Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

“Fucking suicide?” Lucas roared, his voice echoing through the chamber, veins bulging at his
temples.

Lady Thornton remained poised, her back to him, her silhouette framed by the soft light
spilling in from the window. She didn’t flinch, her voice cold and sharp. “You’re screaming in
my chambers.”

“My wife was murdered in cold blood, hanging off a fucking balcony, and we’re calling it
suicide?” Lucas’s frustration poured out, his body trembling as he paced the room. He
stopped abruptly, fists clenched, his knuckles white.

Lady Thornton’s gaze remained fixed on the window, her reflection faint and ghostly. “I know
about your little tryst with Hector,” she said, her tone detached, almost bored, as if the words
were beneath her. A faint smile curled at her lips. “Is that what hurts you more?”

Lucas’s eyes narrowed, his breath catching as he absorbed her words. “Hector,” he
whispered, his voice dripping with venom. He slammed his fist against the wall, the impact
reverberating through the room. He began to move closer, each step deliberate, a predator
stalking its prey. “Hector was part of the fucking plan, your plan. And Fraya got caught in the
middle of it.”

Lady Thornton finally turned to face him, her movements slow and measured. Her eyes, dark
and calculating, met his with a disinterest that stung deeper than any insult. “I didn’t kill her,
Lucas,” she replied, her voice devoid of emotion.

“Then find who fucking did,” Lucas demanded, his voice cracking, the words tearing out of
him like shrapnel.

Lady Thornton sighed, her expression betraying a fleeting moment of weariness. She lifted a
letter from her desk, holding it between them like a weapon. “One at a time, brother. This…”
She shook the letter slightly, her hands trembling, though her voice remained steady. “This is
what it wants. To break me from every corner so I can’t see where it hides… this writer.” Her
voice faltered, the admission landing heavy between them.

“You’re scared of this,” Lucas taunted, his voice rising. “Fucking admit it.”

She moved closer, her steps slow, her gaze locked on his, unblinking. “I do not fear what
doesn’t exist,” she whispered, her breath brushing against his cheek. “I play along, give it
what it wants. Every muscle it watches, every move it tracks. I let it think it’s winning, and
when it gets too close…” She leaned in, her lips nearly touching his ear, her voice barely a
whisper. “I turn, and it loses its grip.”

Lucas held her gaze, his throat tightening as he swallowed. “I believe you, sister. But I can’t
bear a plan that takes the people I love away from me.”
“Love is weakness,” she shot back, her eyes narrowing. “It creeps into your soul, paints
pictures in your mind, makes you vulnerable. I don’t want that for you, Lucas.” She turned
away, her fingers trailing along the edges of a painting on the wall. In the dim light, the
figures of a man and a woman stood side by side, regal and proud. “Thornton,” she
murmured, her voice barely audible.

“When love strikes, it blinds you. It makes you soft. It ties your hands and breaks your
resolve,” she continued, her voice tightening with each word. “I ended mine. And you should
rip yours out too.”

Lucas stepped back, his face twisting with a mix of pain and defiance. “I’m not you, Eleanor.
My heart still beats in my chest.”

“Exactly my point,” she countered, turning to face him once more. “You should rip it out.”

Lucas took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “This plan… do you think it’s possible?”

Eleanor’s eyes flashed with a dangerous light. “You doubt me, brother? You don’t
understand the mind of a broken woman.”

“And Gabriel?” Lucas asked, his voice softer now, as if he was afraid of the answer.

Eleanor’s smile was slow and wicked. “And Gabriel,” she repeated, her tone laced with dark
amusement.

Lucas straightened, his expression hardening.“I can deal with him if you want me to,” Lucas
offered, his voice low, almost hopeful.

Lady Thornton turned slightly, her eyes drifting back to the window. “He’s family, Lucas.
Blood doesn’t spill blood. I’ll handle him,” she said, her tone calm, measured. “Let him settle
in. He could be of great use to us, brother.” She gazed out at the darkening sky, her
reflection blending with the shadows.

Lucas watched her, a chill creeping up his spine. She’s really gone mad, he thought, her cold
detachment more unnerving than any outburst. He turned to leave, but her voice stopped
him.

