Chapter 11: Knock-off
A collective, sharp intake of breath filled the room. The crack of the walking stick against Sebastian's back was a sound that didn't belong in the elegant living room. Elizabeth flinched, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a cry. Aunt April, long accustomed to her father's tempestuous nature, merely smirked into her tea, her eyes alight with quiet amusement.
Sebastian himself didn't even stagger. He absorbed the blow with nothing more than a slight tightening across his shoulders, his gaze fixed on the floor as if in silent, respectful acceptance. His composure was more unnerving than any cry of pain would have been.
Elizabeth's shock quickly curdled into a different emotion. She turned her head, her icy gaze finding Isadora. The blame was clear in her eyes. This is your fault. The chill from that look was so potent Isadora instinctively wrapped her arms around herself, goosebumps rising on her skin despite the warm room.
No one, however, was more stunned than Isadora herself. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She had never witnessed such raw, unchecked authority.
The old man raised his stick again, the motion filled with grim purpose.
"Father, please!" Elizabeth's voice was strained, cutting through the tension. "You can't beat him like this in front of everyone."
Silas slowly turned his head, his bushy eyebrows rising in mock inquiry. "Oh? Do you now tell me what to do and what not to do in my own home?"
Elizabeth seemed to shrink, as if doused with cold water. "It's just… that people are watching," she managed to whisper.
"People?" Silas boomed, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. "I don't see 'people' here. I see family. And discipline is common among family." His statement was a decree, ending the discussion.
He then turned and walked toward the terrace doors. "Child," he said without looking back. "Follow me."
Isadora stood frozen, her eyes darting to Sebastian. He finally lifted his head, and to her utter confusion, the corner of his mouth was tilted in a faint, dark smirk. He gave her a single, almost imperceptible nod. Go.
Swallowing her fear, she hurried after the retreating figure of Silas Walker.
He led her out into the cool night air of a vast, lantern-lit garden. The scent of night-blooming jasmine was heavy and sweet. He didn't speak until they were a good distance from the house, the only sound the soft thud of his walking stick on the stone path.
"How have you been, child?" he asked, his voice now devoid of its earlier thunder, replaced by a gruff kindness.
Caught off guard, she stammered, "I'm… I'm fine, Mr. Walker. Thank you. How have you been?"
"Mr. Walker?" He stopped and turned to face her, his eyes sharp under his bushy brows. "You call me Grandfather. Your late grandfather was my friend when we were in the army. He was a good man. Very dear to me. I am sorry for your loss."
The unexpected kindness, the mention of the one person who had ever truly protected her, broke something open inside Isadora. A smile touched her lips, but tears welled in her eyes, shimmering in the lantern light. Memories flooded her her grandfather stepping between her and her father's rage, his warm, gnarled hand holding hers, his voice a shield against the world. The image of him, frail and helpless, being taken away to the nursing home by Cynthia was a pain that never faded.
"Thank you… Grandfather," she said, the title feeling both foreign and right.
He gave a satisfied nod. "Good girl."
Before he could say more, the crunch of tires on gravel announced new arrivals. A small procession of expensive cars pulled up the driveway. From the first, a black sedan, emerged a middle-aged man with severe, dark hair and a sharp black suit. From the other side came a woman, Ana, draped in expensive fabrics and clutching a designer bag as if it were a lifeline.
The second car, a low-slung sports car, disgorged a young man and woman who looked bored already. The third, a sleek sedan, produced a man in a blue suit, a quiet woman his wife, Selena and a nanny carefully holding a sleeping baby.
The middle-aged man approached first. "Father," he said with a curt nod.
"Soul," Silas acknowledged.
Ana swept forward, her voice a dramatic coo. "Father! How are you today? You shouldn't be walking outside at this time. It's far too cold for you!" She made a show of adjusting her shawl.
Silas ignored her performance and turned to Isadora. "Since they are all here, let me introduce everyone to you." He pointed his walking stick, using it like a royal scepter. "This is my second son, Soul Walker. The peacock next to him is his wife, Ana."
He swung the stick toward the sports car duo. "That one is Jay, and his sister, Jennifer." Finally, he pointed to the family from the third car. "And their elder brother, Jacob, his wife, Selena, and their baby my first great-grandchild Ana. They named her after his mother." His tone suggested he found the gesture more obligatory than heartfelt.
He then gestured to Isadora. "This is Isadora Anderson. Sebastian's wife."
A faint blush warmed Isadora's cheeks. "It's nice to meet you all," she said, her voice soft but clear.
Ana offered a smile that didn't reach her calculating eyes. Jennifer openly rolled hers, examining a non-existent speck of dust on her sleeve. Jay looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. Only Jacob stepped forward, extending his hand with a kind, genuine smile.
"Welcome to the family," he said.
The simple decency of the gesture was a relief. "Thank you," Isadora said, shaking his hand. His wife, Selena, offered a timid, fleeting smile from behind him.
Silas, having seen all he needed to see, turned and marched back toward the house. The family fell into step behind him, a reluctant parade.
As they walked, Jennifer seized her moment. She slowed her pace, letting Isadora draw level, then leaned in close, her whisper a venomous dart aimed at Isadora's ear.
"That dress is a knock-off," she hissed. "I have the original."
Then she was gone, striding ahead to walk closer to Silas, leaving the poisonous words to hang in the air.
They filed into the grand dining hall, a room dominated by a table that groaned under the weight of fine china and silver. Silas took his place at the head, a king on his throne. Isadora hung back at the entrance, her fingers nervously clutching the fabric of her knock-off dress. Her heart was a heavy, aching weight in her chest. The insult stung, but it was a pinprick compared to the overwhelming dread. She looked at the long table, the cold faces, the unspoken battles simmering in the air.
She knew, with a sinking certainty, that this was going to be a very, very long night.