Then, Martine Huntington-Russell steps into the room.
She doesn’t go to Eulogia yet; she’s in her final year of boarding school and is only here to visit her brothers.
She moves toward the twins without seeing me, her focus narrowing on Ford and Dex as she approaches. There’s something angelic about her, but not delicate. It’s in the sharp contrast of her features, the light blonde hair against her dark eyes, the softness of her mouth against the tension in herposture. She chews her bottom lip thoughtfully, not sipping from the champagne flute she carries.
She’s not flawless, and that’s what holds my interest.
She’s not like the women I’m used to, symmetrical, practiced, performative. There’s something offbeat in her face.
Strong nose. Full mouth. Eyes that don’t just look at a room, they measure it.
Perfectly imperfect. Her dress clings in all the right places. A freckle sits high on her cheekbone, and there’s a faint scar just above her lip. Little imperfections that find me examining her face for longer than I usually would.
She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t need to. She’s the kind of woman who draws you in without even trying. And I already know, I’ll try to ruin her before I ever admit she’s getting under my skin.
Ford doesn’t acknowledge her right away, still simmering, still pissed. Dex leans in and mutters something to her that makes her smile. I frown to myself, annoyed for wanting to know what he said to make her laugh. My attention stays locked on how she carries herself, shoulders pulled back as if bracing for unforeseen impact.
It bothers me, and I can’t quite put my finger on why.
Archie appears beside her, his presence easy and familiar. He leans in slightly, says something low near her ear, and she nods, her expression shifting into something more relaxed.
Is she his Chosen? The thought irritates me more than I care to admit.
“They grew up together,” a voice next to me comments, and annoyance courses through me at the thought of being caught staring.
When I turn, I find Hudson watching me. “Archie and Martine. Practically inseparable as kids. Families are tight.”
My irritation sharpens but is gone as fast as it came. I don’t care, I remind myself.
Archie leans in again, closer this time, lips nearly brushing her ear. Martine steps back deliberately. Her grip tightens on her untouched flute, gaze flicking anywhere but him.
Archie recovers fast, but I noticed.
Martine might have been promised to Archie, but promises are easily broken.
Martine Lilian Huntington-Russell
Present Day
The next morning, the car idles just outside the dormitories' towering building, a sleek black sedan that blends seamlessly into the dawn. A driver stands beside the open rear door, silent.
Ford waits beside the car, his face cast in shadow from the dim streetlight above. He looks tired. Not the kind of tiredness that comes from lack of sleep, but something deeper that comes from carrying a weight that can’t be put down.
What we have in common is the knowledge that we exist for something beyond ourselves.
I don’t pretend to understand my brothers' responsibilities, but I have always tried to lessen their burden.
When I was twelve, Ford and Dex got into a fight at a Society gala. One of those endless nights filled with polished floors and dead-eyed smiles, where our father paraded us like trophies, proof of his perfect Legacy. I never found out who threw the first punch—only that it was loud enough to bring the room to a halt,glasses frozen midair, murmurs slithering through the crowd like smoke.
Our father was across the ballroom in an instant, his grip iron around Dex’s wrist, his voice a quiet, seething thing that only we knew meant real danger.
The twins were fourteen, and a scene would be unacceptable.
A public disgrace? Unforgivable.
So, I stepped between them. Smiled sweetly at our father, looping my arm through his like I had nothing but affection for the man. “It was my fault,” I said, voice light and easy, as I belonged to this world of delicate cruelty, “I provoked them.”
Ford and Dex both went rigid beside me, but they knew better than to argue. Our father’s gaze flicked to mine, assessing, deciding. Then, to my relief, he laughed, shaking his head like I was nothing more than a silly girl who would never understand the weight of our name.
