10. Schemes and Machinations

Mid-April 2010

Belgravia Dinner

Father wastes no time, I knew the moment I made the call last night that this dinner would bear its weight. Now, at the long mahogany table in our Belgravia townhouse, I sit with my back straight, every gesture rehearsed, every smile precise. Father presides at the head of the table, his voice cutting through the low conversation with the ease of a general issuing orders; Mother sits beside him, pearls snug at her throat, nodding at all the right moments.

Around us, trusted Ford employees and family friends hold their places — the senior aide from Father’s office, our long-time legal counsel, a trusted lobbyist, Mother’s closest friend from the charity board. These are the faces who have broken bread at this table for years; they know discretion is currency, and their presence is a reminder that what is decided here will ripple outward as strategy, not rumor.

“Elizabeth,” Father says, tone deceptively warm, “our contacts at the NCAA have confirmed the whispers are gaining traction, but whispers aren’t enough, we need action.” He spears a cut of lamb, chews with the confidence of a man who has already decided the outcome while I force my hand steady. “Action meaning a suspension,” I say.

“Exactly,” he replies, eyes steady as a metronome, “we need him besieged — questions about NCAA impropriety, whispers over who owns the Aegis IP, and the inevitable chatter about the propriety of a young woman living under his roof. Tarnish the White Knight in everyone else’s story; muddy the waters so he begins to look for help or is too distracted to respond effectively when we move. Elizabeth, when and if he asks for help, you must be the face he turns to— soft, steady, indispensable. Plant the seeds; he should want your counsel because it will be safer than the unknown.”

The words settle like a stone, besieged, the man I once loved—the boy who could make me laugh when the world felt unbearably scripted—is compressed here into strategy. I sip wine to conceal the heat at the back of my throat.

Mother leans in, her voice silk and blade, “darling, this is for the good of the family, you’ve seen how the Queen favors him, how he gathers allies. If he is not turned shortly, we will miss the opportunity to profit from Aegis.” I nod, outwardly compliant, the perfect daughter, the dutiful heir, inside my mind races. A trusted counsel gives a small, almost imperceptible nod—confirmation, concurrence. Conversations swirl, timing of legal inquiries, calibrated alumni questions, a discreet leak here, an unflattering placement there. The room hums with efficient menace, I add a measured observation when pressed, the sort of comment that sounds useful without betraying my inner tumult.

Father watches me like a man testing a shaky floorboard, “you understand, Elizabeth, this is not about romance, it is about dynasty. You will thank me when the dust settles.” I bow my head the fraction he requires, “of course, Father.” The confirmation slips easier than the wine. I have cast my lot and now must do my part to ensure success.

The rest of the dinner blurs into the machinery of plans. The trusted circle murmurs support: legalese and timing replace sentiment. I smile when expected, offer a polished quip when the conversation demands, but inside, the highroad lies abandoned. If I fight Father, I lose my place in this family, if I perform as expected, I lose myself — and my hands guides the knife.

When the plates are cleared and cigars are lit in the drawing room, I slip away and retreat to my room. The journal waits on the desk, leather softened by the nights I bury thought in ink. I write quickly, the words seizing the page before fear can quiet them. They ask me to destroy him and call it strategy, I tell myself it is politics, that Michael will rise to our Machiavellian challenge, but the truth is I am complicit. Am I daughter first, or a woman still capable of love? My fingers tremble over the last line, perhaps I am neither, maybe I am a coward who nods at the table and weeps alone. Inside the war continues, I press my palm to the glass and whisper, barely audible, “Forgive me, Michael for my sins.”

Rika’s Shadows

My task is not sparring alone, Sensei Ogata’s words were clear: know him, measure him, protect him. I follow, not openly, not with announcement, I move as shadow. At dawn, he leaves the condo, backpack slung carelessly, stride long and distracted, he does not scan the street before crossing, a mistake. I pace parallel across the block, slipping between students, pausing when he turns his head, his awareness is partial at best — eyes on the ground, mind already locked on whatever lecture or code waits inside the computer lab. I note the routes he favors, shortcuts through courtyards, the way his hand tightens on the strap of his bag when strangers pass too close. He feels the press of eyes, even if he pretends not to.

I trail him to Yost, the rink swallows him whole, a cathedral of cold and noise. Here his spine straightens, stride widening on the ice. He belongs here in a way he does not belong elsewhere. He skates with teammates, laughter blending with the scrape of blades. They thump their sticks on the boards when his slapshot hammers home, sound reverberating like a war drum. I watch from the shadows above, arms crossed, tracking every habit: the way he grinds through fatigue rather than yield, the way he smiles only when he forgets to guard himself. This is the place he is most alive, and therefore most vulnerable, adoration blinds as surely as fear.

