"Yes, I suppose she was." I frown. "But Mercedes does not seem to form attachments too deeply to anyone. I think it was merely her pride that was wounded."
Judge nods as if this perspective satisfies him. "I take it she is back at the manor then?"
"For now," I concede. "She has been tasked with mentoring Ivy in her role as an upper-echelon wife. I suppose that should keep her busy for some time at least."
"Well, that's something," Judge agrees. "Idle hands are the devil's work."
"That's what they say."
There's a tap at the door, and it opens, surprising us both when it’s Mercedes herself. She moves to enter the office but pauses mid-step when she sees Judge sitting across from me.
"I didn't realize you had company." She folds her arms across her chest and glances at him curiously. "Judge, it's always a pleasure to see you."
"So you say." He dips his head in her direction, and I don't miss the way his eyes linger on her for a moment longer than what would be considered appropriate.
"How is the thrilling life of the judicial system treating you?" she asks. "Sentence any poor souls to their death over lunch today?"
"Only the ones who deserve it," he answers. "How is the life of a spoiled princess treating you? Have you left any vanity in the department stores for the other socialites?"
Storm clouds roll into her eyes, and her red lips part, speechless, for the first time in perhaps forever. She smooths a dark strand of hair from her face, attempting to gather her wits when I decide to save her from this strange interaction between them.
"What do you want, Mercedes?"
"I have returned your wife," she spits the words out venomously. "Not a hair on her head displaced, of course. And I am here to give you a full report."
Judge smiles at her obvious irritation and rises to his feet, collecting his folder from the desk. "Then I suppose I better be on my way."
* * *
After my sister’s full report, she takes her leave from my study with instructions to find something productive to do with her time. I can't help noticing that she seemed flustered and irritated throughout her rendition of the day’s events, and I'm not certain if it's because of Ivy or Judge's biting but accurate assessment of her.
Regardless, I push those thoughts aside and finish my work for the day before I go in search of Antonia. I find her dusting the shelves in the library and nearly startle the life from her once again when she turns to see me standing there.
"Oh!" She gasps. "I didn't hear you, Mas... I mean, Santiago. Sir."
She seems out of sorts today and a little tired. I often wonder how long I will be able to keep her on staff. Though she has been given many opportunities to leave, should she like, the woman seems determined to remain at the manor until her dying breath. I am too proud to admit that I am grateful for that because the house wouldn't be the same without her.
"Can I get you anything?" she asks.
I hesitate, uncertain how I might phrase my proposition. She waits patiently, her eyes kindly remaining on my face without any sign of revulsion.
"How is Mrs. De La Rosa this afternoon?" I ask.
"Fine." She answers with a hint of confusion. "Last I saw, she was reading. I did suggest a nap since she seemed a little tired. But other than that—"
"I would like you to inform her that she is to have dinner with me this evening.”
A small hint of a smile brightens her face. "Oh, yes of course. Would you like something special? I can change the menu if you'd like."
"What you have on the menu is fine," I answer stiffly. "Thank you, Antonia. Please tell my wife she is to join me in the dining room at seven thirty."
"It would be my pleasure." She bows her head.
With that matter settled, I take my leave of the estate. I'm not in the habit of venturing out before total darkness, but another situation warrants my attention and should have been handled days ago.
My magnetic silver Aston Martin DB11 AMR Coupe handles the crowded streets with ease as I navigate to the Lakewood neighborhood. Traffic can be a nightmare this time of day, which is why Marco offered to drive me, but I find something about driving myself calms me. He is in the passenger seat beside me, silent for the duration of the ride until I pull up in front of the colonial mansion on Garden Lane.
"I will accompany you, sir." He's already unbuckling his seat belt, unwilling to accept no for an answer.
Marco is my personal guard, and he treats his position as if it is his sole purpose in life. He was assigned by IVI, as all Sovereign Sons require a guard, but his loyalty and dedication are unwavering. He's been with me since my teenage years and has offered his regrets more than once that he was not inside the meeting with me the night of the explosion. I had told him to wait outside, and he did. He was the one who ran into the building and dragged my half-dead body out as I attempted to crawl from the wreckage. Had he not, I doubt I would be here today.
"Thank you, Marco." I open my door and make my exit, walking briskly up to the front veranda.
Marco holds back behind me, checking the street and every other invisible threat he may see. I ring the bell and wait.
A moment later, Dr. Chamber's housekeeper greets me with a startled gasp.
"Oh, hello." She barely manages to get the words out before she forces her gaze downward. "Please do come in. I will call for Dr. Chambers."
We follow her inside, and she leaves us in the sitting room, scurrying off as quickly as she can. It takes several minutes, but eventually, Chambers appears with a wary expression on his face.
"Santiago." He nods at me. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Funny, considering you've been avoiding my calls." I tilt my head to examine him.
"I haven't." He dismisses the suggestion as ridiculous. "I've been very busy. In fact, I only just got back to the city from a conference. There has been little time to go through my messages, I’m afraid."
"No time like the present." I stare at him incredulously.
He shifts his weight, glancing at Marco behind me, and then forces his gaze back to me. "Can I offer you a drink?"
