10. Theodore
10
THEODORE
A few weeks later
T he car weaves through the chaos of the city center, slipping unnoticed past throngs of pedestrians and an endless stream of traffic.
I sit in the back seat, fingers tapping against the leather armrest. My phone is pressed to my ear, listening to the man on the other end drone on about numbers, projections, and potential outcomes, but my patience is wearing thin.
“ That’s enough,” I bark, cutting through the excuses. “ I don’t care about setbacks. I care about results. Deliver , or I’ll find someone who can.”
I lean back into the seat, stretching my legs out as the car rounds a curve.
“ I’ve heard enough for now. Follow up with the legal team and send me the final draft. I’ll look it over.”
This business venture has potential, but it’s not where my mind needs to be tonight. Vanguard awaits, tucked away in plain sight in the heart of the Ebonridge . It doesn’t stand out; that’s the point. It’s buried beneath layers of anonymity, its true nature obscured behind an unremarkable facade.
“ I’m not in the habit of repeating myself,” I add, my voice cold. “ You have until the end of the week.” The faint ache at the back of my skull intensifies. “ I don’t have the luxury of patience, so figure it out.”
Without waiting for a response, I end the call and drop the phone onto the seat beside me.
The town hums around us, oblivious to the weight of the meeting I’m about to walk into, the first gathering since Father’s death. I flex my fingers, releasing the tightness in my knuckles.
Tonight , I will be sworn in as the new patriarch, the title I’ve been groomed for since the day Lionel Whitmore decided I was worth more than to be a ward of the state. It’s the culmination of everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve sacrificed. And yet, a bitter taste lingers on my tongue.
It’s too soon.
My jaw tightens.
Lionel’s death left a hole, and the legacy demands someone to fill it. It has to be me—it was always going to be me. I should be pleased— I deserve this —but the timing is all wrong.
Truth is, Lionel’s death was too sudden. I needed him alive a little longer to clean up the pieces, to transition power smoothly.
Mathis , my driver, pulls the car to a stop at a red light, and for a moment, the silence in the cabin feels suffocating. I gaze out the window, catching my reflection—sharp suit, sharper eyes, a reflection Lionel would’ve approved of. I shouldn’t give a shit about what he thinks anymore.
My adoptive father, the man who built an empire out of shadows and lies, whose presence once filled every corner of Vanguard with silent authority, is nothing more than ashes.
And not by my hand.
That thought sticks to my skin, sharp as broken glass. The fire wasn’t part of the plan—not our plan, anyway. It should have been my move, my decision, but someone else played their hand first.
Camila , or Verónica , as she calls herself now, made sure to have the upper hand.
She was my adoptive sister, a Whitmore before she was a ghost. When she disappeared, we were forbidden to question the convenient story we were fed, and I was too hungry for Lionel’s approval to dig deeper. Her absence was a mystery we learned to ignore, but I can’t any longer.
She’s back.
The fire didn’t just destroy the old mansion; it kicked over a hornet’s nest of secrets. Camila —the sister we thought we lost—is alive .
She stepped out of the past, seizing control in the most destructive way possible.
I don’t know whether to admire her nerve or despise her recklessness. She stormed in after years of silence and tore down the foundations Lionel built, leaving the rest of us to pick up the pieces.
I lean back in my seat, closing my eyes for a moment. Verónica is out there somewhere, laying low, likely laughing at the irony of her adoptive brothers scrambling in the aftermath of her chaos.
When the time comes, we’ll need to talk about her future, what she wants and whether it aligns with what we need. This family name isn’t something you walk away from.
The Whitmore estate is quieter than ever now that the mansion has been reduced to dust. The investigation into the fire has concluded, and while Ebonridge PD suspected foul play, I convinced them it was an accident. Obviously , it wasn’t, but I’d rather them not dig deeper and uncover Valeria and Verónica’s involvement.
Selfishly , I want something to hold over their heads when I finally confront them. My adoptive sister was very hard to find, a skilled hacker herself. I guess it runs in the family. Still , I found her. She’s living in an apartment just outside of town with Valeria .
