I woke up the next morning feeling strangely clear-headed, the lingering bitterness replaced by a quiet resolve. Karson was downstairs, nursing a cup of coffee, scrolling through his phone. He acted as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't stormed out in a fit of rage hours earlier.
He put his phone down when I sat at the dining table, his eyes scanning me quickly before flitting away. There was a calculating glint in them now, something I' d never seen directed at me before. It was unnerving.
"I called Fannie," he announced, his voice surprisingly calm. "She's decided she wants to pursue a career in corporate art curation. I told her you'd be happy to set her up with an internship at the company."
He offered a small, placating smile. It was meant to disarm me, to make me forget the cruel words I' d overheard, the shattered mug, the slammed door. But it just felt like a cheap veneer over something utterly rotten. He wasn't trying to make me happy; he was trying to use me to secure his new favorite toy's future.
"An internship?" I echoed, my voice flat. "Karson, we don't just 'set people up' with internships. There's a process."
He rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, Clare. Don't be ridiculous. She's a friend. You make a call, she shows up, she gets the job. Simple."
"No," I corrected, my words slow and deliberate. "She submits a resume. She goes through the interview process. If she's qualified, and if there's an opening, she might get it."
His jaw tightened. "Are you serious right now? You're joking, right?"
"No, I'm not joking," I replied, meeting his gaze steadily.
He scoffed. "The company doesn't even have an internship program for art curation. Where is she supposed to interview, exactly?" His voice dripped with sarcasm.
A cold, hard truth settled in my stomach. He wanted me to pull strings, to bend the rules, to use my influence – the influence I no longer possessed – to pave the way for Fannie. He wanted to be the hero, the benevolent mentor, while I became the villain who abused her power.
"She can apply after she graduates," I said, pushing a piece of toast around my plate. "With a proper portfolio and a well-written resume. She can then interview for an entry-level position like anyone else."
This was new territory for us. I rarely contradicted him, always bending to his will, always trying to please him. But now, it was different. The chains had snapped.
He slammed his fork down on the table, the metallic clatter echoing in the quiet room. His face was a mask of barely suppressed rage, but I didn't look up. I just kept eating my toast, a small, defiant act.
