How Amory Scout Finds Herself In The Eye of The Calloway Storm.

By Tatiana Wheeler.

Heavy lies the head that wears the crown of the new Calloway Empire. At the helm of all the chaos, meet Amory Scout- America's newest princess, the world's most elusive socialite, and girlfriend to the world's most powerful man entangled in the murder of a scion. The best part of it all? She hasn't even graduated high school.

Despite not being a New York native, Amory Scout seems to know her best way around the city's best restaurants, bars and haunts.

"I love their spicy margaritas," she made sure to comment when she arrived at Blue Hill, a farm-to-table restaurant she recommended meeting at for our interview. She had assured me to not worry about making a reservation- she could get Orson Callyway, her high school sweetheart and homecoming king, to call in a favour with the maitre-d.

Amory Scout and Orson Calloway stand to be New York's latest obsession, the couple currently embroiled in the city's most shocking murder of the century: the death of real-estate mogul and patriarch of the world's most powerful family, Elijah Calloway. While the FBI launch their own investigation, Amory and Orson sit in the heart of the chaos due to the revelation of Elijah's will. A will that bequeaths Orson, Elijah's eighteen-year-old son, the inheritance of the mass Calloway fortune, a thousandth-year-old empire in the hands of a boy who hasn't even walked down the aisle with a cap and gown.

"Everything is just so crazy right now," Amory admitted. Amory, like Orson, is also a high-school student. However, she wasn't like your ordinary run-of-the-mill suburban teen at the heels of crossing a major milestone.

Amory attended Kensington, a private prep school in Manhattan, an institution almost as old as America. The school's wellness director, Ginny Fendell, called her the "queen of compartmentalization." Her grades were decent, she served in the homecoming committee and played varsity hockey while being a fixture of the New York teen club scene and was regularly spotted on popular gossip instagram page VieuxRiche. She was five feet five with blonde hair and tanned skin- "the picture of Americana," as one classmate described her.

Before moving to Manhattan, Amory was a Beverly Hills princess. Amory's Californian roots can be shown in the way she was dressed. Unlike her peers, who were constantly cladded in New York noir and East Coast plaid, Amory was So-Cal cool in low-as-you-can-go 7 For All Mankind jeans, a white shrunken tank top and Judith Leiber pumps. "Honestly England is too cold to dress like this, even in the summer," Amory said, "So I make sure to take the advantage of the heat while I'm in New York."

Currently, the young couple divides their time between the centuries-old Calloway Manor and Orson's Manhattan penthouse. They, after all, still are finishing the last few weeks of their high school career. The point seems to be lost on the two as they try to cope with the tragedy that has recently befallen the Calloway family.

Elijah Calloway, the titan that carved half of New York's skyline into fruition, seemed to have been murdered. In cold blood by thieves who robbed the Calloway jewels blind.

In his wake lay a shattered grieving daughter, now drawn to madness and effectively institutionalised. Astute ballerina and socialite Carmen Calloway spent her days tucked in a facility in Connecticut, first for an eating disorder and now over the breakdown exacerbated by her stepfather's death. Her release date is yet to be unknown.

"It's so upsetting what happened to Carmen," Amory murmured, "She's gone completely crazy after Elijah's death. Orson decided it was best to check her into rehab again, you know, so they can monitor her and watch over her. Make sure she doesn't hurt herself."

"I understand," I nodded as the speakerphone recording our conversation lit up. "I've been trying to get in contact with some of your friends but it's been extremely hard to get ahold of them. Especially, Parker, she seemed to have deactivated all of her social media."

Amory sighed, her expression seemed sympathetic. "Parker's been pretty embarrassed about what happened with Yale. She was a shoo-in, you know, but then it was found out she's been plagiarising her assignments all school year. I never knew, of course, until the principal told me. Apparently, she needed to be held back...but I think she dropped out of Kensington." Amory shrugged, "I've tried to contact her as well but I figured she's still wounded over what happened so I've decided to give her some space to heal."

"I see."

"To be honest, the whole group have kind of split apart. It's been a traumatic year, which is why I'm forever grateful to have Orson," Amory smiled, "He's my rock. He actually gave me this, you know, kind of like a promise ring."

