Eulogia

Chapter 3 #3

Ford looks at me then, really looks at me, and it scares me. The weight of his stare makes my throat tighten.

Then, just when I think he might finally give me what I want, he shakes his head. "Let it go, Martine."

Let it go. As if I ever could.

The city lights begin to emerge on the horizon, growing closer. New York waits for me, with answers I am not sure I want, but know I will seek nonetheless.

I press my fingers against my temples and close my eyes. Praying the cold from the window will ease my headache.

The estate looms ahead, its high stone walls and leaded windows swallowing the last traces of daylight as I gulp down my anticipation.

Huntington-Russell Manor has always been a place of quiet suffocation, where power is not just inherited but weaponized.

The house doesn’t welcome; it consumes, as it’s been a monster in our family for generations.

My family’s wealth began in the early 1800s with a modest shipping operation that grew rapidly through strategic acquisitions and expansion into shipbuilding and engineering.

My great-grandfather transformed the business into a global logistics and offshore oil transport empire under Huntington-Russell Holdings.

Eventually, after attending Eulogia and returning from his time away building his empire, my Great-Great-Great-Grandfather, along with his closest friend and ally, Jonathan Taft, founded The Brotherhood of Death.

By the time I was born, the name of the Society had vanished from public view, but our influence only deepened.

I step out of the car first, the gravel shifting loudly beneath my beige Jimmy Choo’s.

The night air is sharp with the scent of woodsmoke, damp earth, and a mist lingering from the morning's rain.

I shiver, though not from the cold, but from the anticipation of the weekend.

The glow from the upper windows is dim, and the thought of my father up in his study, pacing, is enough to put a chill down my spine.

Ford places a hand against my back, a silent push forward, with Dex trailing closely behind.

“Come on,” he murmurs, pushing me up and through the double doors by the small of my back. He nearly creases my blouse, and I hold myself back from shoving him like I would have done if we were younger.

My heels meet the marble floors far quicker than I’d like. I’d prefer to run right back to the car, but instead, I’m enveloped by the grand marble entryway of our family home: white walls, a narrow runner of plush carpeting, and the help at the ready.

I don’t want to go in. Something feels especially awful about tonight, and if I had any choice in the matter, I’d like to be back in my suite with a book within the hour.

As if I have a choice. As if any of us do.

Inside, I’m suffocated by the same airless opulence, the same sickly mingling of aged bourbon and cigar smoke. Our ancestral portraits still glare down from above the fireplace, forever witnesses to the sins of their lineage.

I’ve still not figured out if I’d like to be a sinner or a saint, as I’m forced to be whichever version of Martine my mother prefers instead.

The weight of Legacy settles over me like an old, wet coat, familiar yet oh-so-uncomfortable. Everything here is exquisite, but curated to my mother’s taste, my father's expectations. It all makes my skin itch.

When I was younger, far more naive, and too young to understand the dynamics surrounding me, I loved this home. I have fond memories of summers here, playing with my brothers and Archie, and our horses.

But now that I’m older, there's a sourness to the opulence.

At Eulogia, it’s different. There’s distance, enough space between the world and me to breathe without being watched.

Within the walls of the private suite I share with my brothers, who are rarely around, I find something golden; silence that belongs to me.

Time to read what I want, to think in spirals, to wonder who I’d be without all of this.

But while a life without comforts is just a musing, I don’t think I’d like to know. I’ve only ever known, or wanted, a life of opulence.

Father is waiting in his study, where the fire crackles loudly against the misplaced chill in the room. He sits in his chair, a glass of bourbon cradled in his long fingers, his posture that of a man who has never been denied anything in his life.

I force my shoulders back and step inside. Ford and Dex flank me, but their presence does little to ease the dread coiled in my stomach.

I so badly want to pick at my French manicure. My stomach plummets from being in such close quarters with Father for a rare occurrence of something about me.

“Martine.” His voice is smooth, a blade wrapped in velvet.

I don’t sit, nor do my brothers. I stand barely through the threshold, holding my breath for instruction.

I know exactly what this is about.

His lips curl as he gestures lazily with his glass. “You sulk in the doorway like petulant children. Sit.”

A command, not an invitation, each word my father utters is simply a demonstration of power. I hesitate, just for a breath, before lowering myself into the chair opposite him.

