Page 4 of Trapped

I hate it here. Hate the presumptuous kids that hang around like a bunch of ants, pretending to be something they aren’t. No, their parents are rich, and even worse—they are rich through heritage, not because they actually succeeded at doing something remarkable in their lives. Yet they behave like they are kings themselves. Fucking despicable. The only good thing about this sombre castle is the fact that I have a single dorm. No roommates. No hassle. And yeah, assholes, I do love art. So I’ve used my dorm as my own, small gallery. I’ve come to love my space. Like the entire architecture of the building, my room is made of high ceilings and countless dips and curves, carved into the walls.

I know of the existence of a brotherhood inside the walls of Saint-Laurent, because my entire family are members. When I started attending boarding school though, my Dad and I agreed that I wouldn’t receive an invitation to join their secretive elite club. He didn’t think I was cut for their values, and I told him I agreed.

Still, it felt like a rejection. As if he was rejecting me. Over and over again.

I swallow away the sudden bile that has risen in my throat. It’s not like I care what Dad thinks.

I shouldn’t.

It’s not like I care that he didn’t want me in his precious “group.” I don’t care about anything. If I could have it my way, I wouldn’t even be here in the first place.

Yet here I am. Because a pathetic part of me wants to prove him wrong. Wants to prove myself wrong. Perhaps I do belong somewhere after all.

As I make my way through the darkness around me, I tell myself it’s better to keep off the sand trail, despite it being lit up by a string of beacons in the shape of torches.

The cool breeze brings shivers, or perhaps it’s the realization of my predicament that’s slowly creeping inside.

Chosen.

That was the exact word those two middle-aged men used when they sat me down in that fancy office in the South Wing a few weeks ago.

“Robin Pinault, vous avez été choisi.”

Chosen? Flabbergasted, I’d let my eyes slide from one to the other. I’d never seen these men before, nor had I ever been in this part of Monterrey Castle. The South Wing, as we were told, was for personnel only.

Pourquoi moi? “But…why?” I asked.

“You’ve been chosen,” was the simple reply.

I’d tried to laugh it off—my sarcastic signature, usually enough to keep people at a distance, but they didn’t flinch. And then…right when I wanted to tell them to get lost, one of them opened this fancy-looking briefcase and put a document and pen on the table.

And for some inexplicable reason, I immediately knew that this was the secret brotherhood Dad had spoken of. My mind was spinning. If someone else had chosen me, then Dad, nor my brothers were aware of this little encounter. Of the possibilities this little encounter brought…

“But even my own family doesn’t want me to join!” The walls I built to shield myself from Dad’s rejection and the way it made me feel hurt, trembled and I despised myself for the momentary weakness. I should have just walked away, but I couldn’t.

“The highest bidding family wants you," they said, brushing my objection once more aside. I doubt they’d even heard me. “And they get to decide.”

Easy as that. The power of hierarchy. My family is powerful, but there are those more powerful than us. Part of me was enraged by its cruel simplicity, although another part of me felt…protected? What a weird sensation. No one had ever stood up for me before against my own dad.

It felt good.

Though the NDA was weird.

I glanced through it twice, cleared my throat while my head tried to understand what the hell I just read. Underlining the exact phrase with my index finger, I looked up.

“You may be subjected to physical violence-with no lasting injuries-as well as being drugged, tied up or even used for sexual pleasure?”

They shrugged. “A mere formality,” one of them replied.

My heart hammered in my chest. “So you’re saying there’s nothing for me to worry about?” This was nonsense and absolutely something I shouldn’t agree to.

Another casual brush-off. “I’m saying that this is a respectable fraternity, and no harmful things shall take place.” Then he leaned in, capturing my eyes with his own. “Nothing more harmful than the things you’ve managed to do to yourself anyway. From what I understood, you’ve used your fair share of drugs in your previous life?”

Reclining back into my chair, I touched my fingers to the centre of my chest where an unfamiliar rage was beginning to bubble. “You’ve checked out my background? No, I won’t—” I got up from my chair, but got pushed back immediately by a pair of hands on my shoulders.

“Sit, and listen.”

“No—”

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