We loved as fiercely as we loathed and erred as deeply as we triumphed.
Yet perhaps our gravest folly lay in the lie we told ourselves and repeated to each other with equal conviction: that all love is righteous and all hatred wicked. —THE DANDIES
CHAPTER 61
At noon, when Dad and I head to the Ovation Ceremony, I get vivid, jarring flashbacks of my first few days at Grandmaster University. A hovercar with bulletproof windows and armored doors takes us to the Civilized Hall, a massive amphitheater on the southwest side of campus. When we exit, an armed security detail forms a protective perimeter as we move through the crowd of students.
Every student wears their Fraternity uniform, most with their parents by their side. Some slow to stare at Dad as we pass; others lean over the barricade of guards, phones raised for photos, voices breaking through to ask for autographs. Dad smiles and humors them, even as the security detail pushes us forward, their eyes tracking rooftops and upper windows, their voices clipped as they murmur status checks into their earpieces.
I draw a deep, nervous breath, and Dad squeezes my hand.
“Don’t worry, honey,” he whispers. “Being back here is the safest I’ve felt in months.”
I force a smile, trying to appear reassured, but the tight, grinding knot in my stomach refuses to loosen. I still don’t understand why Phillipa invited Dad to serve as the guest speaker at the Ovation Ceremony. Given how much she hates him, it feels like a starving snake inviting a plump mouse into its hole. My only comfort is that Dad and I are wearing Winston Glass’s energy shields.
As we make our way into the amphitheater, my eyes sweep for threats:
every rooftop, sidewalk, and alleyway where a gun could be aimed. But when we finally step inside, I’m pulled from my vigilance by the sight of Edmund, Jack, and Dickie heading for the elevators.
Dickie spots me first. His face lights up, and he elbows his Pinkie chaperone aside, waving wildly to remind me I haven’t been forgotten and that he still cares. Jack notices me next and gives a crooked grin before nudging Edmund, who’s crouched, fastening the buckle on one of his monk strap shoes.
When Edmund looks up and sees me, his eyes seem to fade, as if the blue is draining from the sky at sunset. Yet he still smiles, bright and unbearable, and in that instant, every memory we made together fills my mind, hitting me with the full force of what I’ve lost, like I’ve fallen out of heaven. If there’s a limit to what I’d give to get back to him, I don’t know where it is. I only know that if our time together is a glimpse of what a future with Edmund could be, then it’s worth fighting for.
Edmund lets his gaze linger, as if he knows it’s the last time we can be seen interacting in public and wants to make it count. Then he stands and walks into the elevator, with Jack and Dickie following closely behind.
My chest aches, empty, as if he’s taken my heart with him. Still, I keep my chin high and set my face as Dad and I take a different elevator to the Green level, knowing I have to be strong now. I made my choice, and I have to stick to it, no matter how hard it is to resist going back to Edmund.
On the Green level, Dad and I sit in a roped-off section overlooking the main stage, the security detail repositioning in the dim light, a quiet rotation of bodies and sightlines. While Dad talks with his head of security, I text Charlotte to ask if she’s here yet. A moment later, she replies: “To your right.”
I find her in the middle rows on the Green level, sitting with her dad. She smiles at me, a look that tells me she’ll be knocking on my front door as soon as she can. I nod and smile back, a silent promise that I’ll be at her front door, too.
The spotlights flare to life and sweep across the stage, pausing on the velvet chairs where the professors sit in distinguished rows. The amphitheater swells into thunderous applause as Phillipa steps out from behind the curtain.
She looks exactly as she did the first time I met her, gentle and radiant, her smile so warm it feels as if she’s pulling the sun itself into the hall. Every gesture of her hands is graceful, yet they command the audience’s attention
as she welcomes us and introduces the commencement speaker: a distinguished Purple alumnus whose words roll out like a brass fanfare, meant to ignite the hearts of the sixth-years preparing to graduate and leave Grandmaster forever.
When the speech ends, the mood shifts from attentive to nervous excitement. The names of the award winners are announced, each punctuated by clapping, as the air thickens with pride and envy.
