cannibal; kendall roy

Poor, Defeated Man

She had always known how the vote would play out. There was no doubt about it. None. She knew—and had seen, in the grand scheme of life, Kendall Roy was never going to be the winner. He could try, and try. He could push all he wanted. Hell, maybe even cry—but Marguerite knew, just as well as Roman, or Shiv—hell, maybe even Rava, because she'd rightfully hooked and loved him properly. They all knew that Kendall wouldn't have it.

Even if he for some fucking reason deserved it.

Maybe he did. It would depend on who you'd ask.

She didn't care for the details, on who voted for who. Or how Roman had suffered at the hands of his own brother. How Shiv had been the one to slit his throat. She didn't care about the dance that Lukas and Tom had shared. Technically—she should've been there. She should've voted. But she'd already made it clear that she wasn't going to. And to be quite honest, she hadn't ever wanted to either. She didn't want to see Kendall fail, or particularly see the aftermath of it.

Her phone had calls pouring into it, the very fucking moment, the press release dropped. The moment the photos hit the press. Celebratory shots of the old guard. Of Tom. Of the Swedes. Of Roman. Hell, they'd gotten Roman. She could see the reflection of Greg in the corner of a glass window pane.

The calls built up.

Plenty of them from Lukas Matsson. He kept calling. And, well, rightfully so. He had been expecting her. They were supposed to leave. She was supposed to be his. They'd planned it for months. She had fucked her husband over for him. Her dirty, self-loathing, selfish, inhumane husband. She'd left him out to dry. After he screwed her so hard. So badly. So she'd done the same to him.

Speaking of Kendall.

He hadn't said a word to her. No calls. Nothing.

Their last words had been that morning. He'd popped into their place, taken one look at her plump and packed suitcases—and then they'd started to fight.
He had looked so tired. So drained. Despite the ego and fight coursing through his veins. Kendall Roy looked tired. The sunglasses over his eyes failing to hide it. His hands seemed weary when he'd held his son.

But he hadn't called her afterwards. Not as the news broke. Nothing. There was no scathing anger. Nothing.

She did send a simple text—not to him. But rather to Lukas Matsson. A simple "No."

No meaning—she couldn't leave right now. And whatever else. He'd understood. Maybe. Maybe not. Or maybe it was the idea that there was still his child swirling around inside of her, that kept him from blowing a fuse, losing his damn mind.

That first day—the day of loneliness, and the first day of Waystar Royco, no longer being owned by a Roy, she was alone. Except for her child. And for those of you who are expecting Marguerite Roy to drink herself into a frenzy, you'll be surprised to hear that she doesn't. For the most part, she stays inside. She plays with her son. She feeds him. She watches the news. Not ATN, god no. Marguerite Roy throws her phone into the bathtub one day. She doesn't want to see anymore text messages, or missed calls. She doesn't want to remember, or think of the guilt she has building up in her. For not leaving. For not voting.

She doesn't have a comment. She doesn't have anything she wants to say. She lives alone, opening her doors for packages and groceries. Marguerite Roy isn't a good cook. But she's doing okay. Learning, just a little bit. Kendall Roy hasn't made a peep. He hasn't come home. Marguerite Roy is worried, but doesn't say a word. Not that they should care about one another. They've both fucked the other right over the head.