CORIN

  The last time she sat down for a real dinner with her father was five years ago. Even then, they didn't make it past the soup.

  A call came as soon as the results were out. He never called, his secretary did, a person paid to soften his presence. But this time, it was him.

  Come to the house for dinner.

  Those were the only words, and the line went dead.

  Corin could see Patrice fidgeting with her phone, her fingers trembling as she sat beside her. She answered the call. Hearing the Chairman's voice on the other end must have shaken her to the core.

  Gordon Clarendon did that to people.

  It was a quiet ride to the house. Corin forbade anyone from muttering even a single word. There was too much noise in her head. The silence inside the car was a small comfort before the storm hit.

  The drive to Claremont House was designed to make you feel little, long before you reached the door.

  The car passed through the North Lodge and into the thousand-acre park.

  Ancient cedars swallowed the road whole, their trunks thick as pillars, older than the Chairman.

  Not that he was old. Even now, in photographs and on the news, he still looked like the elegant, handsome son of her grandfather.

  It was almost strange how he managed to look the same all these years, beautiful and ruthless. But that, she thought, was the power of money and influence.

  The town car reached the final bend, and there it was—Claremont. Or what she simply called the House.

  The pale blue stone rose up seven stories. By day, the house looked like a gloomy monument rising out of the mist, topped with charcoal grey spires. Sometimes she thought it almost looked pretty, especially the sharp spires. She used to wonder how many birds had died flying too close to their pointy ends.

  At night, the house could make one's blood chill. Those cool stones were darker and far meaner—a frightening thing in the middle of a vast estate. Even the yellow glow from the windows of more than a hundred rooms did nothing to make it softer or more welcoming.

  Corin always thought there were eyes peering through each window, watching her, assessing her, endlessly weighing her worth to the family.

  She could feel them up there, the dead monarchs and the old martyrs, people who spent years building the Clarendon name. And tonight, she would be dining with the worst of them.

  The servants were lined up at the entrance even before the wheels hit the gravel drive. The house may have been integrated with the technology from Clarendon Industries, but the Chairman had kept the old ways of still having people to run the household.

  They bowed and curtsied when she stepped out. No one did that anymore, except for places like this where they still respect the crown her family held in the early days.

  “Welcome to Claremont, Miss Corin.” greeted a man of hard angles. He was precise as always, not a single strand of hair out place, his set of tailcoats impeccably pressed and carried. It would be a difficult night no doubt, but Corin could see the soft smile he was trying to suppress in his lips.

  “How have you been, Guilford?” She asked taking his arm, veering him away from the rest.

  “Oh, my dear, I should be asking that. You've been much slighter than last I saw you. Mrs. Harwick will blame Mr. Church again.” he whispered, gently walking her in.

  Thomas G. Guilford—the Butler.

  He was the warmest thing in this house.

  “Mr. Church has been exemplary.” Corin said. “I just found no appetite these last few days.”

  “Yes, of course. The Mocks could do that to you.” his voice soft, but restraint. “How are you?”

  Corin's hand pressed harder on his arm. “Not as hungry as I thought I was. How bad was it?”

  Guilford swallowed before answering. “The Chairman returned to the estate somewhat earlier than anticipated today. He was... eager... to hunt.”

  He paused, smoothing an invisible wrinkle on his cuff—a sign of his inner thoughts.

  “The kitchen has prepared a roast haunch of venison for this evening's service. The Chairman saw fit to skin the creature himself before retiring to his study.”

  She envied the deer.

  Gordon Clarendon would sooner treat the stag with tenderness than his own daughter, careful not to bruise the meat, yet perfectly willing to let Corin’s blood turn bitter with fear.

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  He wouldn’t have cared how bitter and awful she had become over the years. It was probably a welcome sight to him—a familiar darkness, like staring into a mirror.

  She had just arrived in the dining room when her father's secretary appeared. Langley Townsend. A cold man, reliable, loyal like Patrice.

  “Good evening, Ms. Corin.” He bowed. “The Chairman will be with—”

  The double doors at the far end opened.

