Chapter 3 #2
She steps closer, just enough to test the waters. I can smell her perfume, rich and sharp, the kind that clings to skin long after she’s gone. Underneath it is a sweetness that’s slightly nauseating.
“We should get to know each other, finally,” she murmurs, watching me through thick lashes.
I glance at her lips, then back to her eyes. “Why?”
Her smirk falters slightly. “It’ll make this easier.”
I let the silence stretch. Long enough to make her shift slightly under my gaze, to let her wonder if I’ll make this difficult.
Then, finally, I smirk back. “For who?”
She seems satisfied with that answer, stepping even closer, the warmth of her body just brushing against me. “I assume you have a favorite drink,” she muses, fingers trailing over the rim of a fresh glass on the table beside us. “Or am I supposed to figure that out?”
“I don’t need you to figure out anything.”
Her expression flickers, brief but noticeable. “You don’t want to make this easier?”
I exhale a short laugh, low and humorless. “I don’t care if it’s easy or not.”
Her posture stiffens slightly before she smooths it over with another poised smile, this time, more honest than the sickly sweet ones from before. “Good. Then we still understand each other.”
“Don’t mistake this for anything more than what it is,” I say flatly. “I'm truly not interested.”
Her lips part slightly, and for the first time, I see a fracture in her polished exterior; a crack, a hesitation. Then, just as quickly, she recovers.
All it does is make me wonder what she’s hiding.
“Of course,” she says smoothly, stepping back, eyes unreadable once more. “No need to pretend.”
I watch her walk away, her hips moving with deliberate grace, the way she was taught to move.
Fordham’s gaze is fixed on her, his jaw tight, a tension simmering beneath the carefully cultivated mask of control.
It’s clear he wants her, and badly, but she barely acknowledges his stare.
Dale's cool indifference towards me falters into something warmer, softer, when her eyes briefly meet Ford’s.
Interesting.
Ford downs the rest of his drink, jaw flexing, and turns away sharply.
I almost laugh. Almost.
Then, Martine Huntington-Russell steps into the room.
She doesn’t go to Eulogia yet; she’s in her final year of boarding school and is only here to visit her brothers.
She moves toward the twins without seeing me, her focus narrowing on Ford and Dex as she approaches.
There’s something angelic about her, but not delicate.
It’s in the sharp contrast of her features, the light blonde hair against her dark eyes, the softness of her mouth against the tension in her posture.
She chews her bottom lip thoughtfully, not sipping from the champagne flute she carries.
She’s not flawless, and that’s what holds my interest.
She’s not like the women I’m used to, symmetrical, practiced, performative. There’s something offbeat in her face.
Strong nose. Full mouth. Eyes that don’t just look at a room, they measure it.
Perfectly imperfect. Her dress clings in all the right places. A freckle sits high on her cheekbone, and there’s a faint scar just above her lip. Little imperfections that find me examining her face for longer than I usually would.
She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t need to. She’s the kind of woman who draws you in without even trying. And I already know, I’ll try to ruin her before I ever admit she’s getting under my skin.
Ford doesn’t acknowledge her right away, still simmering, still pissed.
Dex leans in and mutters something to her that makes her smile.
I frown to myself, annoyed for wanting to know what he said to make her laugh.
My attention stays locked on how she carries herself, shoulders pulled back as if bracing for unforeseen impact.
It bothers me, and I can’t quite put my finger on why.
Archie appears beside her, his presence easy and familiar. He leans in slightly, says something low near her ear, and she nods, her expression shifting into something more relaxed.
Is she his Chosen? The thought irritates me more than I care to admit.
“They grew up together,” a voice next to me comments, and annoyance courses through me at the thought of being caught staring.
When I turn, I find Hudson watching me. “Archie and Martine. Practically inseparable as kids. Families are tight.”
My irritation sharpens but is gone as fast as it came. I don’t care, I remind myself.
Archie leans in again, closer this time, lips nearly brushing her ear. Martine steps back deliberately. Her grip tightens on her untouched flute, gaze flicking anywhere but him.
Archie recovers fast, but I noticed.
Martine might have been promised to Archie, but promises are easily broken.