“Lucas,” she called, softer this time. He paused, his hand resting on the door. “I’m sorry
about Fraya,” she whispered, the words barely audible, almost lost to the wind.

Lucas chuckled darkly, the sound hollow and bitter. “Hmm,” he replied, a faint, sardonic smile
tugging at his lips, before walking out without another word, the echo of his footsteps fading
into the silence.

————————————

The bar was a dimly lit establishment, rich with opulence and decadence.

Luxurious velvet drapes hung from the walls, their deep burgundy hue casting a shadowy
glow over the room.
Chandeliers with crystal pendants glittered faintly from the high ceiling, their light reflecting
off the polished mahogany bar. The air was thick with the mingling scents of cigar smoke,
expensive perfume, and spilled liquor.

Plush leather booths lined the walls, and a stage at the far end featured scantily clad
dancers performing under a haze of purple and gold light.

Men in tailored suits, their shirts adorned with silk cravats and gold cufflinks, lounged on the
leather chairs, their faces flushed with drink and pleasure. A soft, jazz melody played from a
gramophone, struggling to be heard over the clinking of glasses and the murmur of
conversation.

Maeve sat at a corner table, her posture rigid and her gaze sharp as she watched Emilie and
Peter from across the room. Emilie, perched on a stool at the bar, was entangled in an
impassioned embrace with Peter. Their movements were bold, their bodies pressed together
as they shared a fervent kiss. When Peter finally pulled away, his voice was rough. "I need to
take a moment," he said, stumbling slightly as he headed towards the restroom, leaving
Emilie swaying slightly on her stool.

Maeve’s eyes narrowed as she observed Emilie, a silent challenge in her gaze. Emilie,
catching Maeve’s look, tilted her head in defiance. "What? You could leave you know."

Maeve’s lips curled in disgust. "I wouldn’t make it home if I stayed any longer in this place."

Emilie chuckled, her tone tinged with mockery. "Relax, Maeve. We’re here to keep an eye on
Gabriel," she said, nodding toward a distant table where Gabriel sat, isolated from the crowd.

"Enough with the drinking," Maeve said, her tone firm as she gently wrested the glass from
Emilie’s hand. "We need to remain inconspicuous. This is part of the plan."

Emilie pouted, her expression sullen as she sat down on the stool Maeve had pulled out for
her. "You’re ruining the fun."

Maeve’s frustration was palpable. "We’re here to observe, not to indulge. This is serious."

Emilie’s gaze wavered between defiance and vulnerability. "Why are you so serious? You’re
smart, beautiful, and everyone seems to admire you. It’s like you have it all."

Maeve’s confusion was evident. "What are you talking about, Emilie?"

Emilie’s eyes were glassy, her words coming in slurred bursts. "Eleanor sees you—she
admires you. I’ve tried everything to win her favor, but all you have to do is be yourself.
You’re perfect. It’s not fair."

Maeve’s patience wore thin. "You’re drunk, Emilie. You’re not making sense."

Emilie’s voice sharpened suddenly. "Oh, please. You think you have it all figured out
because you grew up with a loving family and a mother who cared for you? You probably
never had to struggle. You don’t understand what it’s like."
Maeve’s expression hardened, a flash of old pain crossing her face. "I did have a family
once, until they were taken from me. My sister was my world, and then one day, her visits
stopped. I sent telegrams, but no replies came. I was left alone, grappling with loss."

Emilie’s gaze softened for a moment, her own pain flickering through her haze. "I’m sorry,
Maeve. I didn’t know."

Maeve shook her head, her voice tight with frustration. "Forget it. You’re drunk and not
thinking clearly. I need to find Peter."

Emilie’s tone grew defiant again, her posture rigid. "Find Peter? You think I can’t handle
myself? You’ve had a cozy life, surrounded by care, while I’ve had to fend for myself. You
don’t know what it’s like."

Maeve’s expression faltered, her temper rising. "I’ve had my struggles too. My family was
taken from me, and I’ve had to fight through my own battles. You have no right to judge me."

Before Emilie could retort, a voice cut through the tension. "My niece seems to be quite a
catch."

Maeve turned to see Gabriel approaching, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Oh, wonderful,"her Maeve’s frustration intensified. Her outburst had clearly caught his
attention.