On her hand lay the most prestigious Calloway family heirloom, Delia Calloway's 14.6-carat blue diamond ring- rumoured to be the engagement ring Jeremy Calloway had proposed to her. The diamond was originally harvested in 1889, and found in the mines of South Africa before being crafted on a soft pure gold band and passed down the generations.

An artefact of the old money sits on the delicate finger of a Californian new money princess, the daughter of self-made figures from the Hollywood west coast.

How did the outsider become the ultimate insider?

Especially in a world as cloistered as the New York elites, where health is a priority, education is a given and modesty (in dress and demeanour) is a habit. Their work ethic is communicated by example. And maintaining financial independence is key. These Core Values shape the exterior life—what we see and saw—in the Manhattanites and Greenwrich-raised, Boston Brahmins and other old New England families. They're exclusive. They're educated. They're family-oriented. They're discreet. They're hard-working. They're physically active. They dress in traditional clothing. They drive cars that are expensive but used for a relatively long time (Mercedes Benz, BMWs and Range Rovers). They tend to live in older houses in established neighbourhoods.

The expectations and unwritten rules that came with being raised in this culture could be alien to a newcomer hoping to reach this upper-crust world. It was expected for the individual to study, work, excel, and contribute. If you want to be a school teacher, then teach, and do your very best. If you want to be a US Senator, fine. You might consider representing the interests and needs of those less fortunate.

Just know that your family's reputation has probably been built and burnished by the deeds of your ancestors. So you'll be expected to dig in and accomplish, too.

And God helps you if you tarnish your family's good name through unethical or illegal dealings. They may forgive you, but the community will not.

"I've been in private school practically my whole life," Amory admitted over the decadent afternoon tea in a luxe three-tier affair. "It's not like I came from nothing but my parents did. That's not usually good enough for these people though; I can't trace my family tree all the way back to Stuyvesant or come from German nobility. My ancestors didn't build cities and create legacies that last for generations so it's interesting being with someone who did. At the end of the day, I honestly think they're just normal people and just because they come people who did great things doesn't mean they're destined to do the same."

While the transfer of power has been shaky with its necessary criticisms from her peers, there are plenty who welcome the new order from traditional and dusty to colourful and young.

"It's nice to see a fresh face at the helm of the dynasty," said Katherine Pickard, a classmate of Amory's at Kensington. "Especially when you've been used to seeing the same people at the top for years, you're afraid things will never change. But Amory proves that it can."

This article has attempted to reach out to Parker Holtz and Hanif Rahim for comments but heard nothing back.

Despite having only one year of experience on the scene, it's clear that Amory Scout aims to waste no haste in getting what she wants. And what she wants seems to be everything the world has to offer.

Regardless, the rest of us will be waiting breathlessly in anticipation to see the new summit she'll be willing to climb.

-

"A little to the left," I order Delia's former ladies in waiting to adjust the new Rembrandt I've recently purchased. All of the dusty portraits of creepy Calloway ancestors have been replaced with Veronica's robust art collection. She has been more than happy to make recommendations to help me freshen up Calloway Manor, especially as journalism staff from The Cut are bustling across Calloway Manor, fixing up lighting and cameras for the shoot. Tatiana, the reporter, I spoke back to in New York has informed me that her editor loved the interview I gave and is pushing for the story to be a front-page feature. That means extending the story into a three-page length editorial.

Tatiana is in the corner, instructing the photographers on the mood of the shoot in the corner, waving away her pencil as she speaks. My shoulders relax, feeling a little satisfied thrill. It's like I've accomplished everything I wanted to.

"Redecorating already?"

I turn promptly. Orson is standing in the darkened hallway. Dark of hair, indolent of face, and fond of drink, with a thumbnail-size diamond ring on his hand, he wore black Ronin cargo pants and a Mongolian cashmere sweater in obsidian that I remembered him wearing in a yearbook photo from five years ago prior to our meeting. The sweater reminded me of one of the many dictates in the apocryphal This Is How We Do Things Big Book: Don't buy cheap.

