Page 118 of Outcast’s Vow

He likes routine, the Supreme Elder.

There’s a silent air circling around him from the other patrons at the private members’ club. In here, it’s pure old money. Oil portraits of long-dead benefactors line the walls. The servers in their gold cufflinks and crisp suits scuttle and vanish like phantoms. Heavy velvet drapes block the interior from the outside world like walls around a castle. There are unspoken rules in here. A hushed hierarchy.

Exactly the way Father likes it.

I spot the two security guards keeping a watchful eye from their position at the wall near the Supreme Elder. Even in this very exclusive building in the heart of the richest city on earth, my father still needs protection. He’s a man with more enemies than the president.

As I walk across the private members’ club, I check my phone. Still no reply from Baptiste. He told me he had to go to Europe for the Castaways. I bet there’s more to that. Maybe Father might be able to clarify.

The Supreme Elder is all rehearsed manners when I reach him. A kiss on each cheek. The obligatory hug. The gesture to the seat opposite. No crack in the armor. No revelation that, with the return of the Masked Killer, everything in my father’s life is slowly coming apart.

“Hello, Father.”

He's in his usual, perfectly tailored suit. I'm in a dark blue dress suitable for this elite establishment.

I’ve always felt detached from him. Father has always had a million plates spinning in the air and never had more than a minute a day to focus on his only child. But he has summoned me today. And that means that all morning I’ve been a whirlwind of nerves.

Is it about my studies?

Is it about the Masked Killer?

Is it about Baptiste?

We speed through the customary pleasantries, and now we’re on the meat of the matter. Father clicks his fingers to summon the impeccably-dressed server, orders both of us a drink – martini for him and a rare Sancerre for me – and slowly leans forward toward me like a guillotine blade about to drop.

“I have news about your husband, daughter.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve given him a task, and I just got word as you arrived that he succeeded. I should give you my congratulations.”

Ah. Europe. That must be what that was.

“Baptiste never fails,” I say, masking my surprise. “He’s a hard worker.”

Baptiste and I agreed not to tell anyone else about our confrontation with Ethan the other day, and especially my father. I would like to completely forget about it, but I can’t help thinking of what my ex said to me. Nothing more than a peasant.

“Yes, he is,” Father replies. “A hard worker. He has... how should I say it? He has outperformed my expectations.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well... with his background...”

“Are you saying he’s poor? You’re still going on about that?”

Father sighs.

“I don’t want us to get into your idealism, Sylvie. Not today.”

My fingers tremble around my wine glass. Even now, Father triggers a fight or flight response.

“It’s not about me or my idealism,” I say sternly, trying to keep my composure. “Baptiste has worked hard. He deserves everything he’s got, including me. He’s worked damn harder than a lot of his peers, or any other man who might’ve been a potential suitor.”

I accentuate that last sentence with a slow reveal of every syllable. I’m playing the game my father plays so well, with all the hidden meaning behind my words. All our history.

But Father, ever the expert, dodges my bullet.

“Yes, and that’s the quality that makes him stand out,” he says casually. “You know, he may become an Elder one day. Maybe even Supreme Elder, if he plays his cards right.”