"No."
He takes a seat across from me, obviously uncomfortable in my presence. "What can I help you with?"
"You can help me with an explanation of the events that transpired while my wife was in your office."
A bead of sweat hovers on his forehead before trickling down over his brow. "The purity test?"
"Unless there is any other occasion I should be informed of," I answer blandly.
"I was under the impression that you requested it," he states.
"And you thought it reasonable to perform such a request without speaking to me directly?"
"It's not uncommon for a groom to make such a request," he defends. "As I’m sure you are aware, it is a standard practice within The Society. Men who are to be married often want assurances. It is also requested frequently by the bride themselves, a subtle way to alleviate any doubts, should they arise."
"Perhaps other men accept this explanation, but I do not. So, let me make my position clear, Dr. Chambers. You never should have touched my wife without my explicit consent. I don't think this is something that requires a great deal of thought. In fact, I should think it would be obvious what my feelings on the matter might be. It leaves me to wonder about your motivations for such a treasonous act."
"It was not done with ill intent." He tugs at his collar, the sheen of sweat now dripping down his neck. "I can assure you of that. If you are questioning the ethics of my practice—"
"I am questioning your very loyalty." I narrow my eyes at him. "You are aware it is within my power to have your medical license revoked. With a single declaration from my lips, you could be banished or have the lifeblood drained from your very body. So, why would you risk it?"
"I don't know what you think happened in that exam, but—”
"That's precisely what I would like to know. How did my wife end up with bruises on her
body? Was it you or someone else?"
His eyes dart to the phone as if there might be someone he could call who would save him from this conversation. But he knows very well there is not. In the hierarchy of The Society, he is barely worth mentioning. He is not a Sovereign Son, and he never will be.
"Forgive me, Santiago," he answers gruffly. "If your wife feels she was hurt in any way, please allow me to offer my deepest apologies. It was not my intention to do so. I was simply doing my job. That is all."
Something about his nervous, beady eyes makes me believe otherwise. But he has always been this way around me, so it is difficult to know for certain. Without Ivy telling me the explicit details herself, there is not much else within the realm of reason I can do at the present.
"There is nothing more I should know then? Nothing more you wish to tell me?"
He wipes his palms on his trousers and shakes his head vehemently. "No. Not that I can think of."
"Very well." I rise from the chair, glancing down at him like the scum he is. "As for my wife, you don't exist to her anymore. I don't want you to look at her. Speak to her. Or even so much as mutter her name again in passing. Do you understand?"
"Yes, of course." He bobs his head. "Whatever you wish."
I head for the door, and one last thought occurs to me. "I want the notes from her chart. Send them to me. Now."
24
Ivy
My stomach growls as I make my way down the stairs at the appointed time. I feel as though I’ve been summoned, and I think back to that conversation with Mercedes. About how my husband gave me permission to leave my room. I grow angry with the memory. At the thought of it. It’s been bothering me all day, and the fifteen-minute visit with my father didn’t exactly fulfill his end of the bargain.
The lush carpet pads my steps, muting any sound. I’m generally quiet when I’m not knocking into something, and in this house, I’m even more careful. There’s a depth to the silence here. Even when it was quiet at my house or at the apartment as I sat there alone, it wasn’t like this. There was always some noise, but you don’t realize it until you hear this absolute absence of sound.
My path is illuminated by the chandeliers overhead, ancient gothic things lit with candles.
I stop for a moment and take it in, wonder who is tasked with cleaning them and putting new candles into the dozens of chandeliers in this place. They must have to do it daily. I pass one of the large iron-clad windows. It filters the moonlight to a pretty, eerie silver. Shadow is layered upon shadow here. I wonder if I’ll find ghosts when I start to wander the house. I won’t be surprised if I do.
I walk into the living room with its rose petal windows. The mural on the ceiling is obscured. I peer up at it, then turn a circle to take it in. It’s spectacular still, the art, the architecture of the house itself, all the arches, the nooks, the darkness.
I run my fingers over the closed piano lid. I wonder if anyone plays. I wish I did, but I don’t have much of a talent for it.
A clock chimes. It must be seven thirty. I walk out of the living room in search of the dining room. I find it only because I hear the barest hint of sound. Music. Low and dark and so fitting for this place.
As I follow it, I wonder if the rooms form almost a circle around the large hall. I wonder if I were to have an aerial view if the house itself would be in the shape of a rose.
I touch the back of my neck lightly. I saw the tattoo today. I expected a rose, but it’s not that. Or not only that. What caught my eye first was the skull. Then the roses. Then the dueling pistols.
Violence and death and beauty all at once.
I pause when I reach the entrance of the dining room. Santiago is standing at the window, drink in hand, facing away from me. He’s so still I wonder what thoughts he’s lost in. I take a moment to study him because I am hopelessly curious about my husband. I didn’t expect to be. He’s beautiful from here. No, he’s beautiful period, even with his skull face. It’s his pain. I see it even when he’s cruel. Maybe especially then. And it does something to me.
But it’s not his pain that draws me now. It's something much more primal. His height. His broad shoulders. The suit jacket that hugs his muscles. How very masculine he is.
