ever truly understood about her. The heart behind her cold, quiet glamour is hard to see, like the wings of a bee mid-flight. Among my sisters and me, Vivian is the most like her. That’s why, even though I love her, I usually call Dad.
But this time, Mom called me.
“Hello, dear,” she says softly, brushing a stray hair from her cheek with
the back of her glove. “How are you doing?”
“I’m all right.” I twist the bedsheets in my hands. “Did Dad tell you what happened?”
“Yes.” She looks down to adjust a lily in the vase. “That’s actually why I called. I thought you might want to talk about Edmund.”
“Edmund?” I stiffen. “What do you mean?”
“I saw the video, dear.”
I know which video she means: the footage from the Cloning Theory classroom. Rosamund’s false accusation. The Blues erupting with threats to kill me. Professor Hollings trying to restore order. And finally, the camera cutting to Edmund and me, and the wreckage between us.
“Yes, Mom. He is—or was—my friend, and… I didn’t want to hurt him.”
“Friend,” she repeats. That’s all she says.
But she doesn’t need to say more. The look behind her eyes is revealing, like a door slowly swinging open. It’s as if she can see past the surface, all the way to the deepest root of my heartbreak. And it terrifies me.
I brace myself for judgment, for rules. For her to call my feelings for Edmund dangerous, forbidden, and reckless. For her to tell me I’m selfish and lost.
Instead, she keeps tending the flowers, her fingers gentle on the stems, and says quietly, “Some love is worth the pain, Loredana. The sacrifice. But other kinds… they’re born with ruin in their blood. As impossible as it sounds, it’s sometimes less painful to walk away than to follow them to the end. Because this end isn’t beautiful. It isn’t bright. Even the purest version of it won’t survive. The love between them and us can’t create; it can only consume. It takes and keeps taking until there’s nothing left but loss.” She lowers a hand to adjust a tulip that’s fallen out of place, and her voice softens. “We’re different, Loredana. Not just from the Blues. From the Oranges and the Purples, too. It’s in our design.”
I clutch the bedsheets, overwhelmed by a sudden, powerful urge to hide beneath them. It’s as if Mom is staring straight through me, deeper than Dad ever has, deeper than anyone. I feel stripped down, exposed in a way I never thought possible. And what scares me most is the note of regret in her voice, the kind of bone-deep certainty that comes from experience.
It makes me wonder: has Mom said these words to someone else before?
To someone who loved a Blue? And did she watch the ruin she’s warning me about actually happen?
I fall silent. I don’t want to talk about Edmund anymore. I don’t want Mom peering deeper, reading things I haven’t even admitted to myself.
“Thanks for the advice, Mom,” I rasp. I try for a smile, but it barely cracks. “You don’t need to worry, though. Edmund and I are just friends.
And… well, we’re not even that anymore.”
Her brow creases, as if she hears the sadness in my voice, but she lets it go. She adjusts the last stem in the bouquet, then shifts the conversation entirely.
“Did your father mention he’s been asked to speak at the Ovation Ceremony?”
I straighten too fast, and pain shoots down my leg. No. He didn’t.
The Ovation Ceremony is the final send-off, the last event of the year before students return home for the summer. It’s where academic awards are handed out, followed by a prestigious guest speaker who closes the afternoon
with a speech.
Why Dad?
I know his approval ratings are soaring and that he’s more popular than ever, but this doesn’t make sense. Phillipa hates him. She wouldn’t have invited him because she supports him. She would’ve done it as a concession, a way to calm him after what Rosamund did to me.
“I’m sure he meant to tell me,” I say. “I missed all his calls.”
“We’re flying to Grandmaster the night before,” Mom says. “I’m sorry we can’t come sooner. Your father’s schedule is busier than ever. But he plans to make his campaign announcement during the speech.”
My eyes widen. “About running for Governor of the Rainbow District?”
“Yes.”
I reach for the glass of water on the side table and drink slowly, struggling to swallow. Ever since the Blue execution, there’s been a pulse of dread beneath everything, as if something is building, inching toward an eruption.
“Are you worried, Mom?” I ask. “About Dad?”
“I…” She pauses, then redirects. “President Reeve told him there’s going to be an investigation into the Blues for civil credit fraud. Reeve believes they’ve been manipulating their own scores, awarding themselves and their allies thousands of credits. Maybe more. If it’s proven, if it’s exposed… it could change everything, Loredana.”
My grip tightens on the glass, knuckles burning white. I know it’s true. It has to be. How else do the Blues always win? Always walk away clean? How
else could Edmund throw away so many civil credits at my expense? The system is rigged. Beneath all the pageantry and order, it tilts relentlessly in the high-citizens’ favor. And this fraud, this mass theft, is the artery of their power.
They won’t let it be severed without a fight.
But Reeve knows that. I saw it in his face during the Blue execution; he’s already in the saddle, gripping the reins, and he knows how many low- citizens are behind him, watching, waiting, and needing him to act. I remember the students’ faces as I left Cloning Theory, lit with the kind of pride that only burns in those desperate for change. People like them are so inspired that if Reeve charges, they’ll follow. After that execution, we all saw what we never dared to believe: The Blues might stand higher, but that doesn’t mean they can’t fall. It just means that when they do, they’ll fall from such a height that the whole world will see.
But Mom still hasn’t answered my question.
“Are you worried?” I ask again. “Do you really think Dad should run?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Why?”
Mom’s gaze stays on the flowers. A faint shadow lingers behind her eyes, but it doesn’t touch her voice. “Because it’s what he was called to do.”
She brushes the dirt from her gloves. Although her chin trembles slightly, she still lifts it, as if she’s already made peace with the cost. I know she’s been carrying this burden since the day she married him, loving a man who stands at the center of conflict and walks willingly into fire. Every morning, she wonders if he’ll come home. Every night, she watches the news for signs of threat. In between, she works tirelessly, managing his image, fending off attacks, shielding him with every ounce of her strength.
I think of all the times she could’ve broken: when the Bliss ban painted a target on Dad’s back, when I was nearly killed in the Speakeasy, when the Blues tried to assassinate President Reeve. But she never did. She kept going, always hiding her wounds behind a smile. But I see past the smile now to the wreckage of her scars. I understand how much of this family rests on her
shoulders. And I know Dad does, too.
“I love you, Mom,” I whisper.
She doesn’t look up. She adjusts one last flower in the bouquet, then steadies it with the resolve of someone who’s done this before, caring for Daisy in death the same way she cares for the rest of us in life.