I sit low in my seat, my pulse pounding so loudly I can feel it in my throat. I’d wanted to win the Political Theory & Governance award before, but now—with the electricity in the hall and Dad beside me—I want it so badly I could march up to the stage and take it straight out of Professor Fleming’s hand. My own promise echoes back at me, made during the final exam: if I win, my path is set. I’ll major in political theory. I’ll follow in Dad’s footsteps, no matter how deep or wide, even if they’ve left impressions the whole world can see.
Two long, breathless hours pass before the first-year awards are handed out. Most of the winners are predictable, the same names professors whispered dotingly all year. Dickie, of course, wins two awards, one for Applied Systems Logic and another for Artificial Intelligence & Civil Order.
He pins the badge with his picture and President Reeve’s to his lapel, proudly flashing it as he bounds up the steps to accept his trophies.
Only two names stand out to me. The first is Rosamund, who wins the Blue award for Cloning Theory, which feels like a cruel joke of fate. The second is Edmund, who takes the Blue award for Genetic Engineering. It’s not the win itself that surprises me, but the moment he steps onto the stage, looks toward Jerome seated in the second row, and nods. Jerome returns the nod, almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough to tell me they know each other.
I wipe sweat from my neck, feeling as if my world is shrinking even as more people enter it. When the Green award for Political Theory & Governance finally arrives, I close my eyes and await my fate, telling myself that, win or lose, I’ll stand tall.
Then I hear Professor Fleming’s deep, gravelly voice: “Miss Loredana Waldsten.”
My name echoes through the amphitheater, just as Dad’s once did, and for a moment, I can’t believe it. The air escapes my lungs in a startled gasp. The applause cracks in my ears like firecrackers, loud and dizzying, as I stand and force myself into the aisle.
The descent feels endless. As I walk down the stairs toward the shining stage on the ground level, the crowd blurs into a smear of light and motion. I hold onto Dad’s daffodil brooch, pinned to my dress beside my pounding heart, until I reach the bottom. Then the world sharpens back into focus.
Rows of Purples watch as I weave between them toward the short flight of steps that leads to the stage. At the top, Professor Fleming waits. His smile is broad, his eyes glinting with pride, and for the first time since I heard my name called, the moment feels real. “Congratulations, Miss Waldsten,”
Professor Fleming says, pressing the gold-filigreed trophy into my hands. “I look forward to seeing you in my class next year.”
“Thank you, sir.” My hands tingle as I clutch the trophy to my chest and turn on my heel, squinting up at the Green level. Dad is on his feet, still clapping, his face caught between shock and disbelief. He drags a hand through his hair, his eyes glazing over as if the sight of me is finally sinking in, then clears his throat and keeps clapping.
I smile at him, wide and trembling. I want to reach him as quickly as I can, but when I reach the five short steps to descend the stage, something holds me back. A quiet laugh escapes my lips, and before I realize it, my feet take over. Tap steps echo on the stairs, with heel clicks, shuffles, and a sharp crisscross. The rhythm carries me downward until I hit the floor with a final stomp that reverberates through the hall.
Still laughing, I weave my way back through the Purple students, climb the stairs, and slip into my seat, where Dad is waiting. He pulls me into his arms, his voice breaking as he whispers in my ear. “It’s great, honey. It really is. I just hope you didn’t do this because you felt I pushed you to—”
“No, Dad. Not because you wanted me to,” I say, pressing my cheek against his. “Because I want to be like you.”
His arms tighten around me, holding me as if he’s finally ready to lift me out of his shadow and let me stand on my own. Even though he says the words, I would’ve known his thoughts if he’d remained silent: he loves me and, in the way I’ve always imagined and longed for, he’s proud of me.
I stay beside Dad, his warm hand resting in mine, until the final award is handed out. Then, with a blaze of silver light, a holographic band appears
onstage and erupts into a mournful, reverent anthem honoring the victims of the Ranger attack at Grandmaster University. The students’ photographs appear on a giant screen as the music swells, and we all rise, holding up our hands in the two-finger salute until the last note fades. When it does, Phillipa returns to the podium, her smile ecstatic as she prepares to announce Dad.
“Mr. Waldsten.” His head of security taps him on the shoulder. “You’re due backstage.”