Five years strong and the cashmere sweater barely shows a hint of wear.

"I'm just freshening it up a little," I say coyly. I pull up my white strapless satin Vera Wang, which was slipping down my chest. As soon as I found out about the shoot, I made sure to pay a visit to my personal trainer and nutritionist who makes sure to whip me into shape within a couple of weeks. Now I'm thin but curvy in every right place ever dreamed up by mankind. The dress is elegantly simple with a neckline that's modest in the front but dips down to just above my butt in the back, revealing my toned back muscles. Delia's perfect pearls hang from my neck and diamond studs shine from my ears as my blonde hair lies straight and shiny.

"You waste no time, don't you?"

I stare at him. I narrow my eyes at his tone. "What do you mean?"

"I saw Parker. She told me everything."

I am quiet. Have we been alone, I know his hands might have found their place around my neck, his fingers locating perfect grooves in my flesh. To feel that strong pulse under his fingers ... but we aren't alone, we are in front of cameras, surrounded by an avalanche of noise and light.

My face remains still, eyebrows arched. "And you believe her?"

He stops in his tracks and looks at me. "I wouldn't put it past you at this point."

I take my phone and send him the video, you know, that video. On the night of Elijah's murder, him standing over a body. There's no message attached but the underlying intention is communicated. If I go down, we all do.

"Okay, Amory, Orson, we are ready for you!" Tatiana announces.

The camera lights turn brighter, bathing Calloway Manor in a lush, incandescent ethereal glow. The room Tatiana has chosen to host the shoot for the editorial is palatial. The museum's quality collection of European antiques, Venetian paintings, French textiles, and Russian chandeliers amassed (or rather stolen) by the Calloways over the years are scattered across the space amongst modern-day equipment of studio lights and tripods. Gold-framed Impressionist paintings by artists like Matisse, Degas, and Cassatte covered the walls but my Rembrandt is the main piece featured in the shoot as it stands behind Delia's chaise lounge. The lounge is the centrepiece of the camera's lens, where I believe Orson and I will sit for our editorial. Decorative pillows made from Lyon silks and embroidered Chinese brocades are strewn across Delia's old favourite couch.

Orson and I dutifully take our place in the lounge. A makeup artist rushes over and makes the necessary adjustments on our faces; she dusts some bronzer on Orson's pale skin, pulls back some colour into his face and then swabs red lipstick on my face.

"Okay Orson, can you have your hand placed on Amory's hand on top of your thigh?" Tatana instructs. Orson hesitates, then reluctantly puts his hand over mine. He squeezes. The gesture appears romantic- Orson holding onto my hand for dear life- but his nails dig so painfully into my flesh I had to stifle a gasp of pain.

"You fucking bitch."

I tilt my chin and sweetly beam into the camera as it snaps. One time, two times. "Brilliant," Tatiana cries, looking at the photographer's lens, "Amory, you look stunning."

I grin, "Thanks Tatiana," I boom loudly, then soften my voice for only Orson to hear, "I did it all to protect you."

"Protect me?"

"Oh, like you didn't know. Didn't Parker tell you? You and Elijah are brothers. Carmen is his only real heir; you know she would've fucked you out of everything. If she ever found out the truth about the inheritance, who your real father is, and what Elijah has done and tried to do, do you really think she wouldn't come after you? Do you really think you would've been safe?"

Orson stays speechless. He does not know what to say.

"Amory, let's get your other side. Switch places with Orson."

We acquiesce. "She'll come for you if she knew the truth," I speak again, my voice just a murmur as Tatiana is ordering the light crew around. Changing positions, something about bringing the light higher. I stop speaking when the makeup artist darts over to powder some blush on my cheeks, causing my cheeks to become fuller with colour.

"Elijah tried to kill you because you stood in the way of the empire, in the way of the empire he wanted to give Carmen," I explain, unheard in the fury of the media thronging around us. "And killed my family in the collateral damage of it all. Do you think I'm just some social climber, baby? Some gold digger obsessed with status?"

