The Patriarch's Prize

The bass from the speaker in the corner of the living room thumps through the soles of my feet, a heartbeat that isn't mine but might as well be. I'm standing in the archway between the kitchen and the great room, a red Solo cup sweating in my hand, watching my father's house—my father's pristine, architecturally significant, please-don't-touch-the-Wassily-chairs house—fill up with people who don't know the difference between a Wassily and a folding chair from Target.

The Halloween decorations we hung are cheap and garish against the clean lines and neutral palette. Orange string lights sag from the crown molding. A plastic skeleton dangles from the wrought-iron chandelier, its jaw unhinged in a permanent, goofy grin. Someone has already put a party hat on the bust of some Greek philosopher that sits on the console table by the stairs. I should probably fix that. I don't.

Instead, I watch Briana.

She's across the room, surrounded by a small orbit of people—my friends, her friends, people I don't recognize but who clearly recognize her. The Wonder Woman costume fits her like it was sewn onto her body. The red bustier pushes her tits up and together, a deep valley of cleavage that catches the light every time she laughs. The blue skirt is short enough to be a suggestion, and the red boots—knee-high, shiny, with a slight heel—make her legs look like they go on forever. The golden tiara sits perfectly in her blonde hair, and the Lasso of Truth hangs from her hip, a coiled promise.

She's radiant. She's always radiant. But tonight, in this costume, in this house, surrounded by people who are all stealing glances at her, she's something else entirely. She's the sun, and everyone else is just orbiting debris.

I take a sip of my beer. It's warm. I don't care.

A guy I vaguely recognize from my Econ class—Tyler? Taylor?—leans in to say something to her, his hand brushing her arm. She laughs, tilts her head back, and the sound cuts through the music like a bell. I feel a spike of something hot in my chest, but it's not anger. Not exactly. It's that familiar, gnawing thing that lives in my gut whenever I see her like this: pride, and the fear that I don't deserve it.

She's been my girlfriend for eight months. Eight months of watching other guys watch her. Eight months of wondering when she'll realize she could do better. Eight months of her telling me I'm an idiot for thinking that, and me believing her for exactly as long as she's in the room.

She catches my eye across the crowd and smiles—a real smile, not the performative one she's been handing out. She raises her cup in a little toast, and I raise mine back. Then she turns back to her conversation, and I'm left with the afterimage of her, burned into my retinas.

"Bro, this party is sick."

I turn. It's Marcus, my roommate from school, dressed as a half-assed vampire—just a cape and some plastic fangs that he's already lost. He claps me on the shoulder, his eyes scanning the room with the enthusiasm of a man who's been waiting all semester for a night like this.

"Your dad's place is insane," he says. "Like, I knew you were rich, but I didn't know you were rich rich."

"I'm not rich," I say automatically. "My dad is."

"Same thing, man. Same thing." He takes a long pull from his cup. "You think Briana's friend is here? The redhead? She said she was coming."

"I don't know, man. Maybe."

Marcus nods, already distracted by something across the room. "Cool, cool. Hey, you got more ice? The cooler's getting low."

"Garage. There's a bag in the deep freeze."

He claps me on the shoulder again and disappears into the crowd. I watch him go, then let my eyes drift back to Briana. She's moved, now standing near the fireplace, talking to a girl dressed as a cat. The fire isn't lit—my father would kill me—but the mantel is decorated with fake cobwebs and a string of purple lights. She looks like she belongs there, like she's the centerpiece of the whole room.

The party is a success. I should feel good about that. I do feel good about that. But underneath the satisfaction, there's a low hum of anxiety, a constant background radiation that I've learned to live with. It's the same feeling I get every time I'm in this house, surrounded by my father's things, his money, his presence even when he's not here.

He's in Chicago this weekend. A business trip. He left Thursday morning, and he won't be back until Monday. That's why I chose this weekend. That's why I'm standing in his living room, watching a hundred drunk college students trample his Persian rug and spill beer on his Italian leather sofa.

I take another sip of my warm beer and try to push the anxiety down. It's fine. Everything is fine. The party is going well. Briana is here. And later—if I can just get through the next few hours—I'm going to take her upstairs to my old bedroom, and I'm going to peel that Wonder Woman costume off her body, and I'm going to—

"Hey, you."

Her voice is right behind me, and I feel her arms slide around my waist before I can turn. She presses her body against my back, her cheek against my shoulder blade. I can smell her perfume—something floral and sweet—and underneath it, the faint salt of sweat from dancing.

"Hey, you," I say back, my voice steadier than I feel.

She spins me around, her hands on my hips, and looks up at me with those big blue eyes. The tiara glints in the light. "You're brooding," she says. "I can always tell when you're brooding. You get this little line right here." She reaches up and presses her thumb between my eyebrows, smoothing the furrow.

"I'm not brooding. I'm surveying."

