The late-morning sun lay like liquid gold over the cream-stone façade of the Marwick villa, the high columns and wrought-iron balconies throwing long shadows across the tiled courtyard. Evelyn Cross stepped out of the car without waiting for the driver to open her door. She had been here many times before, but each visit still pressed on her nerves in the same way: a reminder of the bargain she'd made, of the man she was supposed to marry, and of the family power games she'd been born into.
Inside, the cool hush of the entrance swallowed her whole. The scent of polished marble and faint perfume drifted through the long hallway. A row of maids greeted her with soft voices, their uniforms a carefully curated contradiction: crisp black-and-white fabric cut indecently short at the skirt, high slits flashing pale skin as they moved; blouses cut low enough to show the curve of a bust with each bow. Their hair was pinned back in neat buns, but their painted lips and smoky eyes made the greeting seem like a display. They lowered their gazes as she passed, murmuring, "Good morning, Miss Cross," in rehearsed tones, each one a blend of deference and calculated allure. Evelyn did not slow, only let her eyes skim over them in a cool acknowledgement before her heels clicked past toward the grand staircase.
She didn't have to ask where Lucas was. She already knew. The faint sound of laughter and breathless sighs floated down from above like a mocking whisper. She climbed slowly, deliberately, her palm trailing along the polished banister as though she were drawing strength from the cold iron. At the top, she turned left, past two tall vases of lilies and an oil painting of a hunt scene, and walked down the corridor to the wide double doors of Lucas's private suite.
The moans were clearer now. She knocked once, out of formality rather than expectation, then pushed the door open. The room was all soft light and indulgence: velvet curtains half-drawn, sheets tangled across a sprawling bed, the air heavy with perfume and sweat. Lucas lay sprawled on the mattress, still half-dressed, a young maid clinging to him with a mixture of eagerness and calculation. His dark hair fell across his forehead; he looked up lazily at the sound of the door but didn't stop.
"We're leaving," Evelyn said, her voice a blade of ice cutting through the room.
Lucas gave a low chuckle, his eyes still on the girl. "Five more minutes," he murmured, voice lazy, unashamed, his hands continuing their slow path over the maid's back.
Evelyn took two steps forward, the click of her heels like a metronome. "Get up. Let's go" she said, then turned to the girl. "Out. Now." The girl scrambled to collect her things and disappeared through a side door, leaving the scent of perfume behind.
Lucas leaned back on his elbows, a half-smile curling his mouth. "You're a fun killer, you know that? What is it now?"
"We're going to my family house," she replied evenly, meeting his eyes without a flicker.
He tilted his head. "And if I refuse?"
"You know exactly what will happen." Her voice didn't rise, but the air in the room seemed to tighten around her words. Lucas's smirk faded, the first real flicker of seriousness crossing his features. For a moment they simply stared at each other, the maid frozen between them, eyes darting.
After a heavy beat, Evelyn shifted slightly, still holding his gaze. "We leave in five," she said quietly.
Lucas watched her go, jaw tightening. "You always play hard," he muttered.
Evelyn didn't answer. She left the room without looking back, her stride measured, her composure intact.
The Cross family villa was another kind of theatre. Where Lucas's house dripped with a young man's decadence, this one radiated generational weight. The great hallway led to a dining chamber dominated by a long mahogany table, polished to a mirror finish. Portraits of grim ancestors stared down from the high walls; a chandelier of crystal droplets caught the light and scattered it over everything like fragments of judgment.
Damien, Logan, Brielle and Helena were already there, seated stiffly. Edward stood behind Helena, one hand on the back of her chair. Conversation was brittle and low, as if everyone were speaking through clenched teeth.
Evelyn entered first, Lucas a pace behind her. She didn't take off her gloves. Her gaze swept the table, then landed on Damien. "Where's Isla?"
Damien's mouth tightened. "She couldn't come. Family emergency," he said curtly.
Brielle leaned forward, eyebrows raised. "Family emergency? Or did she just decide she's had enough?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
Damien shot her a look sharp enough to cut glass, and she subsided. Logan muttered, "How long are we going to sit here?"
"Until he comes," Helena said without looking at him, voice even but taut.
No one answered. The air seemed to grow heavier with each passing second. Then the sound of a cane striking marble echoed from the hallway. One by one, heads turned toward the door as the patriarch appeared, his presence swallowing the room whole. He walked slowly but with unmistakable authority, each tap of his walking stick a command. His gaze moved over the assembled faces, assessing, appraising.
Helena and Edward rose together. "Papa," they said, almost in unison.
He did not respond. He moved to the head of the table and lowered himself into the high-backed chair that had been left conspicuously empty for him. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, as if by some silent agreement, they all sat.
The cane struck the floor once, sharply. "Who told you to sit?" His voice cracked through the chamber like a whip.
Every movement froze. Helena's fingers tightened around the edge of the table; a tremor ran through her shoulders. The patriarch's eyes, cold and clear, swept the table again, as they each stood up one after the other.
"You all are nothing but a disgrace" he said, voice low and dangerous. "Weak, soft, complacent. Nincompoops!" The last word thundered out, followed by another crack of the cane against marble. The sound echoed up to the chandelier and back down again. Helena flinched visibly at the blow, her composure trembling though she forced her face to remain calm.
The family stood in rigid silence, the weight of his authority pressing down on each of them.