The night’s events replay in my mind: the party, Ford’s warning, the stranger with the piercing gaze and the voice thatfelt like gravel against my skin, and now Archibald, always lurking, always knowing too much.
Then Dale Danton-Taft appearing out of nowhere with an easy smile and an unexpected warmth.
And for the first time in a long time, I find myself wondering, if I’d met her sooner, would things have turned out differently? I could run to her floor with a bottle of wine and wax poetically about being forced to the City to see my parents. Only sharing so much, of course.
I reach for my nightstand, retrieving the worn copy of Machiavelli’sThe PrinceI had abandoned that morning. Flipping through the pages, I force myself to focus, but my mind is elsewhere. It’s trapped in the inevitability of the weekend, in the heavy burden of my name, in the future that has already been decided for me.
And above all, those damn apples and my missing diary.
I don’t know how long I sit there, staring blankly at the words in my book, before the knock comes. Not a frantic pounding, not Ford’s usual storming entrance, just three deliberate raps against the heavy wooden door.
I hesitate before rising, my fingers tightening around the edge of the book before discarding it atop the duvet cover. The constant stream of visitors is getting old.
When I open the door to the suite, I’m surprised to find Ford standing there, his expression unreadable. Something must be wrong. The flask he always carries is tucked neatly into his breast pocket, his posture rigid with something that looks dangerously close to something I refuse to comprehend. Ford is never one to knock.
"Is something wrong?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe, feigning boredom and preparing myself for the tongue-lashing I’m sure to receive for walking home alone. I had expected itto be the next morning, though, as he stormed through the apartment half-drunk on his way to class.
He exhales sharply as if debating whether to speak at all. "Pack your things, Martine. We’re leaving sooner than expected."
I arch a brow and let out a small, disbelieving laugh. "And what catastrophic event has accelerated our departure? I was looking forward to the final day of introductory classes tomorrow."
We were planning to leave in the evening once the welcome week concluded.
Ford steps inside, closing the door behind him. He’s silent for a moment, staring past me at the crackling fireplace. Then, in a voice too quiet, too measured, he says, "Father has called, demanding we skip tomorrow and bring you home early."
A cold weight settles in my stomach. A chill covers my skin, even though the fireplace in the sitting room roars.
He never calls for me. He summons Ford and Dex. I have always been the afterthought, the pawn waiting in reserve for the perfect political play. The pretty thing perched in corner chairs at parties or greeting in entryways on the receiving end of double cheek kisses.
"Did he say why?" My voice is careful, but I already know the answer as I fight to swallow the lump now in my throat. I have known it since the day I was born with the Huntington-Russell name.
Ford doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, he studies me, his icy eyes scanning my face as if trying to gauge how much of the truth I can withstand. I refuse to break eye contact with his cold blue eyes. I may have been raised by controlling and domineering people, and the list of decisions I actually make myself is quite short, but it makes me no less brave. I want to show him that.
Curling his upper lip slightly with distaste he says, "He’s finally chosen you a husband."
The world tilts slightly on its axis, and I grip the doorframe to steady myself.
Chosen.
Of course he has.
A husband.
A contract sealed long before I could protest. Long before I wore lipstick or combed my own hair.
"Who?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. If I squeezed the doorframe any tighter, my nails would begin to break. I quickly shuffle through the list of the Brotherhood at Eulogia. The Tafts don’t have an unmarried male heir other than Hudson, whom my father disapproves of, and I highly doubt my father would choose Archibald, but perhaps that's why he always allowed him to laze about the estate. That is, if my father has chosen someone born in the same decade.
“Is it Archie?”
Ford doesn’t answer, but his silence is enough. The air between us stretches taut, suffocating.
He knows he can’t tell me more than instructed, and I know better than to ask for more when I’ve received silence as a response.
"I won’t do it," I say, though even as the words leave my lips, I know they’re meaningless.
Ford steps closer, and my nose practically brushes against his chest as he shoves inside. "Martine, you don’t have a choice."
His words are not cruel. They are not meant to wound or cause discomfort. But they carve into me all the same, deep and unrelenting. I know they are the truth.