Mathis slows the car as we near Vanguard . From the outside, it looks like a nondescript office building tucked between a bank and a high-end boutique.
The entrance is as unassuming as ever—a simple doorway nestled between two faceless buildings, the kind of place you’d walk past a hundred times without ever noticing.
We pull into the underground parking garage, the sound of the engine echoing off the concrete walls as we descend. Finally , we come to a stop near an elevator tucked into the far corner.
“ You’ll wait,” I say without looking at Mathis .
“ Yes , sir.”
I step out, the sharp scent of oil and exhaust biting at my nose. Adjusting my cufflinks, I make my way to the elevator. The doors slide open with a soft chime, and I press my thumb to the biometric scanner.
The sudden buzz of my phone cuts through the quiet. I glance at the screen and smirk when I see Julian’s name flash across it.
“ Yes ?” I answer as I lean against the wall.
Julian’s exasperated sigh comes through the line, followed by the unmistakable sound of something shattering in the background. “ She’s at it again.”
I don’t need to ask who.
A muffled voice cuts through, shrill and furious. “ You’re all psychopaths! Sick , twisted assholes!”
A chuckle rumbles out of me before I can stop it. “ What’s she doing now?”
“ She won’t eat,” Julian growls. “ I tried everything. Brought her food, left it in the room, even threatened to let Maxwell cook for her, but nothing works. She’s acting like a goddamn feral cat.”
“ She’s stubborn. You can’t fault her for that.”
“ Fault her? I’m about to throw her out the damn window.”
In the background, Isabel’s voice rises again. “ I hope you choke on your own arrogance, you pretentious jackass!”
That makes me outright laugh. “ She’s got a mouth on her.”
“ No shit,” Julian snaps. “ I’m not calling for commentary, Theodore . What the hell do I do?”
I step out of the elevator, adjusting the lapels of my jacket. “ Figure it out yourself. You’re a grown man, aren’t you?”
Julian’s response is a string of cuss words in Spanish , rapid-fire and biting. He ends the call before I can retort, leaving me grinning like an idiot in the middle of Vanguard’s black marble hallway.
I can’t help but admire her fire. It’s not every day that someone dares to stand their ground against a Whitmore .
Since the moment we took Isabel , she has been nothing but a storm, impossible to ignore.
She hurls insults like knives, snapping at us any chance she gets, her fury burning hotter with each passing day. She refuses to eat more than a few bites and makes damn sure we know she’s rejecting everything we give her, knocking over trays, spitting venom with every word.
She calls us cowards, monsters. When we try to ignore her, she gets even louder, demanding answers, demanding freedom, never letting up.
She clings to her anger like it’s armor, keeping us at a distance with sharp glares.
Most people in Isabel’s position would be broken by now, worn down by fear or desperation, but not her.
Even when exhaustion tugs at her, when I can see the hunger gnawing at her, she doesn’t cave. It’s infuriating.
It would be easier if she broke. If she cowered. If she let fear swallow her whole.
But Isabel doesn’t know how to kneel. Yet .
I walk down the hall, toward the double doors ahead.
When I push them open, I’m immediately hit by the stifling heat of the room. It’s full of men already in their masks and cloaks, and my stomach churns at the sight. They look fucking ridiculous, every single one of them. I can’t believe I have to wear that damn thing too.
It’s just all so beneath me.
I don’t even bother with pleasantries. I lock eyes with one of the waiters and snap, “ Scotch . Now .” The tension is crawling up my spine, and I need something to take the edge off before I lose my cool.
The chatter around me fades as one of my father’s old associates sidles up with a fake smile, offering his condolences. “ I’m sorry for your loss, Theodore . Lionel was a good man.” His voice drips with insincerity, and I can’t help but want to roll my eyes.
“ Thank you,” I say, forcing out the words. I don’t care. It’s all just an act. His words don’t even register with me. I shake his hand because it’s expected, but that’s where it ends.
