"That must be the reason for the exhaustion on your face," he muses.
I lean back in my chair, eyeing the bottle of scotch I've been sipping from all day. It is unlike me to be so indulgent, but it seems to be the only thing keeping my mind from going to the darkest spaces.
"The final meeting with the Tribunal is this week," I tell him.
He nods in understanding. "And they will want to know your recommended sentence for your wife's crime. Or else they will impose one themselves."
I twist the cap off the bottle and take a long pull as Judge studies me.
"You’re not in an easy position," he says. "Have you decided what you will tell them?"
"What is there to say?" I close my eyes and savor the burn in my throat. "She is guilty. I have nothing to offer in the way of her defense."
"That may be. But her guilt isn't the issue. The issue is what her punishment will be, and if it will be enough to satisfy them."
I tilt my head back, staring up at the shadows dancing across the ceiling. "You're the Judge. You tell me. What would you do if you were in my position?"
"She will already bear the shame of her crime every time she enters the public," he observes. "She will be shunned, whispered about, and despised. But the question is what punishment could be equal to the shame she has cast on you?"
I meet his gaze and take another long pull from the bottle. He doesn't need to explain what he means. Ivy didn't just poison me. She drove a goddamned stake through my reputation. As a Sovereign Son, there is an expectation that my wife will have unwavering loyalty and respect for me. I knew going into this marriage the best I could expect was to have her fear and submission. She would never love me, and I could never love her. There is no loyalty or respect between us. But for her to so blatantly broadcast it to The Society is a slight that cannot be tolerated. The upper echelon must know I have this situation under control. That I am capable of doling out the harsh punishment that will satisfy them and restore the natural hierarchy of order.
"Short of killing her now, I see only one solution." My fingertips move over the scars on my face, covered in ink. A permanent reminder of the damage the Moreno family has inflicted upon the De La Rosa dynasty. Ivy too, will require something permanent. Something horrific. Something that will maim her for life and serve as a reminder of what she has done and who she really is.
"It seems to me you have already decided," Judge remarks. "But if there is one piece of advice I can give you, Santiago, it's this. If you go down this path, there is no coming back from it. When you dole out this type of justice, there must be no question of guilt because you can't take it back once it's done. As you are well aware, those scars do not fade away in time."
He rises to his feet and sets a tote bag onto my desk. Something he must have carried in with him, but I didn't notice it until now.
"What is that?" I ask.
"Her things from the cellar. I thought perhaps you might want them back."
* * *
Fire licks across my flesh, smoke burning my eyes as I crawl through the rubble, dragging my half limp body deeper into the burning remnants. Searing pain is the only solace I have as the screams of men burning alive around me fade into the roar of the inferno.
"Leandro," I try again to call out for him, but my voice is too weak, choked by the suffocating blackness.
He was right beside me. My father and my brother were both right there. My body collapses onto the floor as I gasp for breath, stretching out my mangled arm. In the flicker of flames and shadows, I see a shiny black shoe. Italian leather. Laces perfectly knotted. A rose emblem on the sole. It could only be my father or Leandro.
Using the last of my strength, I drag myself forward again, grabbing onto the leather to pull me closer. But instead of leverage in the weight of his body, I find nothing but give. It takes me a few sputtering breaths to realize I'm holding his severed leg in my hand.
His blood drips down my arm, mixing with my own before it splatters onto the concrete. At last, darkness takes me.
"Santiago."
Something shatters around me, and I hurl myself back, crashing into what feels like a brick wall. I'm swinging without a thought, punching the air, fighting off invisible demons when Mercedes's voice drags me from my delirium.
"Jesus, Santi! Wake up! Open your eyes."
I freeze, forcing my eyes open, blinking several times as my chest heaves with ragged breaths, and I take in my surroundings. I'm slumped back into my office chair, paint dust from the wall behind me covering my shirt. There’s a bottle of scotch broken on the floor, and my knuckles are bloodied from hitting something. The wall. The bottle. I can't even be sure at this point.
Mercedes is standing in the doorway, surveying the scene with undisguised frustration. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she snaps.
Her lip is trembling, emotion choking her voice, and for one terrible moment, I find myself questioning if I actually hurt her.
"You didn't come near me," I say hoarsely.
"Of course, I didn't," she hisses. "I'm not an idiot. I know what you're like. But this is getting out of hand, Santi. You haven't had nightmares this bad in months."
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to shake off the memories. "I haven't been sleeping enough. That's all."
"No, you haven't," she barks. "Because you're a goddamned mess. You're drinking night and day. Slumped over this desk every waking moment. Storming around The Manor like a zombie. You need to snap out of it."
"Watch how you speak to me," I warn her.
"No." She crosses her arms defiantly. "I'm not going to pacify this behavior because I love you too much to let you backslide. I know things suck right now. Okay, they really fucking suck. But you have to get it together. For all of us. I can't go through this again with you, Santi. I can't. I won't survive it."
