Alaric Voltaire sat behind his enormous oak desk, the soft creak of leather as he leaned back in his chair, the only sound in his otherwise silent office. His fingers drummed on the polished wood, a faint smile playing on his lips. He always enjoyed the quiet moments in his domain, where he could enjoy his own company. He could watch the kingdom he owned with a detached satisfaction. There was no greater feeling than admiring what you own. Not only that, but everything was going to plan, and it gave him a great sense of relaxation. He was close to securing his empire. He could feel it.

His good mood didn’t last long.

Outside his door, a commotion erupted, followed by the muffled sounds of raised voices. Alaric’s smile grew wider, knowing precisely who it was. Sure enough, Vincent Voltaire shoved open the office door with a loud bang and stormed in, his face twisted with anger. Fredrick, the head butler, trailed behind, his normally impeccable demeanor ruffled as he tried to restrain the young heir.

Vincent had become much more…wild since that last time Alaric had seen him. The untrimmed beard, along with the unruly locks he had grown, gave him the impression of a peasant more than that of a noble.

“Master Vincent, you can’t just-”

“I don’t care!” Vincent snarled, slapping Fredrick’s grasp away from his arm as if he’d been some pesky annoyance. His gaze locked with Alaric, his eyes blazing hot, as he stormed across to his father’s desk. Fredrick faltered by the door frame, glancing at the two men, but Alaric waved him away in dismissal with a careless flick of his wrist. Fredrick stepped back, though he continued to stay near the door, ever watchful over his master and his son.

“I see you’re finally ready to talk,” Alaric said smoothly, his voice calm, almost welcoming. “Though, by the look on your face, it seems you’ve yet to accept the situation.”

Vincent slammed his hands down on the desk, the wood creaking under the force of his anger. His face was flushed red, every muscle in his body tight with rage.

“You’re damn right I haven’t accepted it!” Vincent snarled, leaning in further towards Alaric. Their faces were only a few centimeters apart.

Alaric replied to his son’s fury with cold indifference, fingers still lazily drumming against the desk, before sighing as if it was only a child’s tantrum. “What is the matter now, Vincent?” he asked, weighted by the tone of disappointment. “Must you always resort to theatrics?”

Vincent’s breath came in sharp, angry bursts, his voice cracking with the weight of his emotions. “Cynthia and Mia didn’t deserve to die! They were innocent, Father! What kind of monster kills his own blood like that?”

Alaric did not even flinch an inch. His eyes cold and calculating, he remained as collected as ever. “We are your family,” he said simply, his words devoid of genuine emotion.

And now anger rose anew, hotter, more desperate in Vincent. “I want to die, Father,” he spat, his voice trembling with the force of his hate. “To think I’m so pathetic. I want to die, but every time I look at you, all I feel is the overwhelming urge to kill you!”

In a moment, Fredrick was beside Vincent, and a blade shone in the dim light of the office, pressed against Vincent’s throat. Cold steel kissed Vincent’s skin, and he went still; his body stiffened and a thin line of blood trickled down his neck.

“Careful, Master Vincent,” Fredrick said calmly, as he brought himself closer to Vincent’s ear, his voice almost a whisper. “You shouldn’t speak such dangerous words in front of the patriarch. Especially not in front of me.”

Vincent’s eyes darted to the butler, his voice low, meeting Frederick’s tone. “Before he is the patriarch, he is my father.” His head tilted just slightly, the movement causing the blade to bite deeper into his skin. “Remember your place, Frederick.”

Alaric, still seated, raised a hand. “That’s enough, Fredrick,” he said before flicking his hand, motioning Frederick away from his son. “Step back.”

Fredrick took only a second to back down, lowering the knife before stepping away to return to his position by the door.

Alaric leaned forward slightly, his gaze now fully on Vincent. “So, what exactly is it you want, Vincent? You know as well as I do that what happened was necessary. That illegitimate child being alive-she was a threat. With her existence, the collateral branches would have every reason to rebel against the main family.”

Vincent firmed his fists, his jaw clenching as he worked to keep himself in control. “A reason to rebel?” he spat, his tone seething with disdain. “And why, Father? Why would they have reason to go to war over an illegitimate child?” He didn’t allow Alaric time for an answer; instead, his voice rose in volume, his own answer shouting aloud. “It’s because of you.”

For the first time, Alaric’s face moved, just a fraction. It was subtle, an almost imperceptible flicker of something in his eyes, but it was enough that Vincent saw it. He had hit a nerve.

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“When Warren was born,” Vincent continued, his voice growing steadier, “I accepted him as my brother. I never once thought of him as inferior, never treated him like he was less. But tell me this, Father, why does he get to live while my child, your granddaughter, has to die?”

The room was silent for a moment, heavy in the tension that clung to the air, smothering. Alaric sat perfectly still, staring with an unblinking gaze at Vincent. In that instant, he spoke in a cold, calculated tone. “That bastard is no grandchild of mine.”

Vincent’s face screwed up in disgust, but that did not deter Alaric as he continued. “After Warren was born, I made an agreement with the collateral families. They were already unhappy with Warren’s existence, so I promised them that no more children shall be born prior to an agreement.”

Vincent’s anger flared once more, his voice sharp. “You’re just scared of losing your power, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t until then that Alaric’s mask broke, his eyes narrowing and voice dropping to an icy growl. “I fear nothing, boy.”