Ford and Dex remain standing, yet I can sense their growing annoyance. They don’t like the unexpected, and I’ve noticed their increasing impatience with our father as of late. It’s unlike them to challenge him, but I’ve seen their dislike for him grow into something darker over the summer.

I would never challenge him, as I prefer to keep my head and disdain doing anything that would keep me at home longer than necessary.

My brothers seem to have a death wish.

The silence stretches, taut and unrelenting as he watches me. Eyes so deep in dissection as though I might be less a woman and more a possession. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he sets his drink down with a soft clink.

“I’ll assume you all know why we’re here.” His voice is always taught, strung tight and high in a boom that can send chills down the back of the bravest soul. His twin brother, my awful uncle, is even worse.

Instead of toying with the inevitable, I find my voice and bravely plunge right into the deep end.

The sooner I’m out of this office and on my way to the Franklin estate, the better.

Assuming Archie is my husband-to-be. And even though I know there's a slim chance I’ll have any power in changing the decision, I won’t go down without a fight. I can feel it brewing inside of me.

I hold his gaze. “You’ve made a decision.”

“I always make the decisions.” The ghost of a smile plays on his lips.

Ford shifts beside me, and I glance at him, shocked by his expression barely containing his rage. I feel it simmering in him, in all of us, just beneath the skin, yet still I maintain my silence. Just as I’ve been trained. My expression carefully blank.

“You’ll be married by the end of the year,” my father says.

I’ve had since as early as I could eavesdrop to prepare for this, so I’m unsurprised. But knowledge does little to soften the impact of the words. It’s August.

“To whom?” I ask, my voice steady.

He pauses deliberately as though he wishes to prolong my suffering and punish me for my directness. Then, with the ease of a man handing down a sentence, he says, “You knew it was always going to be the Franklin boy, don’t be coy.”

The name drops between us like a lead weight; I anticipated it. I’m well aware it could belong to someone far older and significantly less attractive, but the thought still makes me gag. He’s practically my brother.

I wouldn’t expect this to upset Ford and Dex; if anything, I’d assume they’d have played a hand in securing our nuptials. But what I honestly didn’t anticipate was my brother's less-than-patient reactions to this conversation with our father. I’ve never seen them quite this uncouth.

My fingers tighten around the arms of the chair, nails digging into the upholstery. “And if I refuse?”

His chuckle is low, indulgent. “You know better than to think you have a choice. We always do what’s best for the family.”

I want to roll my eyes.

Marrying Archie wouldn't be the worst thing in the world when I take into account the fact that it could be someone considerably less nice. I was wiser to think I’d ever have a love marriage, but maybe somewhere down the long line of our future together, we could find it.

Or at least the mutual respect we hold for each other could blossom into a half-decent time.

Letting my father have any influence over my future is painful. Surrendering to his decision feels like allowing his control to seep into every part of what comes next.

Ford clears his throat. “You’ve made your intentions clear. What else do you need from us?”

Father leans back, swirling his drink, watching the way the firelight catches the amber liquid.

He turns his attention to the twins, and I sit up a little straighter. “That’s an interesting tone, son.”

Oh god. I look over to nudge Ford, but it seems our father isn’t finished.

“Do you think I don’t know what my sons have been up to?”

The shift in tone is subtle in Father's voice, but the effect is immediate.

My brows furrow in confusion. Doesn’t he always know what they’re up to? The twins are his perfect little soldiers, though not so little, considering they’re both over six feet tall.

Ford stiffens. I glance at him, then at Dex, who stands rigid, his fingers twitching at his side. A tell.

I wish I could melt into the background, suddenly hating my cowardice for choosing the chair front and center—an armor for my brothers.

“I know you’ve been conspiring,” my father’s voice is pleasant and conversational, but there’s a blade beneath it. “Do you think I don’t know who you’ve been meeting with?”

I suck in a breath, suddenly wishing I wasn’t seated in front of them after all. This isn’t the type of conversation I’d usually be present for, and I’m so shocked it’s happening in front of me, I nearly ask my father if he remembers I’m here.

Ford lets out a slow, incredulous laugh. “Conspiring? That’s what you think?”

