Chapter 9

Landen POV

I fumble out of the car, buckling my belt. Abbey or Sarah, or whatever the fuck her name is, scrambles out behind me, wiping her wet mouth.

"Landen," a small, chirpy voice calls out.

Lucy. The only woman's name I won't forget.

I look back at the driver with a crooked grin. "I suggest you wait here… one of us will be sent back."

He nods sharply.

I beckon the girl to follow with a flutter of my fingers. And we walk haphazardly to the mountainous staircase.

"You're back, Mr Vacheron." Her eyes stray to the girl, her wholesome smile wavering. "And you brought a friend… to a family lunch?"

The thought corrodes my calm. "The only family there is my brother and my manipulating, conniving father."

I take a few steps up only to stumble, and Lucy is quick to stabilize me.

"Landen, have you been drinking?"

I drape my arm around her shoulders, lifting myself up, somewhat, straight. "Nooo."

Lucy winces at the smell of my breath. Clearly unconvinced.

She guides us up the staircase and past the open doorway to the entrance hall. The interior designing theme is synonymous with the blueprint of Roman architecture, with its elaborate ceiling and ornate walls complemented with a timeless geometric patterned flooring. Custom tiles, of course.

We are led to the west keep of the estate. The botanical gardens. I notice there's a lot more armed guards manning the property. After a while, I stagger out into the sunlight. The outdoor glass table is positioned on a standalone and elevated deck with a superior view of the luxuriant foliage, trimmed hedges and grandiose fountains.

Lucy falls back. I take the girl's hand and strut up the steps with a grin.

Quite a few people occupy the table. My duplicitous father, my kiss-ass brother, and Mayor Du Pont himself, with two other men around my age—his sons, I guess. They all have the same aquiline nose. And the other girl. The girl. I've never taken out the trash before but today I'm eager.

"I'm sorry. Were you waiting for the hostage to arrive?"

I pull out a chair at the twelve seater table and I move the girl, settling her on my lap. The table is already adorned with gourmet food and choice wine, all untouched. The servers stand around the rims of the deck, so still and silent I always forget they're even there. All but Lucy.

My father hooks his glare into my soul. "Landen." My name an insult. An embarrassment.

I look back at him with an innocent grin. "Daddy?"

He manages his anger with a blank, unreadable expression. "The girl. I told you this was a family event."

I act coy, feigning confusion. "Was it?" I look around theatrically. "Since when are strangers invited to family events? So why would one more irritate you?"

"Lucy."

She reappears in a blink of an eye.

"Have the driver take her… anywhere but here."

She bows her head at him. "Yes, sir."

I rest back in my seat. She looks back at me nervously, and I shoo her off with a dismissive hand. She rises slowly from my lap and follows Lucy back inside the house. I set my eyes on Vance, who studiously avoids eye contact, like I'm just waiting to inflict havoc with just one look. He knows me so well.

"Brother."

His eyes lift gradually.

"Did you miss me?"

"Landen."

Father's voice is like an invisible vise, tightening around the nape of my neck, its pressure both commanding and relentless. I brush off the undying feeling and reach for the bottle of wine myself. I pop the cork open and pour myself a glass until the brim.

Vance finally looks at me. "Don't you think you've had enough?" His judgment is like a cheap knock-off of our father. He'd cross any line to please him—even if it means crossing me. "I can smell your breath from here."

A laugh bursts out from me. "As if I could endure the both of you sober." I take a long draw, only leaving behind a few ounces before I refill my glass. "Besides, the mood here is equivalent to a wake."

Father makes a signal. The next thing I know, a man uniformed in white confiscates the bottle and the glass in my hand. I free an exasperated breath and I glare back at him, lifting an unsteady finger to point it at him.

"Why do you want me here? Do you need my blessing or something? No, because Colton Vacheron does whatever the hell he wants, so why am I here?"

"Because you're a part of this family," he booms, his voice like a clap of thunder. "For better or for worse. You are a Vacheron. And you better start acting like one because my patience with you is exceeding. And you won't like what I do when it does."

His words evaporate the liquor in my mind. A sobering vow. My father isn't the man to make threats. I stand down. For now. He sees this and turns his gaze on the Du Ponts.

"My apologies. My youngest son always had a penchant for antics."

I snort loudly. Mayor Du Pont glances at me warily and attempts a smile.

"I have been monitoring all the exposure about your relationship," father notes. A glimmer of content in his eyes. He's impressed. "The world is watching, and it seems they like what they see."

