The city lights begin to emerge on the horizon, growing closer. New York waits for me, with answers I am not sure I want, but know I will seek nonetheless.
I press my fingers against my temples and close my eyes. Praying the cold from the window will ease my headache.
The estate looms ahead, its high stone walls and leaded windows swallowing the last traces of daylight as I gulp down my anticipation. Huntington-Russell Manor has always been a place of quiet suffocation, where power is not just inherited but weaponized. The house doesn’t welcome; it consumes, as it’s been a monster in our family for generations.
My family’s wealth began in the early 1800s with a modest shipping operation that grew rapidly through strategicacquisitions and expansion into shipbuilding and engineering. My great-grandfather transformed the business into a global logistics and offshore oil transport empire under Huntington-Russell Holdings.
Eventually, after attending Eulogia and returning from his time away building his empire, my Great-Great-Great-Grandfather, along with his closest friend and ally, Jonathan Taft, founded The Brotherhood of Death.
By the time I was born, the name of the Society had vanished from public view, but our influence only deepened.
I step out of the car first, the gravel shifting loudly beneath my beige Jimmy Choo’s. The night air is sharp with the scent of woodsmoke, damp earth, and a mist lingering from the morning's rain. I shiver, though not from the cold, but from the anticipation of the weekend. The glow from the upper windows is dim, and the thought of my father up in his study, pacing, is enough to put a chill down my spine.
Ford places a hand against my back, a silent push forward, with Dex trailing closely behind.
“Come on,” he murmurs, pushing me up and through the double doors by the small of my back. He nearly creases my blouse, and I hold myself back from shoving him like I would have done if we were younger.
My heels meet the marble floors far quicker than I’d like. I’d prefer to run right back to the car, but instead, I’m enveloped by the grand marble entryway of our family home: white walls, a narrow runner of plush carpeting, and the help at the ready.
I don’t want to go in. Something feels especially awful about tonight, and if I had any choice in the matter, I’d like to be back in my suite with a book within the hour.
As if I have a choice. As if any of us do.
Inside, I’m suffocated by the same airless opulence, the same sickly mingling of aged bourbon and cigar smoke. Our ancestralportraits still glare down from above the fireplace, forever witnesses to the sins of their lineage.
I’ve still not figured out if I’d like to be a sinner or a saint, as I’m forced to be whichever version of Martine my mother prefers instead.
The weight of Legacy settles over me like an old, wet coat, familiar yet oh-so-uncomfortable. Everything here is exquisite, but curated to my mother’s taste, my father's expectations. It all makes my skin itch.
When I was younger, far more naive, and too young to understand the dynamics surrounding me, I loved this home. I have fond memories of summers here, playing with my brothers and Archie, and our horses.
But now that I’m older, there's a sourness to the opulence.
At Eulogia, it’s different. There’s distance, enough space between the world and me to breathe without being watched. Within the walls of the private suite I share with my brothers, who are rarely around, I find something golden; silence that belongs to me. Time to read what I want, to think in spirals, to wonder who I’d be without all ofthis.
But while a life without comforts is just a musing, I don’t think I’d like to know. I’ve only ever known, or wanted, a life of opulence.
Father is waiting in his study, where the fire crackles loudly against the misplaced chill in the room. He sits in his chair, a glass of bourbon cradled in his long fingers, his posture that of a man who has never been denied anything in his life.
I force my shoulders back and step inside. Ford and Dex flank me, but their presence does little to ease the dread coiled in my stomach.
I so badly want to pick at my French manicure. My stomach plummets from being in such close quarters with Father for a rare occurrence of something about me.
“Martine.” His voice is smooth, a blade wrapped in velvet.
I don’t sit, nor do my brothers. I stand barely through the threshold, holding my breath for instruction.
I know exactly what this is about.
His lips curl as he gestures lazily with his glass. “You sulk in the doorway like petulant children. Sit.”
A command, not an invitation, each word my father utters is simply a demonstration of power. I hesitate, just for a breath, before lowering myself into the chair opposite him.
Ford and Dex remain standing, yet I can sense their growing annoyance. They don’t like the unexpected, and I’ve noticed their increasing impatience with our father as of late. It’s unlike them to challenge him, but I’ve seen their dislike for him grow into something darker over the summer.
I would never challenge him, as I prefer to keep my head and disdain doing anything that would keep me at home longer than necessary.
My brothers seem to have a death wish.