"Surveying what?"

"My kingdom," I say, gesturing at the room with my cup. "All this. The plastic skeletons. The drunk freshmen. The guy who just spilled his drink on the rug."

She glances over her shoulder, then back at me, grinning. "It's a good party, babe. You did good."

"We did good. You're the one who invited half these people."

"Because you don't know how to invite people. You just stand in corners and brood." She takes my cup from my hand and takes a sip, then makes a face. "This is warm. Why are you drinking warm beer?"

"Because I'm a tragic figure."

She laughs, and the sound does something to my chest. "Come on," she says, grabbing my hand. "Let's get you a cold one. And then you're going to dance with me."

"Briana, I don't dance."

"Tonight you do." She pulls me toward the kitchen, her fingers laced through mine. "It's Halloween. You're at a party. Your girlfriend is dressed as Wonder Woman. You're going to dance with her, and you're going to like it."

I let her pull me. I always let her pull me.

The kitchen is crowded, but people part for her like she's Moses and they're the Red Sea. She grabs two beers from the cooler, pops the caps, and hands me one. The cold glass feels good in my hand. She clinks her bottle against mine.

"To a successful party," she says.

"To a successful party," I echo.

She takes a long drink, her throat working, and I watch the way the light catches the sweat on her collarbone. When she lowers the bottle, she catches me staring and smirks.

"See something you like?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" She steps closer, her body inches from mine. "Just maybe?"

I lean down, my lips close to her ear. "Definitely."

She shivers—a tiny, almost imperceptible thing—and I feel a surge of satisfaction. Eight months, and I can still do that to her. Still make her shiver with a word.

"Later," she whispers, her hand on my chest. "After the party. When everyone's gone."

"Promise?"

"Promise." She pulls back, her eyes bright. "But first, you owe me a dance."

She drags me into the living room, where the music has shifted to something with a heavy beat and a lot of bass. The crowd has thickened, bodies pressed together, and she finds a spot near the center of the room and starts to move. Her hips sway, her arms rise above her head, and the skirt of her costume flutters around her thighs. She's magnetic. Everyone around her is watching, but she only has eyes for me.

I try to dance. I'm not good at it—I'm too stiff, too self-conscious—but she doesn't seem to care. She grabs my hands and puts them on her hips, then wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me close. Her body moves against mine, and I can feel every curve of her through the thin fabric of her costume.

"This is nice," she says, her lips close to my ear. "I like this."

"Me too."

"I'm glad we did this. The party. It's been a while since we just... had fun."

"Yeah."

She pulls back, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. "You're still brooding."

"I'm not—"

"You are." She cups my face in her hands. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

I hesitate. The truth is complicated. The truth is that I'm standing in my father's house, surrounded by people who don't know me, watching my girlfriend be the most beautiful person in the room, and I can't shake the feeling that this is all temporary. That she's temporary. That one day she'll wake up and realize she's been slumming it with a guy whose only real asset is his dad's money.

"Nothing," I say. "I'm just... thinking about later."

Her smile returns, slow and knowing. "Later, huh?"

"Yeah. Later."

She leans in and kisses me—soft, then deeper, her tongue tracing my lower lip. The taste of beer and something sweeter underneath. When she pulls back, her eyes are dark.

"Then let's make sure the party ends sooner rather than later," she says.

I laugh, and for a moment, the anxiety recedes. For a moment, I let myself believe that this is real, that she's mine, that the night will end the way I want it to.

The moment doesn't last.

The front door opens.

I don't notice it at first—the music is too loud, the crowd too thick. But then the music falters. Someone near the door fumbles with the speaker, and the bass cuts out, leaving only the tinny sound of a phone playing from someone's pocket. The room goes quiet, layer by layer, like a wave receding from the shore.

And then I hear it: the sound of a suitcase rolling across the marble floor of the foyer.

I turn, my heart already sinking, already knowing what I'm going to see.

My father is standing in the doorway.

He's still in his travel suit—charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, not a wrinkle in sight. His tie is loosened, just slightly, and there's a weariness in his eyes that I recognize from years of watching him come home from business trips. But there's something else there too. Something cold.

The room is silent now. Everyone is staring.

"Dad," I say, my voice cracking like a teenager's. "I thought—you weren't supposed to be back until Monday."

He doesn't answer. His gaze sweeps over the room, taking in the cheap decorations, the drunk students, the spilled beer, the party hat on the Greek philosopher's bust. His expression doesn't change, but I can feel the disapproval radiating off him like heat from a furnace.

And then his eyes land on Briana.

She's still standing next to me, her hand still on my arm. The tiara glints in the light. The bustier clings to her curves. The skirt barely covers her thighs.

My father's gaze lingers.

Just for a fraction of a second. Just long enough for me to notice.

Then he looks back at me, and his voice is quiet, controlled, and utterly final.

"Wrap this up."