Angry God

I popped my eyes open and darted up from the stone.

“His project is not even finished! He told me himself!” I seethed.

I never raised my voice to my father. Or anyone else, for that matter. Right now, my cool was slipping through my fingers like water.

My father stood across from me, his arms open, as if he was surrendering. “Yet it still appears a cut above the rest, though it is not half-finished.”

“Not even half-finished?!” I exclaimed wildly, throwing my arms in the air. “Is that even allowed? Is it not against your rules and regulations or whatever? Maybe I should’ve just presented you with a fucking can of Heinz.”

I was grasping at straws. The board of Carlisle Prep, and the internship judges, consisted of the three founders of the school—my father, his cousin he’d grown up with, painter Harry Fairhurst, and Lady Alma Everett-Hodkins, a former chief curator at the Guggenheim. If they’d decided to choose Vaughn, there was nothing I could do about it. I was Don Quixote, fighting windmills, knowing they’d continue turning, no matter how much I waved my imaginary sword at them.

“Lenny, his is not a good piece.” Papa closed his eyes, his face marred with pain. “It is an astonishingly brilliant one, and if you saw it, you’d agree.”

“Great idea. Why don’t you show me this quarter-finished bullshit so I can judge for myself.” I kicked a block of modeling clay, sending it spinning across the floor until it bumped against the wall. “Show me what’s so brilliant about a general fucking shape of a sculpture without the faintest detail. A shrimp in the uterus, without eyes, nose, and lips. Show me how much better he is than me.”

We both stood there for a beat before I darted toward the covered statue, intending to rip the sheet from it and see for myself. Dad snatched my hand as soon as I reached it.

I threw my head back, laughing bitterly. “Of course.”

“That’s enough, Lenora.”

“I bet it sucks. I bet you only chose him because he’s a bloody Spencer.” I turned around, smiling at him.

Emilia LeBlanc-Spencer, an artist herself, had poured a lot of millions into Carlisle Prep over the years. She was apparently helplessly in love with Harry Fairhurst’s paintings and had a few of them in her mansion.

I knew it wasn’t a wise thing to do. My father did not take well to thoughtless, vindictive behavior. But my filters had gone MIA, along with my sanity, it seemed.

“You’re an Astalis.” His nostrils flared, and he slammed his fist against his chest. “My own blood.”

“Your own blood is apparently not good enough.” I shrugged.

Suddenly, I was too tired to even go back to my room. Fighting him was useless. Nothing mattered anymore. Vaughn had won the final round and knocked me out of the race. My only mistake was to be surprised. I’d actually thought he couldn’t get the internship with an unfinished job.

But of course, Vaughn at his worst was still better than me at my best.

The bad boy of sculpting. Donatello and Michelangelo’s lovechild, with a dash of Damien Hirst and Banksy thrown in for good, rebellious measure.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I must go apply for approximately five hundred internships, now that my plans for the next six months are six feet under, along with my pride.” I tasted the bitterness of the words on my tongue.

As I started for the stairway, Papa grabbed my arm. I turned around, shaking him off.

“Leave me alone,” I groaned, not daring to blink and let my traitorous tears loose.

“Lenny,” he begged. “Please listen to me. You were neck and neck. There were five hundred and twenty-seven applicants, and other than Rafferty Pope, you were the final two.”

He was only making it worse. It wasn’t fair to be mad at him for not getting the internship. But it was fair to be mad because he’d chosen someone who didn’t even bother finishing his statue. That’s the part that hurt the most.

“Got it. I almost made it. Anything else?”

“I think you should be his assistant for those six months, since you are not interested in attending university. This could bump you up the other list of internships. It was my idea, and Vaughn said he’d love to have you help hi—”

“Help!” I barked out the word. “I’m not going to help him. I’m not going to assist him. I’m not going to work with him, for him, under him, or even above him. I want nothing to do with him.”

“It’s your pride talking now.” Papa fingered his beard, contemplating my reaction. “I want to speak to my daughter—my bright, talented daughter—not to her wounded ego. It’s a golden opportunity. Don’t let it go to waste.”

“I’m not—” I started.

“Please.” He scooped my hands in his, squeezing them like he was trying to drain the defiance out of me.