Page 13 of Broken Queen
In the evening, I stood in front of my vanity. I had chosen a dress with a deep plunge neckline and an open back. The gold dress was heavy on my shoulders, with beaded designs in swirls and slashes weighing it down.The mermaid bottom flowed open, covering my stilettos. Classical music played in the background, and the growing line of cars hummed through the open window. Tonight was the night; after waiting for months, my father had finally chosen two new board members.
I had this inkling inside of me that my father would announce that it was going to be me all along; he simply wanted to motivate me through sacrifices and arranged marriage. It didn’t matter if I was still waiting to do the final initiation task of sacrificing someone I loved, nor did it matter that I wasn’t an official member yet. It didn’t even matter that I was a woman. I had Bloom blood in me, and that’s what mattered. I deserved to be a board member.
And then there was the other side that told me I would never be good enough for my father, not even if I got on my knees and begged. I shut up that pessimistic side of myself with a couple of pills and a threat to behave.
I walked down the hallway, my stilettos marking my time. Luckily, at an event like this, there were no masks required, only your attendance. A staff member met me at the bottom of the stairs, then led me to the side door of the house. A golf cart was waiting to escort me to the banquet hall. The driver tipped his hat.
The line of town cars was becoming smaller, which meant we’d be starting soon. Nerves and excitement buzzed in my chest. Logan swam up beside me, running a hand through his blond hair. He wore a tux with a classic bow tie, and somehow, he was elegant and casual at the same time. His wing tipped oxfords poked out of the bottom of his pants.
“I’m so nervous,” he said, pulling at his collar. I put an arm around his back.
“Nothing to be nervous about,” I said. “We’re here now. All we can do is wait.”
The best possible outcome for tonight would be for both of us to become board members. Though Logan and I had our differences, with that much power between the two of us, we’d be able to do anything we wanted, with or without my father. We could even order a mass execution of certain ‘unfaithful’ members. It excited me to think about it.
My father was dressed in a tan summer jacket, his cheeks red, making him look like a sunset in paradise. He bowed his head, acknowledging me, then continued his conversation with another member. We had never been close; how could we be? At ten years old, when my mother died, he told me I had a duty, and that duty was to fulfill his sexual needs and to be his sacrifice to prove his dedication to the Marked Blooms Syndicate. But, most of the time, when it came to being outside of that role, he listened to me. When I wanted to help call off the soldiers to help a member rescue his wife, he agreed. And when I lied and said that one of the board members had been murdered because he was trying to kill my father, he didn’t question me. He trusted my word. And I clung onto that element of respect.
Maybe it was all I needed to get that chair on the board.
As we entered the building, a member with a thin nose smacked the ass of a server. She jumped, knocking over her tray of champagne, the glasses shattering on the floor. A chorus of laughter broke out, and the poor girl gawked at her hands, covered in blood.
Strict decorum said that members and initiates of the Syndicate were to act like civilized, wealthy people at all times, except for the Masquerades. This member was breaking that rule.
I helped the woman stand, then we locked eyes. Her lips trembled, her hands vibrating with nerves. She was scared—so different from me. I nodded, trying to reassure her that I would take care of this, and take care of that disgusting prick who had touched her, then motioned for another server to help her to the medic on site. Another set of staff members cleaned up the broken glass. I raised a brow at the member who had assaulted her.
“She was looking at me!” he snapped, as if I had accused him by simply raising my brow.
I licked my lips. “Maybe we should gouge her eyes out then,” I said playfully, and he laughed. Inside, I imagined his eyes being pried out with a brittle spoon. “What’s your name again?” I asked, using flirtation to soften my tone. “Excuse me if I’ve forgotten. My head has been drowning in business lately.”
“Marc DuBois,” he said. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Zira.”
I shook his hand, batting my eyelashes. “But you’re missing out on the pleasure. I only wanted to ask why you didn’t humiliate her more. Please. Use our staff to fulfill your needs.”
“You’re as charming as they say,” he said, grinning.
I smiled, the image of his slimy eyes bursting in my palms soothing me. “Only when I have to be,” I winked.
He settled back into his chair, pleased with our conversation. Marc DuBois. I’d have to remember that name. Logan and I took our seats a few places down from my father. Fifty of the highest profile members had been invited. Polite conversation continued, and though I was usually rather good at mingling during these events, my mind was buzzing. I wanted to know who my father had picked now. But we had customs to get through first.
Dinner was a choice of braised veal tenderloin or seared ahi tuna, and as we finished up the main course, Logan squeezed my thigh.
“You okay?” he asked in a low voice.
“You need to stop worrying,” I said.
I scanned the room. It was the same banquet hall we often used for the Masquerades and other events, but other than that, it was usually left empty. I had once found my mother in this building, lying on the ground, staring up at the ceiling. Her face was black and blue, and blood trailed down her legs.
I don’t think I was supposed to find her like that, but I had gone searching for her because my father said it was my fault that the nanny knew where to find his personal safe. Maybe I had told the nanny, but only to see what would happen. It was like picking the wings off of an insect and watching it crawl to its final resting spot.
But I didn’t expect to find my mother there, on the floor, in a pool of her own blood. She was a Marked Bloom Wife, a woman saved from a life of poverty, given the chance to accept an arranged marriage with someone like my father. She wasn’t his first wife, but she was the only one who gave him a child.
After a long history of sons in the Bloom family, my mother had given my father only one child.
Me.
Zira, my mother had said, her voice gentle and warm. She winced as she spoke: Have you ever been to the catacombs?
Like in Paris? I asked.