Dex shakes his head, his voice low and unimpressed. “I’ve never known you to be paranoid, Father.”

“You know we can’t turn down an assignment,” Ford finishes, trying to scrap together some logic to Dex’s dig.

My stomach clenches at the words. A sharp, visceral fear runs through me. They never speak to him like that. No one does. The air in the room seems too thin, the firelight flickering strangely against my father’s face.

I know better than to expect insight into any of their Brotherhood business, but what could have possibly happened to make my brothers speak to him like this?

He studies them, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the silence is suffocating.

Then, a small, amused smile slips across his lips. “Paranoid,” he repeats as if tasting the word. “You think so?”

Neither of them answers.

I can’t breathe. I want to grab their arms, to pull them back from whatever invisible ledge they’ve just stepped onto. Because I know my father. I know what happens when someone challenges him.

Then, with a soft sigh, he shakes his head, “Predictable.”

The word lands like a death knell. My stomach turns to ice.

Predictable men do not survive long in this family.

He stands, slowly adjusting his cufflinks like he’s brushing off dust from something beneath him. He looks as though he’s preparing to dismiss us. But then, just before he does, he pauses, bringing his gaze to me.

And then suddenly, as though possessed by a creature coiled inside him, waiting to say something devastating, he bursts into laughter.

He clutches his stomach like it’s too much to contain, his laugh echoing through the room, cold and jarring. And then, without warning, he snaps his mouth shut for a pause before he opens it again to deliver the final blow.

"Oh," he says, almost as an afterthought, "Your mother is dead."

The world tunnels to a single, suffocating point.

The fire crackles. The clock ticks. A faint ringing starts in my ears.

My skin pebbles, my shoulders brace. I suck in a gasp as my vision blurs and I struggle to find my breath.

He says it the way one might announce a change in the weather. His cruel lack of explanation or elaboration is like a punch to the gut. Just a fact, dropped into the room like a stone, echoing around awkwardly as all of us stand with gaping mouths.

Ford exhales sharply beside me, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles go white. Dex’s jaw tightens, and his shoulders square in silent fury.

I cannot move. I cannot breathe.

A piece of me, fragile and irreplaceable, shatters.

I feel myself sway forward in my chair as though I might crumple to the ground, but it’s with all of my strength that I remain straight-backed in front of this horrible, horrible man.

And my father, without a single glance at the destruction he has wrought, merely picks up his drink and takes a sip.

“There’s a party starting downstairs,” he says, as though the last few moments have meant nothing. As if he has not just cracked the bones of our family with a single, effortless blow. “Our guests expect a warm welcome. You’re all dismissed.”

I stare at him, my throat burning. My mother is dead, my brothers are in danger, and I am to smile and play hostess.

He gives me a final, pointed look and says mockingly, “Best behavior, Martine.”

Then my brothers are grabbing my hands, trying to get me up and out of the chair.

I barely hear myself when I grit out a horrible, low-breathed, “No.”

My father suddenly is across the room and in front of me before I can blink.

The slap comes fast and sharp, a stinging explosion of pain across my cheek. My head jerks sideways, the world momentarily blanking out. A rush of heat floods my skin, the taste of blood blooming on my tongue.

Ford lunges forward to grab me, but Dex moves faster. His arms lock around my waist, pulling me out of the chair, dragging me out of the room before I can lash out. Before I can make this worse.

I’m dragged into the hallway and then thrown into one of the estate's many wet closets. One of the many tiny nooks in the estate that’s stocked with fresh ice and liquor.

The sharp scent of citrus fills the air, the warmth radiating off of Dex’s body as we’re tucked in so closely, a stark contrast to the cold in my chest.

Ford storms in behind us, muttering a string of curses, his hands shaking as he reaches for the vodka bottle on the counter. He pours three glasses, shoving one into my hand.

“Drink.”

I take it, knocking it back with more ease than I feel. The burn is immediate, trailing down my throat like liquid fire, but it does nothing to dull the pain clawing at my insides.

Tears roll down my cheeks, hot and wet as I fight down the urge to vomit all over polished shoes.

Dex leans against the counter, watching me, as Ford lights a cigarette. “Leave it all up to us to sort, little Mar-tini.”

Yes, of course, let’s leave it to the men as usual.