Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Vivianne: The Cage
My breath catches, the sound too loud in my own ears. I press harder against the wall beside Father's study door, praying they can't hear the thundering in my chest. The wood is cool against my cheek, smooth and unyielding.
Waiting for his answer. Waiting to see if there's any line my father won't cross.
"You know your duty." Father's voice is flat. Businesslike. "Get it done. I don't care how. But don't take your eye off Sentinel."
My knees threaten to buckle, and I lock them, forcing myself to stay upright. Stay silent. Don't make a sound.
He doesn't care. Doesn't care if I resist, if I'm hurt, if I'm—
"Of course, sir. My apologies." Prescott's voice shifts—eager to please, like a dog that's been corrected. "Sentinel is my top priority."
"As it should be." Papers rustle. The clink of glass on glass—Father pouring a drink. "Malfor is anxious to see our families unite."
Malfor. I mouth the name silently. Who the hell is Malfor?
"Combining my family's tech expertise with your financial resources will push Sentinel's operations forward." Prescott sounds confident now, back on solid ground. "We'll be decades ahead of any competition."
"Precisely." The sound of Father settling into his chair—leather creaking under his weight. "As the Fifth, I've managed our wealth for decades. But we need more than capital now. Your family's digital infrastructure is key. The world's shifting, and we can't afford to fall behind."
The Fifth. Fifth what? My mind spins, trying to make sense of the fragments.
"I'm ready." Pride creeps into Prescott's voice. "I've been groomed for this since I was a kid. Our cyber operations will be crucial. I've been developing a blockchain system that could revolutionize how we move funds within the organization."
A pause. When Father speaks again, his tone has sharpened. "And is your father planning to step down anytime soon? Or will you be waiting indefinitely to take the reins?"
Prescott's jaw must tighten—I can almost hear it. "He's not stepping down yet, but he's entrusting me with what matters. I've been handling the cyber division for years. I'll be ready when the time comes."
"That time is now." Father's voice goes hard. Heavy. "This marriage isn't just important—it's necessary. We need a male heir to take over as the Fifth. I'm not getting any younger. I need time to train the boy, ensure he understands his place."
My chest constricts. A male heir. That's all I am. A vessel for their precious heir. A womb with a pedigree.
"I understand the gravity." Prescott sounds almost contrite. "I'll do my duty to ensure the continuation of both families within Sentinel."
Another pause. I picture Father nodding, satisfied. "Good. Malfor is counting on this alliance to strengthen Sentinel as a whole. We cannot disappoint him."
"I won't, sir." That confidence again, bordering on arrogance. "With our combined resources, we'll be unstoppable. Financial and technological dominance. I have ideas for integrating AI into operations that could give us a significant edge."
Father makes a sound—not quite approval, but close. "As much as I hate to admit it, her art expertise provides perfect cover for our operations. She's too well-respected for anyone to question her movements. Which is precisely why she must never know the full extent of our involvement."
The words slam into me. My art. My career. My one source of pride—it's just a cover for them. A convenient disguise.
"Understood." Prescott sighs, and there's something different in his voice now. Softer? "It's... not easy keeping her in the dark. It would be simpler if we could tell her everything."
My pulse stutters. What?
"I don't disagree."
That's Father's voice. But it can't be. Because that tone—gentle, almost tender—is one I've never heard directed at me. Not in twenty-five years.
"But it's for her protection. She hates me for keeping her here, but the less she knows, the safer she'll be.
The safer we'll all be." A pause. The clink of ice in a glass.
"Merlin isn't dead. Not like we thought.
That exhibit was a shot across our bow. We have to assume Paul de Gaulle is either working for Merlin or carrying on his work.
And I'm not convinced she's not sympathetic to his cause. "
My lungs forget how to work.
"For now, we proceed as if she's compromised." Father's voice hardens again. "She remains in the dark."
I stumble back from the door, hand pressed over my mouth to stifle any sound. My shoulder hits the opposite wall, and I brace myself there, legs shaking.
Merlin. Paul. Sentinel. The words swirl in my head like debris in a hurricane, refusing to form a coherent picture.
My entire life has been a lie. Not just controlled—weaponized. Twisted into something I don't recognize.
And Prescott... his talk of caring, of wishing he could tell me. It doesn't match the man who threatened me over breakfast, who discussed my body like a commodity.
