4. Julian
4
JULIAN
I end the call with Theodore and slip my phone back into my pocket.
Taking a deep breath, I glance over at the passenger seat where Mother sat just minutes ago. She was leaning against the side of the car, eyes half-closed, the sedative starting to kick in. I could see her attempts to keep herself awake slowly faltering as the drugs did their job.
It took a lot to get her to the Ebonridge Rose Inn , the quaint little place a few miles out of town that’s as much a sanctuary as it is a prison. I had to practically drag her out of the house. She protested, of course, her voice high-pitched and shrill as she demanded to stay in the estate’s living quarters. I could hear the irritation in her tone as she insisted she was fine, that there was no need for a night away. But tonight wasn’t about her comfort.
No , it was about business. The last thing I needed was her sniffing around when the real party started.
The guards at the estate helped me pack her things. I didn’t trust her on her own, especially not after the way she’d been acting. Maxwell , as the warden of security at Vanguard , always has foot soldiers at his disposal—so he sent one to follow me to the inn, just in case something went wrong. Mother is far too unpredictable to leave unattended.
By the time I arrived at the inn, the drugs had done their job. She was mumbling incoherently, fighting sleep with a mixture of confusion and stubbornness. But once she hit the bed in the expansive room, her protests ceased. Maxwell’s guard locked the door behind me, ensuring no one would disturb her before I returned.
I start the car and pull out of the parking lot, my blacked-out Aventador gleaming under the streetlights. It’s the kind of car that demands attention, whether I want it or not. The tires screech as I shift into gear, speeding toward the Whitmore estate.
The cool night air rushes in through the window, and I let it settle against my skin, pushing thoughts of my mother to the back of my mind. Tonight is about claiming power.
The mansion looms in the distance, its silhouette cutting through the dark sky like a shadowed king. As I drive through the gates, I can feel the tension in the air. The guests are already arriving, unaware of what awaits them inside.
I park the car in the garage, the engine purring one last time before I shut it off. The silence is a welcome change after the roar of the streets.
A quick glance at my watch tells me I have just enough time.
My white mask slips easily into place, the cool porcelain fitting snugly against my face.
I step out of the car and head for the main entrance.
The game will begin soon.
* * *
Maxwell is already inside, working the room with that damn smirk plastered across his face. He thrives in crowds like this, soaking up the attention, his charm drawing people in like moths to a flame. It’s effortless for him, and I envy that sometimes—not that I’d ever admit it.
I stick to the edges where I belong. The noise, the faces, the constant buzz in the room—it grates on me. I keep my head down, my distance measured, careful not to invite attention. People don’t notice me, and that’s how I prefer it. But I see them.
I see everything.
My role tonight isn’t to mingle or play the host. It’s to stay invisible and keep my eyes open.
Maxwell can have the spotlight.
I step further into the grand hall, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses echoing off the marble floors.
Father stands just a few feet away, talking to his associates, wearing a well-honed and practiced smile. The sight of him twists my stomach, and I suppress the urge to shudder.
I’ve never been a fan of Lionel Whitmore .
Despite adopting me from St . Dismas ’ Home for Boys , I’ve never once felt thankful for him. Lionel doesn’t do things out of the goodness of his heart. He’s a man who calculates every move, who twists every action into an advantage. Adopting us wasn’t about love or filling some paternal void. It was about securing pawns—three boys he could groom into perfect tools for his schemes.
The day I stepped onto the Whitmore estate, I stopped being a person. At thirteen, I was the youngest of the three. Naive . Quiet . Desperate to belong. So , I stayed silent. I listened, absorbed everything. They underestimated me, just like they always underestimate the quiet ones.
But the ones who speak the least are often the most dangerous, the most lethal.
Lionel’s gaze finds me, and I stiffen. He snags another glass of amber liquid from a passing tray and makes his way toward me.
For fuck’s sake .
“ Julian ,” he greets, his voice carrying a false weight, like he’s trying too hard to sound intimidating. He extends the glass toward me.