Tears stream down her face, and it paralyzes me. I've never seen my sister so emotional or so fragile. And I'm horrified because I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to comfort her. I've never learned. Neither of us has ever known comfort. We've known rules, and order, and expectations. Emotions don't have a place in a De La Rosa heart. My father ensured it when he beat them out of us at every opportunity. But Mercedes is shattering before me, and I don't know how to fix it.
"I..." Words fail me as I stand and look over the mess that is my office. "Don't cry. Please."
She blinks up at me, wiping away her tears when she hears the uncharacteristic strain in my voice.
"Santi." She hurls herself at me, her entire body quaking as she wraps her arms around my stiff frame and hugs me tightly. "Please don't do this anymore. I can't stand to watch you break."
"I'll never break," I assure her, patting her back awkwardly in an effort at consolation.
"Stop drinking so much," she pleads. “This isn’t like you, and it scares me to see you going back to that darkness.”
"I won’t go back."
"Do you promise?" She glances up at me, and I force a nod even though I'm not in the habit of complying with terrorists. Right now, my sister is an emotional terrorist, deploying the one weapon she knows I'm unequipped for. Her tears.
She squeezes me tighter and pulls herself together while I stand there, arms dangling at my sides. After a few more uncomfortable moments, she releases me, schooling her features and drawing in a deep breath. I feel another speech coming, and I'm not wrong.
"I need to speak with you about Ivy," she says.
I walk around my desk and kneel to pick up the shattered bottle, disposing of the pieces in the trash. "What about her?"
"She's got bruises all over her," she whispers.
I pause to look up at her, puzzled by the torment in her tone. I haven't seen Ivy's most recent bruises, but I am not surprised by this revelation, considering her condition.
"Is that from Judge?" she chokes out. "Or you?"
"Why do you care?" I ask.
She doesn't answer right away. She's chewing her lip, considering he
r words carefully. "I just... I was just wondering."
"She has a vestibular disorder," I tell her, though I'm not sure why. It's not her business. "She does most of it to herself."
I'm not excusing myself as a monster. If I were truly responsible, I would take the credit, but my sister doesn't look either relieved or gratified by this revelation.
"Don't you think you should do something about it?" she asks.
I slice my thumb on a piece of glass and blood drips onto the floor as I cock my head, studying her.
"Again, I have to ask why you care."
"I don't," she clips out. "Just... this whole thing is stupid, and I'm tired of it. Either kill her and be done with it, or just admit that you aren't going to. There's no point in torturing her and dragging it out."
"You really must not be feeling well." I toss the remainder of the glass away and stand. "That's the only justifiable explanation I can think of for this sudden change of heart."
"I haven't had a change of heart," she declares. "God, you can be so infuriating."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"I'm going to bed," she says.
"Wait."
I grab the tote bag from my desk. I already examined the contents inside after Judge left. There's nothing much of interest in there. A pair of shoes, the remnants of her dress. A purse. The lipstick was already taken for testing, which came back clean. But that does not surprise me. The Tribunal suspects she applied the poison directly to the coat of lipstick she was wearing and disposed of any evidence, and I am inclined to agree.
"Give these to Antonia so she can return them to Ivy's closet." I hand the tote to Mercedes, and she glances inside. A strange expression comes over her face as she examines the contents.
"Are these from that night?" she asks, her voice strained.
"Yes. Why?"
She shakes her head. "Nothing. It just... it gives me bad memories. That's all."
"Get some rest," I tell her. "You'll be more like yourself in the morning."
She nods, turning away. "Good night, brother."
12
Santiago
I find my wife tangled up in her bedsheets, trapped in the grips of a fitful sleep. She mutters something unintelligible as I cast the soft glow of the candle in my hand over her body. I didn't want to come back here tonight. Every night, I tell myself I won't. There has to be some resistance to this madness. But after Mercedes took it upon herself to inform me of the bruises, I had to see them for myself.
She curls into herself as I peel back the top half of the sheet, exposing her torso. A sharp intake of breath leaves my lips as I see the damage for myself. If anyone were to see her this way, they would undoubtedly think she had been beaten in places. And something is so horrific about those blemishes on the perfect canvas of her skin. It bothers me more than I had anticipated, and I can only wonder how I will feel once I see the permanent destruction I intend to inflict upon her.
I replace the sheet and turn away, chest heaving as my fist curls at my sides. Why did she have to do this? Why did she have to betray me and force my hand? And why does the prospect of what's to come bring me more torment than pleasure?
"Santiago?" Her sleepy voice whispers from behind me.
I close my eyes, tempted to leave without a word. But I can't seem to move. I can't look at her. And I can't be away from her. She truly is the slowest, deadliest form of poison.
The silence stretches between us, until finally, she asks the question on her mind.
"Have you come to take your fill of me again?"
"No," I bite out.
Against my better judgment, I turn to face her, placing the candle on her nightstand. She's peeking up at me with tired eyes, hair strewed across her pillow like strands of silk. I reach out and smooth them away from her face, my dark mood casting a shadow as I study her.
"It's a shame what you’ve done.”
"What do you mean?" she asks.
"Just remember when you look upon yourself next week, loathing your own reflection in the mirror, you only have yourself to blame."
