LENNOX

He turned the glass of wine slowly, the methodical rolling motion of his wrists calming him down after a long, tiring day. The amber liquid swirled hypnotically, soothing his frazzled nerves after the stressful events that had occupied him that day. His silver watch—one of his sources of pride—dug into the tender flesh of his wrist.

Stretching out on his eighteenth century velvet armchair, Lennox Trent reflected back on the day's events.

The Trents were a powerful family, one of the three dynasties that had claimed ultimate power in America. Alongside the heads of Brittersby House and Davis House, Lennox was one of the three regents that reigned over the Zenith, the conglomeration of the wealthy and the powerful in the country. With their ravenous ambitions and immense power, there was little one could do when a Trent ‘wolf” had caught the scent of blood. 

"Do you see how they prowl?" the rest murmured amongst each other. "Better not get in the way."

The prize this time were the Twixby lands. A stretch of land that was rich in silicon mines. The old man, Twixby, must have gone soft in the head when he put such a valuable piece of treasure on auction. Then again, Twixby was new money, and new money were prone to errors like these. A flash of anger arose in him as he recalled what the bastard had said to him.

Out of all the bidders, he, Lennox Trent on behalf of the great house of Trent, had offered the best deal for the lands. But with a twinkle in his eye that betrayed his mirth, Twixby had explained value to Lennox. He had said that he was not so naive that he did not understand the true value of his land, and that he was sure that a better offer would come along to counter Lennox's measly sum. Measly! Ten million dollars was a measly sum!

Who then, he had demanded, who would pay more?

I can think of a certain Roy Brittersby, replied the old man affably. 

Roy Brittersby, head of the powerful Brittersby family, a fellow Regent and arguably the most powerful, had laid a claim to the land? A man of great influence and merciless execution, he was the only Regent who could go toe-to-toe with Lennox and come out victorious. He, alone, would be audacious enough to snatch the Twixby lands from right under Lennox's hold. Roy Brittersby knew; knew whoever possessed the lands would obtain a valuable piece of power.

And power was what Lennox Trent sought.

Brittersby, Trent, Davis. 

Davis, Trent, Brittersby.

Three elite families fighting amongst themselves at the top of society's pyramid for that insatiable taste of power, of victory.

Lennox Trent could not stand to lose. He was a Trent; he had his reputation to uphold. The Davis' were slowly losing power, so it was just him and Brittersby now. Descended from the days of the gold rush, Trent was the oldest house, the only one that could veritably claim to be a dynasty. William Trent, of actual royal blood and titles of nobility, had founded it. He had found success in the rails, as many had. A smart businessman, his forefather, and so the descendants were too. Generations upon generations of Trent men had ruled from the shadows, calling the shots and dominating the economic scene. Prestige, money, fame, beauty--what a Trent wanted, a Trent got. 

Their might had been indisputable once.

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But the Brittersby family... His fist curled. The upstart Brittersby's had risen rapidly, and within half the time it had taken the Trent's had asserted their dominance and prowess. Every business deal had become a struggle from then, every social scene a battlefield, with formidable opponents who could outmaneuver you the moment you let your guard down. A struggle. Every. Single. Day. With a growl, he thrust aside his wine glass, which shattered melodically, the wine permeating the carpet. No matter—the cleaners would get it out tomorrow. But apart from servants, the ease of the past of Trent's glory days were gone. 

Down the hall, the lounge room's door creaked open and a pale face peeped. Selina Trent, his wife. Pretty--but not as beautiful as Brittersby's woman. Selina had gained weight after their third child; her figure was no longer sublime and her shiny auburn hair had dulled. The lights in her eyes were dimmed by a wary, fearful stare. God, did the woman not know how to take care of herself? She was embarrassing him every time she stood next to Roy Brittersby's beautiful wife. He snarled and marched over to the pale face, rolling his cufflinks up as he prowled. Her eyes widened but the look in them was one of resignation. She did not try to run. His fist sank satisfyingly into her flesh, and she fell back with a cry. He drew his arm back, reveling in his power. What a simple thing, pain was. He punched her again, on the other cheek. Twin blooms of blush made her look much prettier. Then her stomach. The soft parts. At first, she tried to curl up, attempting to block his blows with her feeble arms. It was no use: he always found another target. He worked his way methodically down the length of her body, until she was too tired to cry out. The noise had been irritating anyway.

Finally, as always, she lay limp on the carpet. He nudged her with his feet. She did not stir. Blood dribbled from her nose and colorful blues and purple decorated her porcelain skin. Was she dead? Another complication. He sighed. The cleaners could take care of that too.

His anger and energy spent, he turned towards the bathroom right across. The sticky blood on his fists were unpleasant, and the smell made him nauseous. Metallic and sharp, it clung to his tongue and nostrils. He turned the tap, and the water ran soothingly down the creases of his palms, sore from holding a pen all day. The paperwork had been excessive today. He would have to have a word with his secretary. Or replace him. More complications. As the water dripped from his palms, he scrubbed. There was blood everywhere, damn that stupid wife of his. He couldn't get the rust crumbles out from under his fingernails. He scrubbed harder. There was a slight prick of pain, and he inspected the sliver of skin that he had peeled off. His flesh was raw, pink and shiny underneath. He shuddered in revulsion, not daring to touch it. He didn't like pain. The blood was mostly gone now, anyways. Closing the tap, he wiped his hand on the towel hanging from a polished bar. The towel was soft, but he still winced when it touched the raw part of his finger.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, obsidian tiles giving way to carpet, Selina had begun to stir, moaning softly. A sudden anger arose. She was the reason his finger throbbed. He kicked her again, neatly avoiding the bloodiest parts as to not dirty his shoe. To his surprise, it was not soft, vulnerable flesh that his loafers connected with, but a hard, solid shin.

He yelled in surprise and pain. His toes throbbed. He was sure a nail had broken.

The boy standing in front of him had sleep-mussed hair, but his eyes were bright and angry.

"Father." Malice dripped from every word.

"You little--" Lennox started furiously, but stopped when he saw what the boy was holding in his left hand. 

A kitchen knife.

Faster than his eyes could track, the boy lunged and cold pain blossomed in his abdomen. He stared uncomprehendingly at the handle sticking out of his stomach. Then he sank to his knees, screaming, but not a sound would come out.

A shriek was ripped out of his lungs as a kick caught him in the stomach, right where the pain was the sharpest. "You. Will. Never. Touch. Her. Again." each word was accentuated with a kick. The boy's bloody shoe hit him again and again. The world was swimming in front of his eyes, he thought dimly. But the pain was fading. That was good. He was dimly aware of the boy helping Selina up. In the periphery of his vision, he watched numbly as his blood, thick and dark, flowed like a river from his abdomen; it dyed the rich gray carpet a dark wine red. But the cleaners could take care of that as well. The tangy rust scent flooded him until he could think of nothing else.

His last, absurd thought was that he had won against Roy Brittersby in a race to the death.