“ Father .” I give him a curt nod and take the drink, my face impassive.
He lingers, his dark eyes studying me like I’m some problem he has yet to solve. “ Ms . Deering told me your mother left for the night,” he says, his tone bordering on accusatory. “ Do you have anything to do with that?”
“ Yes .” There’s no point in lying. He always discovers the truth eventually.
I sip the bourbon, letting the bitter heat burn as it runs down my throat.
Lionel narrows his eyes. “ Care to tell me why?”
“ No .”
I meet his gaze, unflinching. Lionel knows better than pushing me when I don’t want to talk. He learned that the hard way. In the early years, he tried to beat answers out of me, but as I grew taller—stronger—that tactic quickly lost its effectiveness. Now , he’s nothing more than a scrawny old man with too much hubris and not enough muscle to back it up.
Lionel studies me for a beat longer before a thin, humorless smile tugs at his lips. “ Fair enough. The night will start soon. Can I count on you and your brothers to participate?”
We don’t usually take part in the games during Latibulum Noctis . Not out of fear or weakness, but because we see them for what they are: an illusion, a rigged spectacle designed to convince the participants they have a chance. But the truth is, the mark is always chosen before the night even begins. No guest truly knows what happens after midnight.
This time, though, we’ll be playing our own game.
I nod, giving him nothing else. Lionel’s lips press into a thin line, and he shakes his head as he walks away. I watch him retreat, and a bitter thought claws its way to the surface.
I can’t wait until he’s fucking dead.
From across the room, Theodore catches my eye, lifting his glass in a silent invitation. I make my way over to him.
As always, Theo looks perfectly composed, his tailored suit unruffled, his expression betraying only confidence.
“ If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re an alcoholic,” I deadpan.
He scoffs, swirling the liquor in his glass. “ Enjoying a fine drink is hardly grounds for concern, Julian .”
“ The way you consume that garbage ? Yes , it is.”
Theo steps back, mock offense written all over his face. “ Garbage ? Since when did you become a fucking scotch connoisseur?”
I let the corner of my mouth lift. “ Calm down, Theo . It’s just a joke.”
“ You don’t joke,” he retorts flatly, narrowing his eyes.
He’s not wrong.
I take another sip of my drink, the bourbon warming me from the inside out. “ Today is a special day.”
Theo’s lips curl into a grin—a dangerous, wolfish thing. “ You’ve got that right.” He pulls out his phone, his expression triumphant. “ According to the tracker I installed on Isabel’s phone, Valeria is on her way to pick her up now.”
I blink, momentarily stunned. “ You put a tracker on her phone?” I don’t know why I’m surprised. Theo is a master hacker and can pretty much do anything on a computer.
Theo’s grin only widens. “ Of course. I can even read her texts. Look .” He holds the screen toward me, proud as ever.
When I look, I see Isabel’s text exchange with Valeria .
Val : Come out now.
Isa : Yes , Mommy .
Val : Haha . Two minutes.
“ You’re obsessed,” I say.
Theo shrugs, unapologetic. “ I just know what I want.”
And he always gets what he wants. That’s the thing about Theo —his determination is both admirable and terrifying. I’ve never seen him so focused, so… personal about a plan before.
I glance around, searching for Maxwell . If Isabel is close, we’ll need to greet her together. I spot him at the far end of the room, surrounded by a group of women hanging on his every word.
I roll my eyes and push off the wall, leaving Theo to his scheming. As I approach Max , his laughter carries over the conversation.
The women surrounding him are giggling as he’s perched on the edge of a chaise lounge, one foot on the floor, the other resting on the arm of the chair in a careless sprawl. He’s laughing—loud, unrestrained, the kind that pulls people in, even if they don’t know what’s funny.
As I get closer, I catch the tail end of whatever ridiculous story he’s telling.
