Chapter 6
The old man's silhouette cut an imposing figure against the backdrop of the opulent living room, his cane thumping in indignation on the plush carpet. Sebastian's face was a storm cloud of authority and wrath as he barked at the young man striding past him with nary a glance.
"Stand back! Dane, do you not hear me?" His voice boomed across the expanse, rebounding off the grand walls adorned with the spoils of wealth and history.
Dane paused mid-step, his lean frame rigid with irritation. He turned, offering a cursory nod to the butler whose lips twitched into a sycophantic smile. "Sir Dane," the butler crooned, "the old man's been perched there since dusk cracked, all because word got out you'd come back."
"Has it really been that long?" Dane remarked dryly, his eyes landing briefly on the patriarch sunk deep in the leather of the coach. The air went still for a moment, heavy with expectation and disappointment.
"Looking sharp as ever, sir, if I may say so," added the butler, fishing for any semblance of warmth in his charge.
"Thanks," Dane muttered, the acknowledgement dangling in the air like a reluctant olive branch.
His grandfather, once the epitome of joyous tyranny, now seemed deflated, a balloon pricked by the needle of reality. "I've things to tend to—" Dane started, his voice as cold as the marble underfoot.
"More important than your blood?" Sebastian interrupted, his fierce gaze trapping Dane's retreating form. "Your family?"
"Apparently," Dane shot back, the words laced with frost. He spun on his heel, heading back towards the staircase, each step pronouncing his defiance.
"Tomorrow night! Grandeco Hotel, seven o'clock. You'll be there." It was not a request; it was a command from the depths of Sebastian's aged lungs.
"No," Dane replied, curt and final, the syllable echoing through the grandeur of the Adams residence. The refusal hung between them, a gauntlet thrown down.
Sebastian's cheeks reddened, his fingers tightening around the silver handle of his cane, the very symbol of his waning power. "You defy me in my own house?" he seethed, the words sharp enough to carve marble.
"Seems so," Dane retorted, his back to the old man as he ascended the stairs. Each step up was a silent manifesto of rebellion, a declaration of war in this cold kingdom of wealth and broken familial bonds.
Sebastian Adams' scowl deepened, watching the receding back of his grandson as Dane continued his march towards the sanctuary of his office. The cane in Sebastian's grip became an extension of his fury, the knuckles white, the air around him crackling with the pent-up tempest.
"Sir," the butler interjected, a wry chuckle softening the edges of his concern. "Sir Dane just disembarked from Paris. Time zones and tempers, they need aligning."
"Time be damned!" Sebastian's voice was a thunderclap in the cavernous living room. "The boy's nearing thirty, barren of affection or intent. He needs a wife, a lineage to uphold!"
Before them lay the evidence of Sebastian's matchmaking endeavors—a tableau of portraits and dossiers strewn across the mahogany table. Young women, all smiles and poise, trapped within gilded frames, unaware of the destiny sketched out for them.
"Perhaps," the butler mused quietly, eyeing the collection with a furrowed brow, "perhaps Sir Dane's interests lie... elsewhere."
"Elsewhere?" Sebastian's growl rumbled, a bear cornered in its den. "He's an Adams! We produce heirs, not scandals." His gaze swept the cold expanse of the Adams estate, the maids darting like ghosts between shadows, their silence a testament to the chill that had seeped into the very bones of the house.
"Ha!" The butler's laugh, a solitary note in the symphony of tension. "Dane's heart is a locked chamber, sir. Women nor men hold the key."
"Enough," Sebastian snapped, the words slicing through the air. "I'll not have my legacy questioned. Not by you, not by him." His finger jabbed toward the staircase Dane had ascended, as if to pin his grandson to the spot with sheer will.
The butler bowed, a subtle acquiescence, yet his eyes held the spark of secrets untold. "Of course, Mr. Adams. But do remember, the heart is a stubborn beast."
"Stubbornness can be broken," Sebastian muttered, his gaze now following the intricate patterns of the ceiling. "It must." The threat lingered, a promise etched in stone.
Dane's steps echoed in his mind, a metronome ticking away his patience. Thirty years, and what to show? An empty home, a grandson who bristled at the mention of duty, of family.
"Tomorrow night then," Sebastian declared, his voice a blade honing itself on resolve. "Grandeco Hotel. He will attend, he will choose, and this farce will end."
"Indeed, sir," the butler replied, his tone betraying no hint of doubt or defiance. "The Adams name shall carry on."
Upstairs, Dane's door clicked shut, a silent rebuke to the plans unfurling below. Unseen, unheard, he leaned against the cool wood, a fortress wall against the siege of expectation. In his solitude, a single truth echoed: freedom was a battle, and he'd fight, one wayward step at a time.
The butler's voice, ever measured and calm, cut through the tension of the Adams' grand living room like a well-sharpened knife. "Mr. Adams," he said, "the party next month could be an opportune moment."
Sebastian, perched on the edge of his seat, cane gripped like a scepter of war, glared up from the dossier of debutantes sprawled across the mahogany table. "Speak," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.
"Many women will be in attendance," the butler continued, unperturbed by the brewing storm in Sebastian's eyes. "Perhaps it would be wise to allow Sir Dane to choose one that catches his fancy."
"Choose?" Sebastian scoffed, his eyebrows arching dangerously. "Like he knows what he wants?"