Before I can escape, another man approaches, his tone overly enthusiastic. “ I’m excited to see what the new generation of Whitmores will do. I’d love to meet with you and discuss some opportunities.”
My fists tighten. They don’t care about legacy or the family. They just want to use it to line their own pockets, to claw their way up. I nod, my mind already elsewhere, already tired of the show.
Then , I see Maxwell , and I freeze for a second, my eyes narrowing.
He’s dressed like he just stepped out of some fever dream. Leather pants, snug and black. A distressed shirt probably meant to be edgy, the holes too wide, showing off the tattoos creeping up his chest. There’s a silver chain draped around his neck, the star pendant swinging with every movement—a new addition he only started wearing after we captured Isabel . His boots are polished but untied, like he couldn't be bothered.
It’s exactly what you’d expect from Maxwell .
I can’t help myself. “ What the fuck are you wearing?”
Maxwell just shrugs, a stupid grin on his face. “ I’m going to Madhouse after this. Didn’t feel like changing,” he says casually, as if he’s not completely out of place in the crowd.
This fucking guy.
I can feel my eyes twitching as I watch him saunter through the room like he owns it. I take a slow, controlled breath. This whole fucking evening is already getting out of hand.
As if the night hasn’t tested me enough, I’m handed the patriarchal cloak. It feels heavier than I thought it would, like it’s suffocating me before I even put it on. The dark velvet is thick and oppressive, and the golden threads running through it catch the light just enough to make it feel like it’s more of a symbol of power than any of the men in the room. The moment it settles on my shoulders, I can feel the weight of every expectation.
I force down the irritation clawing at my ribs.
The head priest steps forward. “ It’s time, Theodore . Join me at the altar.”
The room falls quiet as I approach the front of the room. Everyone’s eyes are on me, and it feels like a thousand invisible hands pressing down on my chest, each one trying to see if I’m worthy of what they think is mine.
“ Place your right hand on the altar, Theodore Whitmore ,” the priest intones.
I put my palm on the cold stone, and I feel a small tremor shake through me.
The priest hovers the silver symbol of our bloodline over me.
At its center, a bold, interlocking W and V are carved deep into the metal, the edges elongated into claw-like extensions that stretch out, almost like talons. Encircling the letters, thin, winding etchings resemble the twisting roots of a tree. Small , dagger-like points extend from the outer ring, a silent promise of bloodshed.
I can feel the weight of the priest’s words as he begins the chant. The words are ancient, wrapped in power I don’t fully understand. It’s a part of the ritual, but something about it still makes my skin prickle.
“ The Whitmore legacy runs deep, and you, Theodore , are the next to carry that line. You are the one chosen to bear the mantle of patriarch, the one who will lead us through the future, through the trials of our past.” The priest’s voice drops to a whisper, his hand lowering to grip my wrist. The cool press of metal meets my skin before searing heat erupts against my flesh.
I grit my teeth as the silver brand digs into the soft skin of my inner wrist, the sharp scent of burning flesh curling into the air. The pain is white-hot, spreading through my veins like fire, but I refuse to flinch.
The seal of the Whitmore family burns into my skin.
The priest finally pulls away, and the pain dulls to a deep, insistent throb. The mark is there now, forever, Father’s claim etched into me like I’m nothing more than property. But this legacy belongs to me .
“ With this mark, you are bound to this family. May the blood of our ancestors guide you. May the power of our name give you strength.”
I grit my teeth against the pressure building behind my eyes, against the surge of power filling the air. It’s too much.
When he steps back, I pull my hand from the altar.
The priest bows his head, and the rest of the room follows suit. The formalities are over.
I’m the patriarch now.
Maxwell’s voice cuts through the air like a goddamn dagger. “ So you’re the king now, huh?” His grin is wide.
I don’t respond.
I turn, meeting the gaze of the men in the room. Some of them look away while others hold my stare, probably already calculating what they think they can get from me. I can practically hear their thoughts—how they’ll try to manipulate and use me.
I’m not the na?ve boy I once was.
I won’t be their puppet.
Not now. Not ever.