“… and that’s when I realized I’d stolen the priest’s car,” Maxwell finishes, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. The women erupt into laughter, leaning closer to him, their eyes sparkling with delight.
One of them, a brunette wearing too much lipstick, rests her hand on his arm. “ Oh , you’re terrible !” she says, but her tone suggests she means the exact opposite.
Maxwell grins, flashing teeth as he leans in conspiratorially. “ Darling , you have no idea.”
Before I can say anything, he suddenly leaps to his feet, startling the women. One of them gasps, nearly spilling her drink.
“ Right , then! Who wants to see a trick?” he announces, spreading his arms wide, like a ringmaster at a circus.
The women exchange amused glances, their curiosity piqued. “ What kind of trick?” one of them asks, her tone playful.
Maxwell winks, his grin turning wicked. “ The dangerous kind.”
I stop a few feet away, crossing my arms as I watch him with a mix of exasperation and mild amusement.
From his jacket pocket, he pulls out a small, wickedly sharp knife, the blade catching the light as he twirls it with practiced ease.
“ Max ,” I warn, my voice low.
He glances at me, his grin widening. “ Relax , Juju . I’m just having a bit of fun.”
One of the women gasps, her eyes going wide. “ Is that real?”
“ Real as the moon in the sky, sweetheart,” Maxwell replies.
Before anyone can protest, he tosses the knife into the air. It spins in a silver blur, and for a split second, I’m sure he’s going to let it fall—but of course, he doesn’t. He catches it effortlessly by the handle, his movement so fluid, it’s as if the blade is an extension of his hand.
The women applaud, their laughter mingling with nervous gasps. One of them fans herself dramatically. “ You’re insane!”
“ Guilty as charged,” Maxwell says with a bow, but his eyes flick to me, and for a moment, the wild gleam in them sharpens into something more calculated. He’s playing the fool, as always, but beneath the act, Maxwell is anything but careless.
I step closer, lowering my voice so only he can hear. “ Isabel will be here any minute. Try not to scare her off before we even start.”
Maxwell smirks, slipping the knife back into his pocket. “ Oh , come on, Julian . Where’s the fun in that?”
“ This isn’t a game,” I remind him.
“ Everything’s a game, little brother. The trick is making sure you’re the one holding the deck.”
Maxwell is unpredictable, but he’s also strangely magnetic. People can’t help but be drawn to him, even when they know they probably shouldn’t be.
Even when I know I shouldn’t be.
It has always been this way, even back in the orphanage. Before we were Whitmores , before we had a name that meant anything, there was him.
Maxwell had this effortless way of making people orbit him, like he belonged to no one, but could own you in a single glance. He could talk his way out of trouble or straight into it, and it never mattered, because he always landed on his feet.
And I always followed.
I should’ve resented it. Maybe , in some ways, I did. But it didn’t stop the pull, the way my chest would tighten when he grinned at me from across the room, like we shared a secret only we understood. It didn’t stop the way my pulse stuttered whenever he got too close, his voice low and teasing, daring me to push him away.
I never did.
Even now, after everything, after years of blood and loyalty and a family name that’s more curse than blessing, that pull is still there. He’s infuriating, reckless, impossible. But when he looks at me like that—when he tilts his head, smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing—it makes it hard to breathe.
I school my expression, ignoring the warmth creeping up my spine. “ You know, one of these days, that charm of yours is going to run out.”
Maxwell just smirks, lazy and knowing. “ Not on you, Juju . Never on you.”
And damn him, he’s right.
With that, he turns back to his audience, raising his glass in a mock toast. “ To danger, darlings!”
The ladies cheer, their laughter ringing out.
“ If you want more,” he calls over the noise, “catch me at Madhouse any night. Ask for Madcap .” With a flourish, he winks at the women.
They squeal, eating it up, but I’ve already turned away, heading back toward Theodore .
Maxwell might play the joker, but I know him too well to be fooled. Beneath the theatrics and chaos, there’s always a method to his madness.
And tonight, madness might be exactly what we need.