She flinches, yanking away from my touch as she curls into herself protectively. "What are you talking about?"
"I told you there would be punishment for your sins," I answer. "And it will be equal to your crime."
She chokes back a quiet sob and shakes her head, reaching out for my hand again. "Please don't be cruel. You don't have to do this. It doesn't have to be this way."
"But it does." I pull my fingers from her grasp, feeling the loss of her warmth immediately. "You determined this course the day you decided to betray me."
I head for the door as she calls after me, desperation coloring her voice. "Please, just look at me. I know you want to. I know you are capable of listening, if you could just let go of this hatred for one minute—”
"Go to sleep," I command. "Your physical therapy begins tomorrow."
"Physical therapy?" she echoes in confusion.
I offer her one last fleeting glance.
"To ensure the safety of my child," I answer coldly.
13
Ivy
I don’t sleep after he leaves. It’s been four weeks since the poisoning. I only know because I start my period again. I don’t know how long I was in that cellar, but I guess I’ve been locked in here for at least two of those weeks.
I’m just glad I don’t have to ask for tampons. I’d hidden some in a tissue box the last time.
This morning when Antonia comes, she unlocks the closet door and chooses clothes for me, a pair of jeans and an oversized lilac sweater that feels luxuriously soft against my skin, especially after spending so much time naked. So much time feeling cold and alone, both in the cellar and in this room.
I eat my breakfast because she tells me the therapist Santiago hired is already here, but I’ll only be allowed to see him if I eat. I will add blackmail to Santiago’s crimes against me. I wonder if it was Mercedes who did it. Who got him to call someone. The look on her face when she got me into the bathroom and saw the bruises was one of shock. She asked me if her brother had done it. Her voice had sounded strange. I didn’t answer her. I let her have a good look instead and come up with her own answers. He’s a monster. But so is she. A moment of softness won’t dispel what I know. She is an ice queen.
“I’m ready,” I say to Antonia when I finish the last bite of toast. I wipe my mouth with the napkin, anxious to get out of my prison.
She smiles, pleased at the empty plate. “I’ll send someone in to clean this up. Let’s go see Dr. Hendrickson.”
I nod and follow her out, almost bouncing on my heels. I’m so excited to be free. I never want to enter that room again.
My balance is off, and I have to be more careful than usual on the stairs, so I don’t let go of the banister. Antonia leads me to a room I’ve not been in before. It’s large and sparsely furnished and, most importantly, it’s bright. Sunlight pours in from the clear-glass windows.
“Oh,” I start, my spirits lifting already at the brightness. I don’t even see the man sitting on the couch until he clears his throat, and I hear the sound of a cup placed on its saucer.
I turn to him, that smile fading. I don’t know this man, and the last IVI doctor I dealt with, Dr. Chambers, left me with a bad taste in my mouth.
“Good morning,” he says, smiling warmly and coming toward me. He’s middle-aged and dressed impeccably in an expensive suit. He’s wearing a gold wedding band, and I can see a Rolex watch peeking out from beneath his sleeve when he extends his arm once he’s a few feet from me. “I’m Dr. Hendrickson. You must be Ivy.”
I look at his hand in surprise. He's offering it to shake mine like we’re equals.
“Ivy,” Antonia urges when an awkward moment passes.
“Oh. Sorry. Yes. I’m Ivy,” I say, shaking his hand. What have those weeks in my prison done to me? Have I already forgotten how to be normal?
The doctor momentarily focuses on my right
eye but then smiles at me. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“Can I bring you more coffee, Doctor?”
“Oh, no thank you, Antonia,” he says, eyes still on me. “I’d like to get started.”
“All right. Ivy, can I bring you something?”
I turn to Antonia. “Um. No, I’m fine. Thanks.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” With that, Antonia is gone, and I’m left alone with the doctor.
“Are you with IVI?” I ask first thing.
“IVI?” He raises his eyebrows.
“The Society.”
He pauses. “No, I’m not with any society,” he says, looking rather confused. He reaches into his pocket to take out a business card and hands it to me. “Your husband actually flew me in from California. I have my own practice there. I’m an otolaryngologist.”
I study the card, then look back up at him.
He must see my confusion now because he smiles. “Ear, nose, and throat and I specialize in vestibular disorders. Your husband called my office and explained things. He’s a bit worried about you.”
At that, I feel my eyebrows go up. “Santiago?”
“Yes.”
“Is worried about me?”
He nods, again looking confused.
“Hm.” I remember his words to me last night. How cold they were. He’s not doing this for me. He’s doing it to ensure the safety of his children should I ever become pregnant with any.
“Shall we get started?”
“Okay.”
He gestures for me to sit on the sofa and resumes the seat he’d just vacated. From inside his briefcase, he pulls out a folder and opens it, and I get a glimpse of my name on the first sheet of paper.
“What are those?” I ask.
“Some of your medical records. Mr. De La Rosa was kind enough to send them along. I haven’t had a chance to read them completely yet as this was rather short notice, but from what I’ve read, it doesn’t look like you’ve had any treatment for the disorder?”
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