"Indeed," the butler replied, voice smooth as silk, "it would be... enlightening for him."
"Fine." The word was a gunshot in the quiet room. "But let it be known," Sebastian added, leaning forward, eyes narrowing, "any girl who snags his attention, I'll welcome her with open arms. Her pedigree be damned."
"Very democratic, sir," the butler quipped, the ghost of a smile dancing on his lips. Sebastian merely snorted, dismissing the implication with a flick of his wrist.
—
Marley sat alone, hunched over a forgotten coffee in a cafe that buzzed with life she no longer felt part of. She stirred the cold liquid absentmindedly, each clink of the spoon against the porcelain echoing in her hollow chest.
The world outside was a carousel of laughter and light, but inside Marley, winter had taken hold. Her fingers traced the delicate pattern of pain throbbing across her temples, the dull ache a faithful companion since the day betrayal laid bare in her bed.
Her mind replayed the scene, unbidden. Oscar, Olivia, the tangled sheets – a memory seared into her very soul. The apartment she retreated to was a mausoleum of silence, its walls closing in with each ragged breath.
"Stupid," she muttered to herself, her right hand dropping the spoon with a clatter. It sounded too loud in her ears, a thunderclap in a desolate sky.
The cafe's laughter mocked her, the carefree chatter a stark contrast to the tempest within. Marley's body burned with a feverish intensity, the heat a cruel reminder of her own flesh-and-blood betrayal, the stranger's touch that now branded her guilty.
"Damn you, Oscar," she whispered, her voice a venomous hiss that no one else could hear. "Damn your cowardice."
Marley's fingers trembled as they rummaged through the cavern of her leather bag, a silent prayer for aspirin to quell the thunder in her skull. But instead, the tactile dance of searching uncovered nothing but ghosts: an empty compartment where her passport and ID should have nestled.
"Shit," she hissed under her breath, a tangled memory surfacing like a specter from the murky depths. The hotel room, the nameless man whose touch was now a stain on her skin, the rush to flee from the scene of her own desperation.
"Can I help you with something else?" The cashier's voice cut through her reverie, overly bright against the backdrop of Marley's darkening thoughts.
"No, just..." Marley trailed off, her voice a ghost of its usual defiance. It wasn't illness alone that seared her veins; it was the feverish aftermath of betrayal, and the warmth of a stranger that left her feeling more hollow than whole.
The cafe's automatic door swooshed open, admitting a draught of cool air and the last person Marley wished to see—Oscar, his presence like the embodiment of scorn.
"Playing the wounded deer again, Marley? Mother won't fall for it," he drawled, his words laced with poison and a sneer tugging at his lips.
A smirk carved itself onto Marley's face, brittle as thin ice. "Your concern is touching," she replied, voice dripping sarcasm as she brushed past him, eager to escape.
But Oscar was a wildfire not easily evaded. His hand clamped down on her arm, grip hot and insistent. Marley's reaction was instinctive, her arm jerking away, breaking his grasp as if it were chains binding her.
"Disgust suits you," she spat out, the taste of contempt bitter on her tongue.
He looked momentarily taken aback by her revulsion, and then, frustration bloomed into a cold smile. "Don't flatter yourself. This isn't my idea of a good time. Mother sent me to drag you to the Adams' circus," Oscar said, making the party sound like a sentence rather than a soiree.
Marley's temples throbbed, a relentless drumbeat against her skull. "I'm not interested," she bit out, each word laced with the weariness that had sunk into her bones.
"Doesn't matter," Oscar growled, his grip iron as he all but shoved her into the sleek black car idling at the curb. "Stop wasting my time."
The world outside blurred past in streaks of indifference as Marley slumped in the leather seat, a maelstrom of pain and anger swirling within. Oscar's face was stone, set in the same hard lines as the mother who held Marley's freedom in her clenched fist.
"Amelia won't budge," she muttered to herself, the memory of her mother-in-law's words like acid on her tongue. 'Don't stir,' Amelia had said, as if Marley's life was nothing more than unsettled sediment at the bottom of a murky pond.
Oscar's silence was a taunt, his compliance to his mother a testament to his cowardice. He wouldn't dare breathe the word 'divorce,' as if the very syllables would shatter the facade of their marriage.
—
The car stopped, and they were there—Adams' residence looming like a fortress of false joy. Oscar's parting shot was a venomous whisper. "Stay out of sight, corner creature. You don't belong here."
Marley's feet moved of their own accord, carrying her to a secluded corner where she could nurse her misery in solitude. The party swirled around her—a dizzying carousel of laughter, clinking glasses, and the soft rustle of expensive fabric. She felt like a ghost haunting the edges of a world she no longer belonged to.
"Doesn't belong" echoed in her mind, syncing with the pulse of pain behind her eyes. She leaned back against the cool wall, willing her body to merge with the stone and vanish. But even here, in her chosen invisibility, she couldn't shake the sensation of being watched.
High above, detached from the festivities, Dane stood at the railing, surveying the sea of faces. Another man, presumably a business associate or perhaps a relative, leaned in close, curiosity piqued. "Do you know her?" he asked, nodding towards Marley's lone figure.
Dane's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, tracing the contours of her form before settling on the subtle grimace of discomfort etched across her features. His expression remained unreadable, a mask of icy detachment veiling whatever thoughts churned beneath the surface.