Chapter 6
Lucien
The air in my father’s office tastes like whiskey and judgment, thick enough to choke on. I sprawl in the leather chair across from his desk, one ankle resting on my opposite knee, deliberately taking up space while he paces.
“The Whitmore girl would be a prudent choice,” my father says, not looking at me as he swirls amber liquid in his crystal tumbler. “Her family’s pharmaceutical holdings would complement our energy interests. Or perhaps the Montgomery heiress—their banking connections could prove valuable.”
I watch him with hooded eyes, letting him ramble.
Vincent Devereux, the great kingmaker, plotting my life like I’m just another acquisition for his empire.
His silver-streaked hair is perfectly styled even at this late hour; his bespoke suit without a single wrinkle. The perfect fucking picture of control.
“The Choosing Ceremony is in one week,” he continues, setting his glass down with a sharp click against his mahogany desk. “This isn’t just about you, Lucien. This is about the future of our bloodline, our position within Black Crown.”
“I’m well aware of what the Choosing represents,” I drawl, examining my nails with exaggerated boredom. “I’ve only been groomed for it my entire fucking life.”
His jaw tightens at my language. “Then act like it. This is the most significant decision you’ll make as heir. Your mother and I have compiled a list of suitable candidates—”
“I don’t need your list.” I cut him off, dropping my foot to the floor and leaning forward. “I know exactly who I’m choosing.”
My father pauses, suspicion flickering across his face. “Who?”
“It’s my choice,” I say, standing slowly to match his height. “That’s the tradition, isn’t it? The heir chooses his own.”
“Within reason,” he snaps. “Within acceptable parameters. You can’t just select anyone who spreads her legs for you.”
I laugh, the sound harsh and cold in the quiet room. “Is that what you think I’d do? Pick some random girl just to spite you?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you,” he says, his voice dangerously soft. “You’ve been rebelling since you were old enough to walk.”
“Don’t worry, Father.” I step closer, enjoying how he tenses slightly. “I’m choosing from a Society bloodline.”
His eyes narrow. “Which one?”
“Does it matter? You just said it’s my choice.”
“It matters more than anything else,” he hisses, moving around the desk to stand directly in front of me. Even at his full height, I still tower over him by several inches. “It matters because you are not just my son—you are the future of our side of Black Crown. Your choice reflects on all of us.”
I let the silence stretch between us, savoring the moment as I walk to his bar cart, helping myself to a glass of his $10,000-a-bottle scotch without asking permission.
“The arrogance of youth,” he mutters, but I catch the pride underneath the criticism. He loves that I’m a carbon copy of him—just younger, stronger, and even more ruthless.
I take a slow sip, savoring the burn as I lock eyes with him over the rim of the glass. The tension between us stretches like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point. My father’s waiting for my answer, but I’m enjoying making him sweat.
“Carvelli,” I finally say, a smirk curling my lips. “I am choosing Carvelli.”
The glass slips from his fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor. His face goes from composed to murderous in the span of a heartbeat.
“Absolutely not,” he hisses, stepping over the broken glass toward me. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
I don’t flinch, don’t back down an inch. “It’s my choice, Father.”
“Choose someone else,” he says, his voice deadly quiet now. “Anyone else from the approved list.”
“Why?” I ask innocently, though we both know exactly why. I’ve been sitting on this fucking bomb for a year, waiting for the perfect moment to detonate it. “Is there something wrong with the Carvelli bloodline that I should know about?”
He turns away, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “The Carvellis are beneath us. They’re new money, barely a generation into Society. They don’t have the connections, the history—“
“Cut the bullshit,” I interrupt, setting my glass down with a heavy thunk. “We both know that’s not the real reason.”
My father freezes, his back to me. I can see the tension rippling across his shoulders.
“I know she’s my half-sister,” I say, the words hanging in the air like smoke after a gunshot. “I know you slept with Mariella Carvelli while Mom was pregnant with me, and nine months later, out popped little Seraphina.”
He turns slowly, his face a perfect mask of control, but I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes—weighing options, measuring responses.
“Do you now?” he says, arching an eyebrow. “So what, this is a punishment for me? We may be Sinners, but we don’t inbreed, Lucien.”
I laugh, the sound echoing off the wood-paneled walls. “Is that what you think this is about? Some twisted revenge fantasy?”
“Isn’t it?” he challenges, stepping closer. “You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic, son. Always looking for ways to wound me. But this—“ he shakes his head, disgust twisting his features, “—this is beneath even you.”
“You don’t get to take the moral high ground here,” I snarl, my control slipping for the first time.
“You stepped out on your wife and knocked your mistress up. We may be heinous, deranged, and violent but you know The Society does not accept infidelity if you’ve participated in the Choosing Ceremony. ”
My father’s jaw tightens, a vein pulsing at his temple. He reaches for a fresh glass, pouring himself another measure of scotch with a steady hand that belies his anger.
“You won’t be choosing Seraphina,” he says with deadly calm. “I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow it?” I repeat, letting a dangerous edge creep into my voice. “Last I checked, the choice belongs to the heir, not the father. It’s written in the fucking bylaws.”
“Choose another,” he says, his voice hardening. “Or else.”
I stand up slowly, setting my glass down with deliberate control. “Careful, Father. That sounds like a threat, and a Devereux never responds well to threats.”
The look on his face is fucking priceless—rage warring with shock that I’d dare speak to him this way. I straighten my cuffs, enjoying the moment.
“I’ll see you next week at the ceremony,” I say, turning toward the door. “Wear your best suit. It’s going to be a night to remember.”