My anxiety spikes. I just pray that my other guys are here, hidden in the crowd, choosing not to react in case we need them later.
I don’t search the masked faces, however, as I follow Aria—I refuse to think of her as The Divine One a second longer, though I know I won’t be able to help myself—into the room.
None of us speak as we maneuver down a series of halls before finally stopping at what appears to be an office or study. Two masked men deposit Dominic onto the floor, then immediately move to guard the door. Dom hurries to stand and races toward me, pulling me flush against him.
The room we’re in is dimly lit by a grand, bronze chandelier hanging from an intricately molded ceiling, its warm glow reflecting off the dark mahogany-paneled walls. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line two of the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes, antique globes, and curated artifacts from various countries. At the center of the room sits a massive desk—its surface immaculate except for a vintage fountain pen, an open notebook, and a crystal decanter of whiskey beside a matching tumbler. A high-backed leather chair with deep button tufting faces the desk, while two wingback chairs in burgundy velvet sit across from it. Heavy drapes frame tall arched windows, which offer a view of the estate gardens beyond, gilded with moonlight. A ticking grandfather clock stands sentry in the far corner of the room, and I focus on the soft rhythm of its hands.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
On the wall above the unlit fireplace hangs a somber oil portrait of an unfamiliar man, with crinkled cheeks and wispy gray hair.
Is that…Melody’s father? Mr. Ladouceur? The man who started this entire fucked-up cult?
Would that make him a distant relative of mine? My great-great-great-grandfather or whatever?
The thought makes me physically sick.
“Come. Take a seat.” The Divine One moves toward the chair behind the desk, though Dom and I remain standing.
“What’s your end goal here?” Dom demands, ripping off his mask and tossing it on the ground. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes violent emeralds in his striking face.
“My end goal?” Aria reaches for the decanter and the tumbler, pouring herself a generous amount of whiskey.
“What the hell do you want from me?” I ask. “Why can’t you just leave us alone?”
“Like you’ve been leavingmealone?” she asks.
And then The Divine One removes her mask.
She’s not what I would expect from the leader of a twisted and depraved organization. Not at all. She has styled her short blonde hair in a carefree pixie cut, the kind that lends her a youthful, almost impish charm. Her face is delicate, though lined with age in a way that speaks more to laughter than sorrow. There’s something almost kind in her smile, a gentle upturn of the lips that seems to invite conversation, even comfort.
But her eyes betray it all.
Pale, unblinking, and flat—her eyes are devoid of warmth, like glass left in shadow. They don’t follow the rhythm of her expressions, don’t crinkle with the smile currently tilting up her lips. They just stare. Cold. Still. Watching. There’s no malice in them, but no kindness either, just an eerie vacancy, like something behind them burned out long ago and never came back. The longer I stare at her, the more the disconnect grows. That empty gaze, paired with such an innocent, even sweet, appearance, leaves me unsettled.
She’s nothing but a porcelain doll.
The Divine One.
My…mother.
A lump manifests in my throat.
“It seems as if your Uncle Raymond has been talking,” she says, taking a sip of her whiskey. Even her voice is sweet, belying the evil I know lurks beneath her innocent countenance.
I ignore her comment about Raymond and take a single step closer. “I know exactly who you are, Aria. But what I don’t know is what you want from me.”
A tentative smile plays at the edges of Aria’s lips as she takes another sip of her drink, allowing her mouth to linger on the rim.
“If you know who I am, then is it hard to believe that I want my family back together?” Her cold, unnerving eyes land on me. “Daughter.”
I blanch. “Don’t call me that.”
“No?” One of her eyebrows arches. “But it’s the truth, is it not? You came from me. You were supposed to be mine.”
For the first time since this meeting started, a hint of emotion reflects in her expressionless eyes—rage. A rage so potent I feel physically sick, my stomach cramping and nausea churning.
But just as quickly, Aria suppresses her rage, adopting her indifferent mask once more.