Chapter 178
Julian
I walked to the punishment bench in the corner—the same bench where my father had knelt when he was young, where every Vane heir had knelt when they needed to be reminded of their place.
I took off my jacket. Folded it carefully and laid it on the chair. Unbuttoned my vest. Removed my cufflinks and set them precisely in my jacket pocket.
Then I unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it off my shoulders, letting it fall around my waist, exposing my back.
The air in the study felt cold against my skin.
I knelt on the bench. Gripped the edges with both hands. Stared straight ahead at the wall and made myself breathe slowly, evenly.
Behind me, I heard Grandfather's footsteps approaching. Heard the whisper of the cane cutting through the air as he tested its weight.
"Count them," he said. "If you lose count, we start over."
"Yes, sir."
The first stroke fell.
It felt like someone had laid a line of fire across my shoulders. Like the air itself had turned to flame and was burning me from the outside in. My entire body went rigid with the shock of it, every muscle locking tight.
But I didn't make a sound.
"One," I said, and my voice came out steady.
The second stroke crossed the first, forming an X of pain.
"Two."
By the fifth stroke, I could feel blood beginning to run. Warm and wet, trickling down my back in thin rivulets.
"Five."
By the tenth, my vision was starting to blur at the edges. My hands were white-knuckled on the bench, fingers digging into the wood hard enough that I'd probably leave marks.
"Ten."
By the fifteenth, I'd stopped being able to distinguish individual strikes. It was just continuous burning, layer upon layer of pain that seemed to go deeper with each blow.
"Fifteen."
I could hear Grandfather's breathing getting labored. Could hear the slight tremor in his hands as he raised the cane again and again. But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Because in our family, once a punishment is declared, it has to be carried out in full. Anything less would be weakness.
"Twenty."
My vision had gone gray. There was blood dripping onto the floor now—I could hear it, soft pattering sounds that seemed impossibly loud in the silent room.
"Twenty-one."
Somewhere behind me, I heard Victoria make a small, choked sound. Heard Tristan shift his weight, and for a moment I thought he might actually try to stop this.
But he didn't. Because he knew the same thing I did: if I broke now, if I gave up or cried out or begged for mercy, I'd be proving Grandfather right. Proving I wasn't strong enough to make my own choices.
"Twenty-five."
Five more. Just five more, and I'd be free.
The twenty-sixth stroke caught me across the shoulders where the skin was already broken, and the pain was so intense that I actually saw stars. My entire body convulsed, and I had to bite down on my tongue hard enough to taste blood to keep from screaming.
"Twenty-six."
The twenty-seventh fell. Then the twenty-eighth. Each one worse than the last because there was no unbroken skin left, just raw flesh that split open anew with every impact.
"Twenty-eight."
Two more. Just two more.
I thought about Elara waiting for news of her semifinals. Wondered if she'd won. Wondered if she was thinking about me at all, or if she'd already written me off as just another person who'd let her down.
The twenty-ninth stroke fell, and this time I did make a sound—a low, involuntary groan that I couldn't quite suppress.
"Twenty-nine."
One more. Just one more.
I could hear Grandfather raising the cane for the final time. Could hear the whistle of air as it descended.
The thirtieth stroke hit me across the lower back, and the world went white with pain.
When I could see again, when I could breathe again, I forced my mouth to form the words.
"Thirty."
The silence that followed felt infinite.
Then Grandfather's voice, sounding older than I'd ever heard it: "It's done."
I stayed on the bench for another moment, trying to gather enough strength to move. My back felt like it was on fire. My hands had gone numb from gripping the wood. There was blood everywhere—I could feel it, could smell the copper tang of it in the air.
Slowly, carefully, I pushed myself upright. The movement made fresh blood run down my back, soaking into my pants. I reached for my shirt with hands that wouldn't quite stop shaking.
The fabric stuck to the wounds immediately, and the pain of it nearly made me pass out. But I got the shirt on. Buttoned it with fingers that felt like they belonged to someone else. Put on my vest and jacket, even though every movement was agony.
When I finally turned around, Grandfather was sitting in his chair, the cane lying on his desk like an accusation. He looked old suddenly. Tired.
"You're dismissed," he said quietly. "Your marriage is your own concern now. I wash my hands of it."
I nodded once. Started to walk toward the door.
"Julian."
I stopped. Didn't turn around.
"You'll regret this," he said. "Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday you'll look back and realize what you gave up for a girl who will never truly be one of us."
"Perhaps," I said. "But she'll be mine. And I'll be hers. And that will be enough."
I walked out of that study. Down the long hallway with its portraits of stern-faced ancestors who'd all made the 'right' choices, who'd all married the 'right' people, who'd all sacrificed love for duty and called it honor.
Tristan was waiting by the front door. He looked pale, shaken.
"You're really going to do this," he said. Not a question. A statement.
"Yes."
"She'll destroy you," he said, and there was something almost like pity in his voice. "Girls like that—they don't know how to exist in our world. She'll drag you down, and when she's done, there'll be nothing left of the brother I knew."
I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw someone I barely recognized. Someone so twisted up in his own impossible love for Sloane that he couldn't imagine any other kind of relationship might be worth fighting for.
"The brother you knew," I said quietly, "never really existed. I've been playing a part for so long that I forgot there might be something else underneath. Something real."
I walked past him, out into the cold afternoon air, leaving bloody footprints on the marble floor behind me.
Atlas was waiting with the car. His eyes widened when he saw me, when he saw the blood that was already starting to seep through my jacket, but he didn't ask questions. Just opened the door and helped me into the backseat with careful, gentle hands.
"Where to, sir?"
I looked at my watch. Elara's semifinals had ended twenty minutes ago.
"The art center," I said. "Chelsea."