Dad nods, kisses my cheek, and signals for two guards to stay with me. I wish him luck, then sit up straighter, bracing for the moment he announces his run for Governor of the Rainbow District. His campaign won’t be the same battlefield I crawled through this year, but it will have its own risks.
From now on, every step my sisters and I take will reflect on him. I wouldn’t put it past his enemies to dig up dirt on my family and feed it to Benjamin Bogart, who reports for the Blues as if they’re always just out of sight, waiting with a black bag to drag him into an unmarked grave if he missteps.
Next year, there won’t be any side roads to the finish line, and I only hope I’ll be strong enough to help Dad through it.
When the holographic band disappears, Phillipa begins reading Dad’s introduction from a teleprompter. Her words are complimentary, warmer than I expected. I listen carefully until a notification from my Bond beeps in my ear.
Who the hell would be texting me right now?
I glance at the screen, and the red glow makes my stomach clench. It’s an urgent notice. I open the message, my pulse quickening as I realize it concerns Irene’s death duel challenge. Back at the Belvoir Infirmary after the piranha attack, I’d received a notification which explained that the death duel was postponed until after I testified against Irene for trying to kill me in the Speakeasy. But now that notice is gone.
In its place, a new one appears: the death duel between Irene and me is postponed until the conclusion of Edmund’s trial, where he’s challenging Irene for breaking their formal agreement. I blink hard, shake my head, and reread the lines, but the words refuse to change. What happened to the Speakeasy trial? How the hell could it vanish?
Around me, ripples of unease spread through the amphitheater. Whispers swell into a restless sea of voices, as if every student received an alert that Irene is challenging them to a death duel, too. I look up and meet Charlotte’s eyes across the crowd; she’s staring back at me, her face frozen in horrified
disbelief.
The noise intensifies as students rush to their feet on every level, some cheering and clapping while others curse and mutter furiously to each other.
On the Blue level, the commotion swells into a roar, with feet pounding and voices chanting a single word in unison.
“Bliss!”
A bolt of fear hits me. I pull up The Civilized Voice and see the breaking news headline, stark and merciless, like a knife through Dad’s heart: PRESIDENT REEVE SIGNS EMERGENCY DECREE OVERTURNING
BLISS PROHIBITION ACT.
What the fuck?
I leap to my feet, so stunned that my trophy slips from my hands and crashes to the floor. Onstage, a Pinkie quickly crosses to Phillipa and whispers in her ear. Her face blossoms into a serene smile as she turns back to the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, “due to an unforeseen security concern, our closing speaker will no longer be presenting today. This concludes the Ovation Ceremony. We thank you for attending, and I wish you a pleasant summer. May you always be virtuous.”
I stumble backward as the two guards Dad left to protect me each grab one of my arms. “Time to move, Miss Waldsten.”
“Where are you taking me?” I demand. “Where’s my dad?”
Neither guard answers until the elevator doors slide shut and we begin to descend. One keeps his eyes fixed on the control panel, while the other murmurs a brief update into his earpiece, then turns to me and says, “You and your father are being evacuated. This sector is no longer secure.”
A cold, paralyzing dread washes over me. Both guards draw their weapons and hold them low, close to their bodies. I clutch the energy shield on my chest, my breath shallow and panicked as I think of Dad, out there somewhere in the chaos. What could the Blues have used to pressure President Reeve into overturning the Bliss ban? How could he betray Dad like this?
When the elevator jolts to a stop, the doors open to pandemonium. A tidal wave of students surges through the atrium, spilling into the courtyard, caps flying into the air like black hail. The word on every tongue is the same,
deafening and relentless.
“Bliss! Bliss! Bliss!”
The guards seize my arms again. “Stay tight,” one orders as they pull me forward. Their shoulders drive into the crowd, pushing bodies aside. Their weapons remain low but visible enough to clear a path. Shouts rise around us, wild, thrilled, and half-drunk on victory.
“Command, copy,” one guard says into his earpiece. “Miss Waldsten is secure. Moving her to the vehicle.”
They muscle me through the courtyard, their shouted commands cutting through the chaos as students are shoved aside. I curse when, through the shifting crowd, I see Irene standing on the sidewalk as if waiting for me. Her hunting friends surround her, the same ones who tried to kill me, now laughing as if their arrests were nothing more than a joke at my expense.