I snort again. "And you say I have a penchant for antics," I mutter. "Where do you think I learned it?"

His voice stomps on my comment. "Allison is pleased but still thinks there are still some ways and time to go before an engagement is announced."

I focus my gaze on the girl, Avara, studying her reaction. There's not much to decode because, unlike us, she's completely transparent, and she's uncomfortable. Her constant futile shifting, adjusting her hair and fiddling with the rings on her fingers. Even though we're under a wooden dome ceiling, she is still wearing her white floppy hat; the brim concealing her eyes from me, matching her snow-white, sleeveless dress, dressed up like some kind of saint. Her brothers, on the other hand, have a hostile outlook and they hate me, which is a common first impression I make effortlessly. The older one with the darker hair won't stop glowering at me. I shoot him a wink with a sultry smile. And he looks away with a disgusted expression.

My father orders his servants to serve the platters, serving the portions of various dishes, all prepared by a first-class chef he keeps on standby. Everyone eats their food in a suffocating silence. I can barely stand to look at mine. The current company obliterated what was left of my appetite.

"Landen. Eat."

I throw a glower at him. "No. You already kidnapped me. What's next? You're gonna force feed me, too?"

He responds with an apathetic look, then cuts up his filet mignon.

Shortly, Vance pauses, then looks up at me with a silent but pleading look.

I hold his gaze with a questioning expression.

Please, he mouths.

I look away. Compelled, I pick up the fork, beginning to eat.

"So Avara," I say thoughtfully, my fork stabs the gnocchi. "Is my brother treating you well?"

Surprisingly, it's my brother that freezes up, then covers up his dismay with his stainless stoic mask. I look back at Avara with renewed intrigue. She looks at me for the first time with those doe, Bambi eyes looking back at me like a deer in headlights. Avara smiles politely and nods.

"Your brother has been an absolute gentleman."

For some reason, Vance looks like he's about to throw up. And so he takes a generous sip of wine.

"Your family home," she says, looking around pointedly. Changing the subject. "It's beautiful, especially your garden. My best friend, she'd absolutely marvel at it all."

"Oh," I say with fake interest. "After lunch, I can give you a tour of the manor grounds?"

Her eyes spark, and she nods reluctantly. "Yes, I'd love that."

"We all would," her one brother adds.

"Uh-uh," I chide. "No, I think my sister-in-law and I need some alone time to get to know each other. Vance can show you and your father the gardens." I glance at an anxious Avara. "We'll start with the house."

I take the girl, this anomaly, foreign threat into my ancestral home, walking her through the hall with centuries-old family portraits decorating the walls with pedestalled busts and marble statues. Aware of every camera and every blindspot. I lead her up the dual swivel, sweeping staircase with a balustrade of wrought iron and mahogany that curves gracefully upward that leads to the center gallery, hobbling up each step, and I fall to my knee at the top. Avara is quick to help me. A delicate arm slips around my waist, trying to heave me up.

"My brother was right," I say with a hysterical chuckle. "I had more than enough to drink."

When we round the corner, at the entrance of a corridor—I snatch her neck and slam her against the wall, cutting her gasp short. I pin her flat with not much effort. The pressure I have on her airways is enough to constrict a scream but fortunately for her. Not her breaths.

"Who are you?"

She struggles in vain; her face inflamed, trying to pry off my hand, appearing like floundering fish. I almost laugh. I ease the grip on her throat just enough for her to answer.

"Or should I be asking, what are you?" I tilt my head, trying to capture her gaze. "My brother… you've unsettled him. And nothing unsettles him. What did you do or say? Are you trying to extort him for more money? The billions you're getting from this alliance, that not enough for you?"

She chokes, but not because of my grip. Didn't she know the amount? I release her. She nearly falls to her knees, doubles over, coughing like a sick dog with her hat on the floor. I retreat a step and she forces herself upright, clutching onto her neck, staring at me with teary eyes, an overwhelming mix of fear and shock.

"I didn't bring you here to question you, because I know you'll just lie."

Tears fall, streaming down her scarlet cheeks, her hand coddling her throat.

"There's little in the world I care about. One of them is my brother. If you hurt him in any way, try to leach out all you can from this or whatever. Our next encounter will be a lot less friendly."

I lower myself to pick up her hat. And I go closer to her. She frees a sharp gasp and presses herself against the wall as if hoping it will swallow her to safety. I simply fix her hat back on. I move a stray strand from her face, tucking it behind her earlobe, allowing my finger to idle down the trail of her neck in a languid line.