Heat flushes through me as I remember wrapping my hands around his biceps. How strong he is. How much stronger than me. How much bigger.
Just as I take a step into the room, a wave of vertigo hits. I miss the single stair, and when I trip, I just manage to catch the sideboard to stop from falling to the floor but knock something off the other end. It clatters to the floor, and Santiago flinches like he’s startled, then spins to face me, eyebrows furrowed, expression dark as if remembering himself.
“I’m sorry!” I’m embarrassed. I blink hard, keeping my hand on the sideboard to steady myself and hurry around to pick up the antique silver candelabra lying on its side on the floor, grateful nothing is broken.
He stalks toward me setting his glass down on the candlelit table to take me by one arm and the candelabra in the other. He sets it back on the sideboard and turns to me, looking me over.
“Are you all right?” He studies me intently.
I nod, forcing myself to focus. “I’m fine.”
“Do I need to wrap the furniture in blankets?” he asks. I think he’s trying to make light of it. I wonder if he can see my embarrassment because I feel my face burning.
“That was just…I tripped.” In part because I was staring at you. Remembering your hands on me. Remembering how your touch felt. I don’t tell him that, though.
“Antonia said you weren’t quite well earlier.”
“I’m fine.” I pull myself free. This side of him, this almost caring side, throws me off guard, and I can’t let that happen with him. I can’t let myself believe him. And I can’t let myself take comfort from him.
“You lost your balance at the top of the stairs, Ivy.”
“I didn’t lose my balance. I just needed to sit down for a minute. And it hasn’t happened all day.” Mostly.
He studies me like he doesn’t quite believe me.
“It’s why I’ve been asking about the pool. I swim every day. Or I used to. And it helps. As soon as I’m allowed to swim again, I’ll be fine,” I start, finding my irritation again as I say it. “Santi,” I add.
Santiago steps back with a smile. Now we’re on territory we both understand.
I feel myself flush again, sweat breaking out over my forehead this time. When Mercedes had used that nickname earlier, it had grated. I didn’t really register it, but I realize now as I mock call him by her nickname for him, what I felt.
Jealousy.
Because I’m an idiot.
I shift my gaze away momentarily, feeling his eyes on me, feeling that smug grin.
“Mercedes being territorial?” he asks.
I clear my throat and make myself look at him. “I just thought it was funny she had a nickname for you. I mean, you.”
His mood darkens.
I blink, trying to calm my breathing. He can’t see my heartbeat. I just need to relax.
He looks me over, taking his time. I’m wearing a knee-length close-fitting black knit dress with buttons a little lower than I’d usually wear. Not that I have much cleavage to show, but I clear my throat again and adjust the dress when I see his gaze settle there. But maybe he’s just eyeing the rosary beads.
My hair’s been cut but only an inch was taken off. And it’s been styled, which I admit does look nice. I don’t bother blow-drying it usually. I’m also wearing makeup which, again, I rarely do, and I won’t do for him. My nails have been done, and much to my dismay, I’ve been waxed in places I didn’t know you could be waxed. Mercedes’s doing. Or maybe it was at his request.
“You look beautiful,” he says, walking a circle around me, letting his fingers weave through my hair but not hurting me. “But you always look beautiful.”
My stomach growls loudly then, and my cheeks burn again, my hand m
oving automatically to my belly. He stops in front of me, and for a moment, I wonder if he meant to say that. To compliment me.
“Hungry?”
I nod.
“Please tell me my sister fed you.”
“If by fed you mean some leaves and a piece of cardboard masquerading as chicken breast, then yes, she fed me. She’s seriously awful. I mean, she almost makes you look nice.”
He chuckles at that, then sets his hand on my lower back and guides me to the long dining table set only for two. At least she’s not eating with us. He pulls out my seat. I sit down on the plush chair and drop my napkin into my lap. He takes the seat at the head of the table, and as if the staff have been waiting and watching, they appear out of a door in the wall that must be for the staff like they used to be in old days.
We’re silent as the dishes are laid out, and Antonia describes what everything is. I think there’s enough to feed two dozen people, but I can probably eat for at least two of those people, so I won’t complain.
“Thank you, Antonia. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Thank you, M—sir.”
After a man opens the bottle of wine and Santiago approves, they’re gone, and Santiago begins to heap food on my plate. He doesn’t ask what I want. He just gives me a generous serving of meat, potatoes, and vegetables along with bread and butter.
“It’s a little pretentious to have them call you Master, isn’t it?”
He takes a moment to set his napkin on his lap. “Just be grateful I don’t require it of you.”
“I wouldn’t ever call anyone that.”
“Would you like to test that theory?”
When I don’t answer, he raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to acknowledge his win.
“No.”
“Then learn when to keep your mouth shut, darling.”
I grit my teeth so hard I’m pretty sure I’m going to crack a tooth.
He finally shifts his attention to the bottle of wine and pours himself a glass. I see the ring on his hand then and recognize it for what it is. I’ve seen it before but hadn’t had a point of reference. Now, with having seen his mark on my neck, I realize it’s his family crest.
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