There isn’t a single Copper in sight. My gaze drops to Irene’s ankle, and my body stills when I see it bare. The monitor is gone. That’s why the trial notice disappeared from my Bond. The charges have been dropped, swept away like Phillipa promised Edmund they would be.
Irene looks into my eyes with poison in hers. My heart pounds so hard I think I’ll choke. For a split second, I brace for a smug, gleaming smile to crown her triumph. Instead, she pulls a cigar from her pocket and saunters through the crowd toward Edmund. He’s standing with Rosamund, Jack, and Dickie. When Edmund sees Irene, his face hardens into a dark, steely glare.
She keeps walking until she reaches his side. Without a word, she reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out his lighter, and lights the cigar with long, steady puffs. Then, as smoothly as a bullet leaving the chamber, she slides the lighter back into his jacket and turns away, her friends falling in step behind her.
I understand what’s happening. The realization hits me just as the guards push me into the hovercar and slam the door. Hillaire warned me. She told me the Blues were hungry for revenge, that they’d launch their attack on Reeve, Dad, and everyone brave enough to defy their rule. Now it’s finally beginning. This is the first move in whatever plan the high-citizens have been crafting in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
In the hovercar, I can barely see Dad through the wall of guards packed in with us. I push forward until they make room for me to sit beside him. “Dad,”
I gasp as we lift off toward the campus airport, where his jet waits to take us to safety.
When he doesn’t answer, my eyes drift to the phone in his hand. On the screen, a message from President Reeve is visible:
“I’m sorry, Bruce. I had no choice.”
“Dad,” I say again, but he still doesn’t answer. His phone trembles in his hand as he stares ahead with the vacant, shell-shocked look of a man who’s been knifed in the back, only to turn around and realize it was his best friend.
I throw my arms around his shoulders, trying to comfort him and let him know I’m here. The phone slips from his hand to the floor. When I reach down to grab it, I notice something strange. The sunburst pattern on the carpet doesn’t match the rectangular pattern in the hovercar we took to the Civilized Hall. Why did the guards switch vehicles?
I slide the phone into my pocket and sit upright, a growing sense of unease spreading through me. The hovercar accelerates, blowing through red lights, its stabilizers shrieking as it cuts hard through turns until the airport comes into view. Dad’s jet sits on the runway, its engines already spinning in the sunlight. The hovercar descends and docks in a bay beside the runway.
“The targets are hot until we’re in the cabin,” the head of security says from the front seat. “On my mark, we move.”
As he kicks his door open, I feel a sharp itch crawl along my arm. I scratch absently, then freeze when my hand comes away wet with blood. My eyes widen as I follow the streak of green down my sleeve to the hovercar door. A single, ragged bullet hole punches through the panel where my arm had been. How is that possible? The windows are supposed to be bulletproof.
And why didn’t my or Dad’s energy shields activate?
Before I can process what’s happening, shouts explode inside the hovercar. “Window’s breached!” a guard yells. “Sniper on us!” Another guard slams his shoulder into me, pushing me down between the seats.
I turn, half in a daze, as I hear a sharp, wet gurgle behind the wall of guards. Dad’s body jerks, then folds forward violently, and a spray of vomit splatters across the carpet.
“Live fire! Principal hit!” a guard bellows as he hauls Dad back against the seat. Blood pours from the area above Dad’s temple, dripping across his shoulder, soaking through his suit in a murky stain. My mind disconnects from my body, leaving me staring like an empty sack of skin, unable to accept that the man collapsing in front of me is my father.
“Waldsten is critical!” the head of security barks into his comm. “Head and shoulder trauma! We need an immediate medevac on the tarmac! Secure the perimeter—move, move!”
Dad lets out a groan. His eyes roll back, and his head lolls heavily, as if he
can’t hold it up any longer. Then he’s swallowed by the wall of guards as they fight to stop the bleeding.
“Dad!” I scramble off the floor and force my hands between the guards to grab his. His fingers are cold and slick with blood, trembling in mine as a strangled sob tears out of me. “Dad!” I crawl over the seat, still holding on to him as the guards drag him toward the door. “Dad!” I scream through my tears, again and again, even as his hand shudders, then goes limp in mine, because the sound of his name is the only thing still alive inside me.
