Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Vivianne: Sentinel
The breakfast room smells of fresh coffee and something sweet—cinnamon rolls, maybe, or those delicate French pastries Father insists on ordering from the bakery in the city. My stomach should growl at the scent. Instead, it twists into knots.
Across the table, Father sits like a king at court, his newspaper held high—a shield, a wall, a reminder that I'm not worth looking at. The pages rustle as he turns them, crisp and deliberate. Each snap of paper feels like a slap.
I sit woodenly in my chair, last night's discoveries pressing down on my chest like a physical weight. Anthony's letters. Grandmother's confession. The woman she could have been, burned away by duty until only ash remained.
Clara, one of our servers, glides in with a silver tray. She sets down a plate of pastries, their golden crusts gleaming with butter. The scent intensifies, rich and cloying, and my stomach rebels.
"You're not eating." Father's voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. He doesn't lower the paper.
I force myself to reach for a croissant, tearing off a small piece. It's still warm, the layers flaking apart in my fingers. I bring it to my lips but can't make myself bite down.
"Not hungry."
The paper lowers. Those steel-gray eyes lock onto mine, and I shrink, becoming smaller under his gaze. It's a trick he's mastered—making me feel like I'm six years old again, standing before him with mud on my shoes, waiting for judgment.
"You look tired." He sets his coffee cup down with a deliberate click against the saucer. "Late night?"
My pulse slams against my ribs. The croissant crumbles between my fingers, flakes falling onto the china plate like snow. Does he know? Did Marcus tell him more than I thought?
"Couldn't sleep."
"Hmm." He lifts his cup again, drinks slowly, never breaking eye contact. "Marcus mentioned finding you in your grandmother's wing. At three in the morning."
Not a question. An accusation dressed up as casual conversation.
I swallow hard, tasting bile. "I was looking for something."
"And did you find it?"
The question sounds almost pleasant. Almost. But the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tighten around the cup's handle—
"Some old letters. From the war."
The temperature in the room drops. The air goes still and cold, like we're suddenly encased in ice.
Father sets down his cup. Folds his newspaper with precise, measured movements. Smooths it flat on the table. Each gesture is controlled, deliberate, and somehow more terrifying than if he'd thrown the cup across the room.
"I see." He steeples his fingers, elbows on the table. "And what, exactly, did you think you'd accomplish? Digging through dead people's private correspondence?"
The words land like stones. Dead people. As if Grandmother was just anyone. As if her heart, her choices, her pain don't matter because she's gone.
"I wanted to understand." My voice comes out smaller than I intend.
Weaker. I hate how he does this—strips away every ounce of strength until I'm nothing but a scared little girl.
"I wanted to know about Grandmother. About Grandpa Henry. Their story. My story. You always talk of family and legacy. I just needed help to find my place.”
"Their story." He repeats the words slowly, each syllable dripping with contempt. "They were your grandparents. That's all you need to know."
"But there's more, isn't there?" Something in me rebels, pushes back even as fear churns in my gut. I lean forward, and the movement feels bold. Dangerous. "The letters talk about choices made during the war. About love and—"
"Viv."
Just my name. But the way he says it—low, warning—makes me flinch.
I don't stop. Can't stop. "There was someone else. Before Grandpa Henry. Someone named Anthony. Why did she choose Henry? What happened to—"
His hand slams down on the table. The china jumps. Coffee sloshes over the rim of his cup, spreading across the white tablecloth in a dark stain. Clara, hovering near the sideboard, goes rigid.
"These matters." Father's voice is deadly quiet now, more frightening than if he'd shouted. "Are none of your concern. They belong in the past. Where they will stay."
"But they're part of my history." The words tumble out faster now, fueled by desperation and the image of Grandmother's face in that locket—young, radiant, alive in a way I never saw her. "Don't I have a right to know where I come from? The choices that shaped our family?"
He stands. The chair scrapes against the hardwood floor, a harsh screech that makes my teeth ache. He's tall—I forget sometimes, when I'm not in the same room with him, just how tall. How he uses his height to loom, to dominate, to make everyone around him feel small.
"You're treading on dangerous ground."
"Dangerous?" I stand too, even though my legs are shaking. "Why? What are you so afraid of me finding out?"
His face goes very still. It's worse than anger—this cold, calculating blankness. "Afraid? You think I'm afraid?"