Gabriel offered a casual smile and extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Gabriel,…Gabriel Thornton,”
he said smoothly, his eyes shifting from Emilie to Meave. “And you must be…?”

Emilie, now seemingly sobered and assertive, stood up from her stool. “Everyone knows
who you are uncle.” Her tone was pointed, her earlier drunken act clearly just a facade.

Gabriel’s smile faltered slightly. “And I tought your mother was the one with a tone..”

,*I thought Emilie was just drunk, but wait—a sudden realization hit her. This wasn’t just
drunken behavior; it was a ploy. Emilie must have been acting, using her supposed
inebriation to draw Gabriel in by creating a scene. How clever of her.* Maeve clenched her
jaw, masking her irritation but acknowledging the strategy behind Emilie’s actions.

Gabriel’s eyes flicked between Emilie and Maeve, a calculating glint in his gaze. He took a
seat at their table, his demeanor relaxed but sharp. “So, what brings you two to this
establishment tonight? I wasn’t aware the Thornton family frequented such places.”

Maeve straightened in her chair, her composure returning. “We’re here on just Observing.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows arched slightly. “Observing? What might you be observing in such a…
lively venue?”

Emilie’s gaze was cool and unyielding. “We’re here to keep an eye on you,just ensuring you
don’t get too involved in things that might not be in your best interest.”
Gabriel smiled, a faintly sinister edge to his expression. “I know what you’re thinking. The
mysterious Gabriel Thornton returns after two years of disappearance. The letters start
arriving just two weeks before my reappearance. It’s obvious that some might suspect me to
be the writer behind them.”

Emilie’s lips curled in disdain. “You act like you want us to believe your rubbish.”

Gabriel’s smile widened, ignoring her challenge. “Two years ago, there was a gathering—a
significant one. That night, the missionary building caught fire. All the heads of each party
were there, except the church. The priest didn’t make it. That’s what we heard.”

Maeve leaned in, her curiosity piqued. “Why were they gathering?”

Gabriel’s tone grew more somber. “A proposal was made, I presume. But you see, the
problem with your generation is that you only care about the present and guess the answers
from there. If you want to find a writer, you start from the beginning.” The seriousness in his
tone hinted at deeper knowledge.

Maeve’s eyes narrowed. “Two weeks before your arrival, you sent a telegram to the
missionary. I did my research. So what are you saying? Because around two weeks ago,
letters started appearing.”

Gabriel leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, every word heavy with menace. “Two
years ago, the church received letters. At first, it was just a game, a ploy. There was no
threat. It was ignored. Then it went to the elders. Marvel Elder Maximilian’s wife received
one, then another, and another. I don’t know what happened next, but she was found dead
on the altar of the church. After that, it started creeping into the Thorntons. People went
missing. But being the Thorntons, their pride prevented them from explaining things to the
detectives or generals.”

“And you went missing, and the letters stopped,” Emilie interjected, her voice laced with
skepticism.

Maeve shot her a sharp look. “Emilie, can’t you see he’s helping?”

“If you believe a word this man says, then you’re crazy,” Emilie shot back.

Gabriel’s voice grew darker, his whisper now a chilling murmur. “You think things just
happen. Thornton’s affair with a minor bores you; Lady dies in the same fire. Someone is
hiding something. Something that doesn’t concern you. You were born into a world that
existed long before you. I came back to fix it, and your prying only slows me down.”

Before Emilie could retort, Peter entered the scene, breaking the tension. “Babe, hi,” he said,
his presence a sudden distraction.

Maeve gasped, catching her breath, while Emilie’s eyes remained narrowed. “What did I
miss?” Peter continued, oblivious to the charged atmosphere.

Taking two steps back, Gabriel began, “Nothing. I was just about to leave.” His eyes
remained cold as he turned, pushing through the air with his robe before exiting.
“What was that about?” Peter asked, confusion evident.

Emilie stood, watching Gabriel’s retreat with a mix of fear and realization. “Now I understand
why Eleanor is so terrified of him. He knows something.”

Maeve nodded, her expression troubled. “He does. And whatever it is, it’s darker than we
imagined.”

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