Their tense exchange was then suddenly cut short when Alaric’s office door flew open once more, this time swinging violently as Noah stormed inside. His face full of annoyance, Alaric’s attention immediately diverted away, giving Noah an expectant nod. “Noah, I take it your mission is complete?” Alaric clenched his fists, awaiting the good news.

Vincent’s stomach turned at the casual way his father referred to the act of murder as a “mission.” The thought of his daughter being reduced to nothing more than a task on a to-do list made him sick.

Noah was in no mood for pleasantries, however. In two quick strides, he crossed the room, reaching out and grasping Vincent by his collar, lifting him off the ground and pinning him to the wall. Vincent gasped, more out of shock than pain, struggling to free himself.

“What the hell is this?” Vincent snarled, his hands clutching at Noah’s wrist in a futile bid to loosen his brother’s grip. “What are you doing?”

Noah’s eyes were cold, full of accusation. “You helped the bastard escape, didn’t you?”

Vincent blinked in confusion. “What? I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

Alaric rose from his seat, his gaze sharp as he addressed Noah. “What happened?”

Noah’s grip tightened on Vincent, his voice low and furious. “I put a tracker on the bastard, just in case. I went to retrieve her, but what I found was some stupid bird. Someone helped her escape, and the only person who could’ve done that, who would’ve known about the tracker. This doesn’t bode well for you, little brother.”

“Noah,” Vincent wheezed as his face reddened from not getting air. “It wasn’t me. I don’t know anything about this.”

But Noah’s face remained dark, his suspicions clear on his face. “Someone is helping them. And right now, all signs point to you.”

Noah’s grip on Vincent tightened, his muscles tensing as if he was about to slam his brother against the wall again. Coughing, struggling to breathe, Vincent’s fingers dug into Noah’s arm with a futile attempt to let go. His mind was in a tangle. He had no idea what Noah was talking about. He had helped no one escape. In some twisted way, he had already accepted that his daughter was dead.

Alaric’s voice cut through the thick air like a knife. “Enough, Noah. Let him go.”

For one quick second, Noah’s eyes wavered in indecision. His glare shifted from Vincent to their father, as if he was going to disobey Alaric’s command. Slowly, he released his grip to let Vincent fall to the ground, gasping for breath. He edged closer to his father’s desk, ignoring his brother. “You can’t trust him. He’s always been soft. If anyone would betray the family, it’s him.”

“Betraying the family? I would hope betraying the family doesn’t include failing to do a single important mission.” Alaric’s eyes blazed with anger. He imagined something would go wrong, but for Noah to have failed in this manner. It was embarrassing for the Voltaire name.

“I might have failed for now, Father, but I brought a prize with me. An interesting specimen, his powers-”

“Silence.” Alaric stopped Noah in his tracks. “We have no hope of catching that child now. She could be on the other side of Havana by now.”

Still catching his breath, Vincent wiped the blood from his neck where Frederick’s knife had nicked him. His hands shook from the adrenaline in his body, but his voice didn’t when he spoke. He pushed himself up to the floor, where he gained the attention of Alaric and Noah. “I didn’t help anyone, Noah. I wouldn’t risk the family for-”

“For what?” Noah cut in, “you didn’t even finish that sentence. Because you would risk the family, wouldn’t you? Over some misguided sense of justice for your dead whore.”

The word hit Vincent like a physical blow, catching his breath in his throat as, for a moment, the room seemed to close in around him. His heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of grief and fury flooding every corner of his mind. His vision blurred, but through it, all he could see was Noah’s smug, hateful expression.

“Whore?” Vincent whispered, his voice low and shaking with the rage barely contained within him. His body quaked as he took one step closer towards Noah, his fists so tightly fisted that his knuckles turned white. “Whore?”

His voice rose higher, hoarse from emotion, his words acidic and caustic. “Say her name. Say Cynthia’s name. She was my fiance! The mother of my child! You don’t get to reduce her to that.”

Noah barely flinched, but Vincent could see a flicker of surprise in his eyes. That only fueled Vincent’s anger. His breath came faster, harsher, his pulse hammering in his ears as he stepped closer. “You didn’t know her. You didn’t see the kindness in her eyes. You didn’t hear her laugh, or feel her warmth, or hold her while she... while she-”

Vincent’s voice cracked, the rage that tangled with his grief choking him. He caught himself, swallowed the sob that clawed at his throat, but the tears were already burning at the corners of his eyes. “Don’t you dare speak about her like that again.”

“She’s dead. It doesn’t matter now.”

Vincent snapped. With a roar of fury, he lunged at Noah, his hands flying toward his brother’s throat. But Noah, quick as ever, sidestepped him, catching his arm and twisting it behind his back, forcing him down.

“You’re pathetic,” Noah growled in his ear, pinning him to the ground. “All this rage, all this grief. For what? She’s gone. Your child will follow her soon. You’ve lost everything.”

Alaric sighed deeply. “Vincent, leave us. Clearly you’re not prepared to marry Arcturus’s daughter yet. Go back. I have important discussions to be had with your brother.” Alaric motioned for Frederick to escort Vincent out. “Frederick, see that Vincent is attended to.”

“Yes, master.” Frederick bowed deeply before pulling Vincent to the door.

Vincent struggled as Frederick pulled him away, his breath ragged, his heart breaking all over again. But even through the pain, one thought seared brightly in his mind: I won’t let you make me forget her.