Talia leaned her ear against the ornately carved study door, her heart racing at the urgent voices drifting through. Bits of Soren’s ominous comments snuck in, his voice slicing through the stillness with brisk authority. In her memory, her father’s figure loomed large, always self-assured, always clear on his trajectory. Yet now she felt a rift in his flawless surface. She leaned in, straining for each of her syllables, which she hoped would confirm the whispers she’d heard about Celeste’s forced departure.
Talia darted behind a tall marble column when Soren brusquely interrupted his private conversation. The pulse drumming in her throat, the tension sizzling through her veins. She waited until he passed the way, his cold face fixed as if chiseled from granite. Mustering her courage, she stepped forward, voice shaking with carefully bottled-up rage. “You are destroying Caspian with these secrets,” she said, never letting her gaze leave Soren’s stony profile. He hesitated, his eyes darting to her in mild surprise.
“Caspian’s choices are none of your problems,” he said, impatience flaring in his clip. Talia steadied herself, remembering the few times her father had shown her sincere love. That tenderness now seemed like an illusion. “Did you make Celeste leave him? I heard you threatening someone,” she said, her voice shaking even as she tried to steady it.
Soren’s eyes narrowed; that told her enough. He laughed briefly, with dripping scorn. “My dear girl,” he said, tilting his head condescendingly, “you have too many fanciful ideas.” He waved in a dismissive way, as if sending away a trivial annoyance. “Worry about your own life, not Caspian’s.”
Heat rose in Talia’s cheeks. She imagined Caspian’s tired gaze, Celeste’s broken commitment, and Roman’s vigilant warnings. Loyalty pulled her in two ways: to the father who used his fortune to pay for her education and send her travelling and to the cousin she had once adored. Tightening her midsection in the dull ache in her chest made her straighten as she swallowed the urge to lash out.
So she waited, hoping Soren would show a glimmer of remorse or some buried truth would come to light. Instead, he walked by her, leaving her gazing at the polished floor. Frustration boiled in her belly; she pivoted toward the corridor, fists tightening. The problem revealed to her that her father’s secrets had gone deeper than she ever dreamed. For Caspian’s sake, she would get the answers, even if it meant unravelling all she had ever thought about loyalty and blood. Her resolve had hardened now, her pulse surging with a new determination, vowing to never fail.
Twilight shrouded the mansion in a soft hush, the air of each corridor spliced with muffled potential. Caspian floated into the second-floor gallery, where gentle lamplight danced over austere portraits. His heart was heavy from the conference debacle and Talia’s charged mood, but still, he craved the comfort of company. He stopped at the sound of footsteps echoing behind him. As he turned, he noticed Celeste coming toward him, her black hair slipping across her shoulders in soft waves. Hurt still shadowed her features, but she met his gaze with quiet resolution.
They moved in closer, the air crackling with tension. Her voice came out tentative, “Are you OK?” She extended a hand, fingers trailing to the edge of his sleeve. His pulse thumped, ambivalent, whether to resent her concern or hold on to it. He recalled, for a moment, the happy, easy mornings they’d spent. That memory lured him closer.
The corridor lamp above them flickered, revealing the change in his expression. He swept a tentative hand along her cheek, observing how her lashes quivered. Her warmth welcomed him, closing her eyes, her breath mingling on top of his in a fragile rhythm. The universe shrank down to their braided stares. His mouth lingered over hers, tasting the air.
That sliver of space disappeared when he leaned forward, wanting to feel the softness of her lips. She inhaled, then exhaled, eyes fluttering shut, heart thumping loudly enough to reverberate. On the last beat, realization crashed over him. He recoiled, breath coming fast, face contorted with struggle. Celeste’s eyes fluttered open, confusion carving every line of her brow.
“I can’t,” he ground out, his words slicing through the muted corridor. An ache of tension splintered into her chest, taking away the breath she locked away. She called his name, but he moved on, eyes shadowed with regrets. Without another word, he spun on his heel and walked down the hall, her quaking in the wake of unuttered want. The emptiness leaned in, taunting what could have been. She pressed her trembling fingers to her lips, still feeling the stubble of his almost kiss. Her thoughts interwove the past and the present, and desire co-mingled with heartbreak. The night’s shadows had thickened, encircling her with a longing she could barely name. She heard the sound of his retreating footsteps, unsure how to meet him again. A warmth thumped in her veins, dovetailing with a fathomless agitation. It all felt so tenuous now , as if one misstep would send their fragile dynamic crashing down. She shut her eyes, hoping for answers.
Morning dawned, with a restless hush hanging in every corridor of the estate. Roman’s most recent news was that Soren’s accusations about Celeste had been found to have no basis in fact. But the household prepared for combat, each occupant moving as if expecting a tempest. Talia, rife with unasked questions, paced the entryway, split between her father’s shadow and Caspian’s muted agony. Celeste retreated to a corner of the library, reading Roman’s message again and hoping the truth could prevail without further pain.
Soren’s formal invitation came at noon, and a single embossed card solicited everyone to a grand dinner. Rumour had it he arranged an elaborate display, hoping to bring Celeste down or Harry Caspian’s reserve. Staff rushed around, polishing silver and arranging floral centrepieces, one display more elaborate than the next. Caspian observed the bustle from an upper landing, knuckles white around the bannister. He could already feel his father’s Machiavellian presence behind every flourish.
Celeste appeared in a pale olive gown, with loose hair twisted back simply, at dusk. Shadows gargled in her eyes as she entered the grand foyer, heart thumping. Caspian stood close by, sharp tailored suit a testament to his wealth but incapable of masking the uncertainty that rippled in his eyes. “He’s up to something,” he muttered, his eyes scanning the churning, glittering chandeliers high above.
Celeste nodded, blood pounding more insistently in her ears with every passing second. Guests started showing up in their finery, polite conversation masking curiosity. Talia stood outside an entrance, face masked but poised. Eventually, Soren materialized, charming the powerful bejewelled fish with his bright mind, his cold gaze gliding over Celeste and Caspian. Every gesture exuded confidence as if he was on to the next act of his plan.
The mansion gleamed with expectation, candlelight dancing off marble floors. Celeste’s stomach coiled with dread, the silence of the evening growing heavy with anticipation, mirroring her own trepidation. Caspian glanced at her seriously, silently promising to hold his ground. On the edge, Talia grimaced, unsure of whom to support. Soren’s voice went up, beckoning all to the formal dining hall, where candlelit arrangements burned bright with regal intensity. The night balanced on a choke, breath fat with potential. There was tension in the air, foretelling disclosures that could peel back fragile truces and break illusions. Celeste found herself quaking with a new strength of purpose that she hoped would see this meeting as the making or breaking of her fate with Caspian. Over the polished tiles, Soren’s stony gaze offered no mercy for whatever secrets she held.