Martine Lilian Huntington-Russell
Present Day
The next morning, the car idles just outside the dormitories' towering building, a sleek black sedan that blends seamlessly into the dawn. A driver stands beside the open rear door, silent.
Ford waits beside the car, his face cast in shadow from the dim streetlight above. He looks tired. Not the kind of tiredness that comes from lack of sleep, but something deeper that comes from carrying a weight that can’t be put down.
What we have in common is the knowledge that we exist for something beyond ourselves.
I don’t pretend to understand my brothers' responsibilities, but I have always tried to lessen their burden.
When I was twelve, Ford and Dex got into a fight at a Society gala.
One of those endless nights filled with polished floors and dead-eyed smiles, where our father paraded us like trophies, proof of his perfect Legacy.
I never found out who threw the first punch—only that it was loud enough to bring the room to a halt, glasses frozen midair, murmurs slithering through the crowd like smoke.
Our father was across the ballroom in an instant, his grip iron around Dex’s wrist, his voice a quiet, seething thing that only we knew meant real danger.
The twins were fourteen, and a scene would be unacceptable.
A public disgrace? Unforgivable.
So, I stepped between them. Smiled sweetly at our father, looping my arm through his like I had nothing but affection for the man. “It was my fault,” I said, voice light and easy, as I belonged to this world of delicate cruelty, “I provoked them.”
Ford and Dex both went rigid beside me, but they knew better than to argue. Our father’s gaze flicked to mine, assessing, deciding. Then, to my relief, he laughed, shaking his head like I was nothing more than a silly girl who would never understand the weight of our name.
That night, I danced with a half-dozen men as my punishment.
I let them spin me in slow circles under the heavy chandelier while my brothers stood against the walls, their shoulders tight, their fists still curled from a fight they weren’t allowed to finish.
I let the world believe I was the problem because it was easier that way.
Because as long as they blamed me, my brothers would be safe.
Or so I thought. My skin pricks with goosebumps as I think about the number of men feeling me up that night. I was only twelve.
I slide into the leather seat without a word, the scent of tobacco and leather filling my lungs as Ford follows, settling beside me. The door shuts with a finality that makes my pulse jump.
Dex is slumped across the back row of the SUV in a perfectly pressed suit, asleep in his seat and snoring softly.
We pull away from the campus, the street lights flickering past in blurred streaks. I stare out the window, watching the university fade behind us. The morning stretches ahead as I feel myself become increasingly uncertain and full of questions.
For a while, neither of us spoke. The only sound is the faint hum of the tires against the pavement, Dex’s snores, and the rhythmic tap of Ford’s finger against the car door.
He’s thinking. Calculating. He always is.
I break the silence first. "Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or should I just embrace the suspense?" With wishful thinking, we won’t have to go home anymore and simply travel directly to my death sentence.
Ford exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. "New York."
Home it is.
Of course. That’s where he is—our horrible Father.
I roll my head against the seat, turning to look at him. "And what exactly is waiting for me there?"
Ford doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulls the silver flask from his coat pocket, unscrews the cap, and takes a measured sip before offering it to me. I don’t take it.
"You already know the answer," he says, watching me.
I do. But I want him to say it. I need to hear the words. The three of us aren’t known to chatter incessantly. We’re siblings of few words, but Ford can see I need him to say more. I’m counting on it.
"You know this has always been the plan," he continues, his voice carefully neutral. "It’s just happening sooner than expected."
I cross my arms. "And why is that?"
Ford hesitates, and that alone sets me on edge. My brother never hesitates.
"Things are shifting," he finally says. "There’s pressure."
I turn my gaze back to the window, jaw tightening.
“Pressure from whom?”
He casts me a glance like I know better than to ask, and Dex lets out an obnoxiously timed loud snore, causing me to jump a little in my seat.
That tells me everything and nothing all at once. "And you? Are you under pressure, Ford?"
He lets out a hollow laugh. "Is that a serious question?"
"You and Dex," I press, my voice quieter now. "Are you under more pressure than usual?"
Ford doesn’t reply, but his grip on the flask tightens. As usual, his silence tells me more than words.
I glance toward the driver, but his eyes remain on the road, trained to be detached and uninterested in our conversation. Still, I lower my voice. "Why do I feel like this is going to go considerably worse than I anticipated?"