Page 16 of Vicious Little Snakes

“Your timing is impeccable.”

My father steps forward, his arm landing across my shoulder as he turns and guides me into the library.

“I decided to take the day to help your mother with her benefit. And cards on the table? I figured you’d try to avoid me after our last talk, so I bested your strategy and cut you off at the pass.”

I smile. “That you did. But I really am going to be late. I have to hustle to be at school on time.”

“Son—”

A frustrated groan leaves me. “Seriously, Dad. I don’t have time. Can’t we suffer through this tonight?”

His eyebrows rise, and I add, “Sir. Would you mind if we did this tonight?” Realizing my tone is braver than preferred.

I may be eighteen, but I know my place.

“I just wanted to say I’m proud of you.”

My head pulls back, his arm dropping from me, as we face each other, me totally confused. I thought this would be another conversation about my college application—not plural.

He wants Harvard. Not in a “consideration” kind of way. In a “this is where you’ll go” kind of way.

But I never sent it. Even after I was ordered to do so.

It was the boldest move I’ve ever made against my father, even if it’s a secret. Art isn’t a hobby for me, and business isn’t an interest. I don’t want Brooks Industries. Besides, the idea of leaving the city is off the table. Vacation is one thing but for six years—never happening.

He shifts to open the cabinet of the Wooten secretary desk he won in a Christie’s auction in London last year, rummaging around for a moment before shutting the door again. When he turns around, he’s looking down, gently tapping an envelope against his fingers. My heart starts racing as I register what it is. His eyes lock to mine, and he extends the crimson envelope with pride on his face.

My soul leaves my body. There’s no way.

“Go on. Take it, Liam.”

Hesitantly, I reach out, looking down at the envelope with its neat writing addressed to me. It’s actually handwritten. I’ve heard of these—a legacy acceptance letter. Harvard only sends these to the most compelling early admissions.

People like me.

But I wasn’t supposed to receive one because I never fucking mailed my application. Dread pulses through my system. I try to swallow, but my throat is the goddamn Sahara.

“How—” My eyes lift to his.

He doesn’t even look guilty.

“Mail’s lost all the time, Liam. Did you really think your stunt would stop this from happening? The dean of admissions, John, is an old friend and was more than happy to look at your records. You’re a Brooks, son. Apparently, that means something to everyone but you.”

I only needed a couple of weeks. All my pieces would’ve been done. I could’ve submitted to the Columbia art department and been able to present a similar letter to my father—with the exception being that it would’ve been something I want.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Say something, you pussy. Tell him no. Say fuck off. Scream. Anything.

I stare down at the envelope in my hand. My future is so intricately detailed and planned, like the calligraphy used in the address.

“So this is it.”

Those are the words I choose to speak. And they barely make it out of my mouth before I’m bounding toward the front door.

“Liam,” my father calls out, following me. “I know you harbored a wish for something art-related, but I thought seeing this…Liam, stop—”

But I don’t stop. Not until I’m sliding into the back of the black town car and slamming the door shut. We pull into traffic, and I chance a glance out of the window, seeing my father on the stately concrete steps that lead to the front of my home. I should’ve said more, stood up for myself, yelled, refused. But it was as if I couldn’t even breathe.