He stares at me once more. Orson's eyes are so blue and dark with emotion that I can hardly stand it, but I can't look away either, not when he's looking at me like that. He's so angry he's shaking, his blue gaze emblazoned in fury. He hates me. But he's also afraid of me. His eyes dip low to the dress I'm wearing, white like a virgin, like an angel. My blonde hair floats around me like a golden halo. I'm deceptively ethereal. However, I see a glimmer as he takes me over. I detect a nib of admiration, and more than that, a fondness for me, right in the middle of him, right in the gut.

"I'm going to leave you. I'm breaking up with you."

I restrain the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, for the pretence of the cameras, I bat my eyelashes at him, slowly, seductively. In that way he loves so much, my luminous emerald-coloured eyes are lined with Shiseido black eyeliner and mascara so they flutter darkly as my mouth, dark red like a warning sign, spreads into a smile.

"And you're gonna do what? Do you think you'll be happier with someone else?"

Everyone around us is watching us, thinking we're whispering sweet nothings in each other's ears. We look so in love, like each other's perfect pairing. Beautiful, rich, ambitious, cold.

Money makes you lonely, foolish, or even evil, but worse than any of these: since you can buy anything, including having people do everything that needs to be done, you are bored, bored, bored. There are no challenges in life. You don't have to work. You don't have to keep house. You don't, in fact, have to do anything.

And everyone expects you to like it.

Of course, money comes with strings attached. Our entire lives lived in a constant state of manipulation, where we anticipate each other's next moves with slitted eyes and the mental acuity of chess players. Orson lived his entire life in a cage match.

But baby so did I.

"You know me," I tell him in that velvet soft voice, the one that always sounds like it's just for him. "You truly know me now. Better than anyone else in the world and I know you. I know you, Orson Calloway, in a way nobody ever will."

My face splayed open like it almost never is, and mascara-spattered eyes blinking relentlessly, staring straight into the centre of him.

For him, to know what I did, to hear it from Parker and know it immediately, to confront me instead of going to the authorities...this man knows me cold. Better than anyone in the world, he knows me. All this time I've considered us strangers, even enemies, and it turns out we know each other intuitively, in our bones, in our blood.

It's kind of romantic when you think about it. Catastrophically romantic.

"You're crazy. You're actually fucking crazy. You killed Georgina."

"And baby, you killed your father," I turn my head to face him. Even if he is wearing a wire, I feel safe, because I didn't confess to anything technically. I just throw out the accusation, an accusation that holds more weight as it comes with video footage. So even if he tries to take this to the police, he can't do it without turning himself in.

Double assurance always.

"Do you really think you'll happy with the average girl, Orson?" I'm tucking in a loose hair behind his ear, caressing his temple with my OPI ballet-slipper-pink-polished fingers. He flinches at my touch. "Dating some boring-ass girl next door? Because trust me you can find a nice girl like Georgina but you'll still think of me. Because you'll never have another girl like me."

He remains quiet, his head turning, his eyes shining. There's such delicious surrender in the words, and I feel myself slipping away to him. Some small part of me warns against this.

"And even if you did like her," my smile turns cruel, "Do you think she'll love you for all that you've done, all the carnage and destruction you've left in your wake?"

"Okay, now Orson! Put your hand around Amory," Tatiana instructs. Orson painstakingly wraps his arm around my head, he strokes my hair. He takes a strand between my finger and thumb, and I pull it to the end and tug like he's ringing a bell, and we both like that.

"No way, baby, I've stuck by you through it all. And for me, you'll do the same."

The camera goes off, engulfing us in a breath of light. I can imagine the front cover of the magazine now. Orson's heavy arms around me, our faces frozen in that lavender haze. I'm in white and to match, Orson's black slacks and cardigan. We look like an old 50s picture, like a miniature syllabus in American Studies—saturated in references to jazz, girl groups, heavy metal, Springsteen; Hemingway and Fitzgerald; money, power, glory; excess and loss; Whitmanian multitudes, a Kennedy-esque affair.

What a happy ending.

I'm your fucked-up black swan protagonist. Orson is my forever antagonist.

We are one long frightening epilogue.

The end.