When practice ends, he lingers, skating alone long after the others depart, circles within circles, sweat beading on his brow, I wait in the rafters until the Zamboni hums onto the ice. He is the first to arrive and the last to leave, carrying his own bag when others scatter to trainers and home. Pride, or isolation? Both can cut deep.

Later, at class, I sit in the lecture halls back rows behind him, he taps out notes with speed, frowning when the professor strays from logic into theory. His focus is sharp here, honed, but his body slumps and his posture invite’s exhaustion, shoulders curled, chest closed. If an attack came, he would have no room to react. I imagine stepping down the aisle, testing him with a sudden strike; he would fail for now.

Back at the condo, he locks the door but not the window, foolish. His rituals are simple: cook quickly, eat, spread books across the table, music sometimes, quiet, nothing to cover the silence that creeps in. I perch unseen outside, in the trees, watching the flicker of the screen against his face. His mouth moves when he codes, whispering like prayers, a man who builds machines of thought yet forgets to check the locks twice. But he is not always alone, a girl appears often, Hanna.

I know her name only because the clan spoke it once, without detail. She is small, delicate, shoulders curled inward as if bracing against the world. She carries groceries sometimes, her hands shaking slightly as she digs for keys, he opens the door for her, and though she barely looks up, I see her expression soften — relief, trust, devotion.

I watch carefully; they never touch like lovers, she hovers instead, setting out food, folding laundry, leaving notes by his desk. He speaks to her gently, almost like an older brother, his voice lowered in ways I do not hear at dojo or rink. She laughs rarely, but when she does it is quiet, fragile, and he listens as if the sound itself matters. Who is she to him? Not clan, not rival, not girlfriend, yet she orbits close, and he allows it, whatever binds her to him, it is not a weapon I can see, more mystery than threat, likely harmless — for now.

One evening, as I linger near the condo, a ripple of unease brushes against me. Not danger, nor pursuit — just the faint pressure of someone else watching. Across the street, a man pauses under the lamplight, gaze sweeping with practiced ease, his stance is too measured for a casual passerby, his eyes too alert. I shift deeper into shadow, he does not look my way, yet something in my instincts whispers I am not the only one keeping watch. Perhaps Michael has other guardians or people spying on him? Maybe it is nothing, the moment passes, and the man walks on, still, the impression lingers: I am not the only shadow near him.

Night comes, the condo darkens, and from my vantage on the roofline, I see shadows shift as they each retreat to separate rooms. He sleeps fitfully, turning often, as though dreams press too heavily. She sleeps curled inward, a fortress of blankets around a body still learning peace. Through all of this, I remain unseen, to him I am sparring partner, the precise hand correcting his hesitation on the mats. But beyond those walls, I am the unseen guardian, my presence is not comfort; it is test. To protect him, I must know every flaw in his rhythm, every opening an enemy would exploit.

Already I see them clearly, he lowers his eyes when strangers confront, he trusts his teammates. His strength is undeniable, yet it leaks away when memory clouds him — the women he lost, the loyalty betrayed. At the dojo, I show him these truths with each strike that lands. Outside, I watch how the same shadows chase him in silence. I will continue to follow until his body hardens, his spirit clears, and he learns that no enemy is more dangerous than the ones already inside him. Perhaps, with time, the mystery of Hanna will reveal itself — not as danger, but as another thread in the web that keeps him human.

The Suspension

Coach’s text is short enough to feel like a slap: AD’s office. Now.

I leave the dojo still damp, my forearms throb from blocked strikes. Yost’s hallway smells like rubber mats and detergent, a cleaner, simpler world where outcomes are printed on scoreboards and you can skate the poison out of your head; the administrative wing smells like coffee gone bitter from sitting on a warmer too long.

Angie Dawson waits outside the conference room, eyes scanning me head to toe with a practiced clinical calm. “Thanks for coming on short notice,” she says, which is a funny line to use on a student whose calendar she so casually obliterated. Inside, Athletic Director Langley rises with that cultivated warmth that always makes me feel like I’m a headline instead of a human, and Coach Benson stands beside him, coffee gone cold in his hand. There’s another man at the table in a navy suit I don’t recognize—legal, I guess, the kind that appears when things stop being about kids and start being about reputation and liability. A yellow envelope sits at Langley’s elbow.

I take the chair opposite, back straight, “What’s going on?”

Langley steeples his fingers, “Michael, I’m going to be direct, we received a formal notice from the NCAA late last night and a follow-up from the conference this morning.” He taps the envelope, “this is a preliminary determination regarding your eligibility.”

The room narrows. Breathe. “Eligibility for what?”