"The letters mentioned hidden treasures. Rescued art. Was our family involved in that?" The words rush out, reckless. "Is that where our fortune comes from? Is that why—"
"Enough."
But I can't stop. Won't stop. Not when I'm finally getting close to the truth. "Just tell me. Tell me what happened. Tell me why Grandmother chose—"
"ENOUGH!"
His fist comes down again, harder this time. A plate jumps off the table and shatters on the floor. Porcelain shards skitter across the hardwood. Clara makes a small sound—quickly stifled—and hurries from the room.
I'm frozen, standing with my hands braced on the table, staring at the man who raised me and realizing I don't know him at all. Have never known him.
His chest heaves. A vein throbs at his temple. When he speaks again, each word is enunciated with terrifying precision.
"Those matters are in the past. Where they belong. I will not have you dredging up ancient history. Not now. Not ever. Do you understand me?"
I sink back into my chair. My hands shake, so I hide them in my lap, fingers twisted together so tight they ache.
"I just want to understand our family."
"What you need to understand—" He leans forward, palms flat on the table, bringing his face level with mine.
His breath smells like coffee and something bitter.
"Is that you have an obligation. To honor the choices made by those who came before you.
Choices that secured the privileges you enjoy today. "
"But—"
"No." He straightens, smooths his tie. "No more foolishness. It's time you focused on your future. Not the past."
The shift in his demeanor is instant, jarring. The rage drains away, replaced by something worse—cold efficiency. He settles back into his chair, picks up his coffee cup as if the last five minutes didn't happen.
"I've been speaking with the Harringtons. We've agreed to move up the wedding date."
The world tilts. I grip the edge of the table, willing the room to stop spinning. "Move it up?"
"Three months from now should be sufficient." He drinks his coffee casually. As if he's discussing the weather. "Invitations go out next week."
"Three months?" I can't breathe. The air is too thick, too hot despite the coldness radiating from him. "But... I thought I had more time."
"Time for what, Viv?" He sets down his cup with that same deliberate click. "To continue your little art hobby? To gallivant around Europe on these so-called assignments?"
The way he says assignments—dripping with disdain—makes my chest tight with rage.
"My work isn't a hobby." I force the words out through clenched teeth. "I have expertise in forgery identification. I've made a name for myself internationally. It's more than a passion, it's—"
"It's a childish fantasy I've indulged far too long." He picks up his newspaper and snaps it open. Dismissing me. "The Faulks name carries weight. It's time you started living up to it."
Something snaps inside me. The fear, the careful restraint I've maintained my whole life—it cracks.
"And marrying Prescott is how I do that?" The words come out sharp, bitter. "Lie back, spread my legs, and pop out the heir you so desperately want?"
The newspaper lowers slowly. His eyes are ice.
"Don't be vulgar."
"Why not?" I laugh, and it sounds slightly unhinged even to my own ears. "That's all I am to you, isn't it? A womb to be filled. A pawn to marry off for business deals and family alliances."
"You are a Faulks." Each word is clipped, precise. "And you will behave accordingly."
"What does that even mean?" My voice rises. "Smile and stay silent while you auction me off? Pretend I don't have thoughts or dreams or—"
The door opens.
Prescott strides in, all polished charm in a thousand-dollar suit. His cologne fills the room immediately. He bends to kiss my cheek, and I force myself not to recoil as his lips graze my skin.
"Good morning, darling." Smooth as silk and just as artificial. "You look radiant as always."
I force a smile. It stretches across my face like a mask, stiff and false. "Prescott. What a lovely surprise."
He takes the seat beside me—too close, his thigh pressing against mine under the table—and reaches for my hand. I let him take it, fighting the urge to yank it away. His palm is damp. Hot.
"I hope you don't mind the intrusion." He addresses Father. Not me. Never me. "I was eager to discuss some wedding details."
"Not at all." Father's voice warms, the ice melting into something almost pleasant. Almost human. "Your timing is perfect. We were just discussing the new date."
"We were discussing our family's history, actually." The words come out petulant, childish. I don't care.
"Viv. Enough." Father's eyes narrow.
"It's quite all right, sir." Prescott's thumb strokes the back of my hand, and my skin crawls. "Family history can be... complicated."
"You know about it." I turn to face him, pulling my hand free. "Don't you? The letters. The war. All of it."