My grandmother tried to bridge that gap, to soften his edges, but she never challenged him. Not once. Even as a child, I sensed something wrong in that—the way she'd avert her eyes when hesnapped at me, the way her hands would flutter helplessly before she'd retreat to her gardens.
Why didn't you fight for me?The question died with her.
My father gives no response. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Just the incessant tapping of his thumbs against the glass.
The city lights blur past, a kaleidoscope of neon and streetlamps that does nothing to dispel the darkness gathering in my chest. As we leave the urban sprawl behind, the shadows deepen. Trees loom on either side of the road, their branches reaching out like gnarled fingers, grasping at our sleek vehicle.
Father mutters under his breath, words barely audible over the soft hum of tires on asphalt. "...protect what's ours... can't let them..." His leg bounces—an uncharacteristic display of nerves.
"Who's 'them'? What are we protecting?" The words tumble out, desperation coating each syllable. Blood rushes in my ears, pulse pounding.
He whips his head toward me, eyes blazing with an intensity that makes me recoil. "Enough, Viv. You've done quite enough already."
My throat constricts, a vise tightening around my windpipe. What have I done? The paintings flash through my mind—Paul's masterpieces, my body immortalized in oils. But how could Father know?
Father's agitation grows as the traffic thins, and we pick up speed. He raps sharply on the partition.
"Robert. Faster."
"Sir, the speed limit?—"
"Damn the speed limit. Get us home. Now."
The car surges forward, pressing me back into the supple leather. Familiar landmarks whiz by, but in the darkness, lit only by our headlights, they seem alien. Unfriendly. The pristine hedgerows of our neighbors' estates. The gleaming gates ofthe country club. The spire of the old stone church, where generations of Faulks have been baptized, married, and buried.
We round the final bend, and the Faulks estate looms before us, a colossus of stone and glass erupting from manicured grounds. Even shrouded in night's embrace, it's an awe-inspiring sight. Windows blaze with light, warm squares carved out of the darkness. Floodlights illuminate the facade, throwing every cornice and column into sharp relief.
The grounds stretch endlessly—lush lawns, artfully placed topiaries, and gardens that would make Versailles weep with envy. A fountain burbles in the circular drive, its mist catching the light and creating a halo of droplets.
Grandmother's rose garden is somewhere in that darkness, the one place in this estate that ever felt warm. She'd take me there after my father's rages, let me bury my face in her skirts while she murmured soft reassurances.
But she never stood between us. Never told him to stop. I was too young when my mother died to remember her voice, but surely—surely—a mother would have fought for her daughter. Surely a mother wouldn't have watched silently while her child was crushed under the weight of a family name.
Home. A place I've known my entire life. When I was a kid, it was my castle, and I was its princess. Now it's my prison. I'm the damsel in distress, locked in an ivory tower.
Robert barely has time to bring the car to a stop before Father is out, striding toward the grand entrance. His Italian leather shoes crunch on the gravel, the sound sharp and urgent. I scramble after him.
The massive oak doors swing open at our approach, opened by unseen hands. We sweep into the grand foyer, its opulence hitting me anew. Crystal chandeliers drip from coffered ceilings, their light dancing off marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. Priceless art adorns walls covered in silk damask—a Monet here,a Renoir there, casually displayed as if they were simple family portraits.
"Mr. Faulks." Mrs. Holloway, our house manager, materializes from a side door. Her usual poise is ruffled, clearly taken aback by Father's demeanor. "Is everything alright? Shall I have the kitchen prepare?—"
"Not now." Father barrels past her, making a beeline for his study.
Following in Father's wake, I catch the staff's reactions. Amelia, one of the maids, flattens herself against a wall, duster clutched to her chest. Robert nearly drops a Ming vase in his haste to clear a path.
They're all afraid of him. Every single person in this house. Just like my grandmother, though she hid it behind gentle smiles and soft touches.
I used to think she was brave for staying calm in the face of his temper. Now I realize it was surrender. When she was dying, I begged her to tell me why—why she never stood up to him, why she let him control everything.
She just squeezed my hand and whispered, "Some battles can't be won, my darling."
As a young teen, I didn't understand. Now I'm trapped in an arranged marriage, and I understand all too well.
Father's study door flies open with such force that it rebounds off the wall. I slip in behind him, my presence barely registered. He makes straight for the far wall, where a massive oil painting hangs—a Turner, one I've studied countless times.
The canvas depicts the Battle of Trafalgar, Turner's masterful brushstrokes bringing the chaos of naval warfare to vivid life. Smoke billows from cannon fire, obscuring parts of the scene in hazy grays and browns. The sea churns beneath the warships, white-capped waves betraying the fury of both nature and man. In the distance, barely visible through the smoke and sea spray,the silhouettes of other ships loom, a reminder of the battle's epic scale.
What always strikes me about this piece is Turner's use of light. Even amid destruction, golden sunlight breaks through the clouds, casting an almost ethereal glow over the scene. It's a study in contrasts—beauty amid horror, hope in the face of despair.