But Father. That gentle tone when he spoke about protecting me. Was that real? Can any of this be real?
I press my palms against my eyes, willing the spinning to stop.
Paul confided in me. Showed me his paintings. Told me about Merlin—or did he? Did he actually tell me anything, or did I fill in the blanks with what I wanted to believe?
Our relationship began with a lie. He knew who I was before we met. The chalet. The paintings. All of it was carefully orchestrated.
But the way he touched me. Looked at me. Painted me.
Was any of it real?
I don't know. Don't know who to trust. Father? Paul? Merlin?
Maybe none of them.
Maybe I'm just a pawn in a game where all the players are liars.
I make my way back to my room on autopilot, feet carrying me through familiar halls that suddenly feel foreign. Threatening. How many of these walls hide secrets? How many of these paintings are forgeries, stolen, covers for God knows what?
In my room, I try to work. Spread papers across my desk—authentication reports, provenance research, correspondence with galleries. The familiar documents should ground me, but the words blur together, meaningless.
I sketch. Attempt to lose myself in the familiar scratch of charcoal on paper, but my hand won't cooperate. The lines come out jagged, wrong.
Hours pass. The sunlight shifts across the floor, turns golden, then amber. My body feels disconnected from my mind, going through motions while my thoughts chase themselves in circles.
Sentinel. Fifth. Malfor. Merlin. Paul.
The pieces won't fit together.
A soft knock at the door makes me jump, charcoal skittering across the page, leaving a dark slash.
"Miss Faulks?" Marcus's gruff voice, muffled through wood. "Your father requests your presence in his study."
I close my eyes. Take a breath that doesn't quite fill my lungs. "I'll be right there."
The walk down the hallway feels endless. Marcus's bulk moves ahead of me—not quite escort, not quite guard. Something in between. The paintings on the walls seem to watch me pass, their subjects' eyes following my movement.
Accusing.
How long has this house been a prison? Since Mother died? Since I was born? Since generations before me made choices that locked us all into these roles?
Father's study smells like leather, old books, and the expensive scotch he drinks in the evenings. He stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the grounds. The sunset paints everything in shades of blood and gold.
He doesn't turn when I enter. Just gestures toward a chair.
"Sit."
I obey. Lower myself onto the edge of a leather armchair, spine straight, hands folded in my lap. The perfect picture of a dutiful daughter.
Inside, I'm screaming.
The leather creaks as I shift. The clock on the mantel ticks—too loud, each second a small eternity. Outside, birds call to each other, oblivious to the tension in this room.
Finally, he turns. Fixes me with that hard stare I've known my entire life. "I hope you understand the gravity of your actions this morning. Bringing up delicate family matters in front of Prescott was unacceptable."
"I'm sorry." The words taste like ash. Like surrender. "I was confused. Overwhelmed."
"Understandable." Something flickers across his face.
He moves to his desk and pours himself a drink from the crystal decanter.
Doesn't offer me one. "But you must realize there are things in this world better left undisturbed.
Our family's history is... complicated. Knowing too much could put you in danger. "
Danger. The word he used with Prescott, in that gentle tone I'd never heard before.
I lean forward, unable to help myself. Hope flickers—stupid, fragile thing. "Then help me understand. Please, Father. I can handle the truth."
He shakes his head. Swirls the amber liquid in his glass, watching it catch the dying light. "No. You can't. Not yet." He drinks. "Perhaps after the wedding. When you're settled into your new role."
The hope dies. Quick and brutal. "My new role. As Prescott's wife."
"As a true Faulks." He sets down the glass with a decisive click. "Carrying on our legacy. Our responsibilities."
"What if I don't want that responsibility?" The words slip out before I can stop them. Reckless. Dangerous.
His expression hardens. The brief softness—if it was ever really there—vanishes. "You don't have a choice. None of us does. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
I match his stare, refusing to look away even as fear makes my palms slick. "The sooner you trust me enough to tell me the truth about our family and our responsibilities, the sooner I'll accept my role."
Cheap shot. Throwing his words back at him. But I can't resist.
Silence falls. Heavy. Oppressive. The clock ticks. The ice melts in his drink with tiny cracking sounds. Outside, the sky deepens from gold to purple to indigo.