  There he was.

  Corin waited for him to sit before Guilford helped her with her chair. No words came from him, nor from Corin. Sitting this close to him, where he was easily annoyed by the smallest thing, the safest choice was to keep one's mouth shut.

  The servants arrived with the food, perfected and approved by the Chairman himself. Corin forced down the soup, each swallow a small effort against the pressure of the quiet. She could hear her own breathing. The ticking of the grandfather clock on the far wall was the loudest thing. It felt like a shriek.

  When the venison was set before him, the Chairman took two bites. Then he wiped his mouth and stood.

  “Finish your dinner,” he said. “I'm going to the drawing room.”

  Still can't stand me, she thought, lifting the glass of wine he allowed her. At least he made it to the main course. That was new.

  Gordon Clarendon was suffocated by the very air in a room with Corin. He had not forgiven her for looking so much like her mother. She had never understood why. She loved the woman—probably the only person he had ever used his heart on. And now, he could not bear the reminder.

  The house had been stripped of her. No photographs. None of the paintings or draperies she chose. Even the vases and silverware she touched had been burned years ago.

  Had she been a spoon, she would have been cast into the fire with the rest. Unfortunately, she was his daughter. And no matter how much every waking second of looking at her felt like punishment, he couldn't dispose of her.

  “Take this away, would you, Wayne?” Guilford took her plate and handed it to a footman.

  In its place, he set down a smaller, humbler dish. It wasn't the five-course misery her father demanded; it was a simple stew with wild mushrooms.

  “The haunch was a bit tough tonight, wasn't it?” Guilford said, his voice a low, steady anchor. He didn't look at her, focusing instead on perfectly aligning her fork. “I took the liberty of asking Mrs. Harwick to prepare something... more digestible.”

  Corin looked at the plate for a second, then began to eat.

  The taste reminded her of rainy days spent downstairs with Patrice, back when she was still a maid. She thought of Mrs. Harwick, the bouncy cook who had prepared it, and recalled the times she allowed Corin and Victor the first tray of sweets before they were served to the guests upstairs.

  “Thank you, Guilford. And tell Mrs. Harwick I still hate mushrooms.”

  “If you eat your mushrooms, she promised you all the Turkish delight you want,” he whispered, a rare break in his professional mask.

  Corin almost smiled. Mushrooms were much kinder than her father. She finished the stew.

  Townsend walked her to the drawing room once dinner was done. Inside, the Chairman was already brandishing a glass of a vintage he only drank on tough days, or when he was terribly disappointed.

  Langley Townsend pulled out a chair for her.

  “I did not say she could sit,” the Chairman said, his back still turned. He grabbed a tablet from his desk; whatever he saw there made his face colder still. “You managed to get a number next to your name, and it wasn't even a number I like.”

  The Mock scores. They had been uploaded to the Billard system the moment the rankings were posted, available to the board—spearheaded by her father.

  “How is it that you managed to slip like this in your last term? Or is this some quiet rebellion you are attempting?”

  “It's not rebellion,” Corin answered, back straight, hands clasped behind her. “Sir.”

  “What is it, then?”

  There was no excuse he would accept. Even asking for forgiveness would only fuel his silent disgust.

  “I failed,” she said simply. “It was a miscalculation on my end.”

  The Chairman put down his glass and stepped away from his desk, walking toward her.

  “I was clear about one thing when I sent you to Billard. Have you forgotten?”

  “Never fail,” Corin said.

  “And that's exactly what you did.”

  He was standing so close now closer than he had been in years. She had forgotten how towering he was, eclipsing her frame, making her feel small. But Corin was never small. She wasn't allowed to be.

  “You've been preoccupied with things you shouldn't dip your hands in,” he muttered in a low baritone that made the hairs on her neck rebel. “You think I wouldn't know you pulled account records for the endowment?”

  Her people used secure channels, but clearly, they weren't as secure as they had thought.

  “I'm only trying to protect the family.”

  The Chairman laughed. It was a cold, frightening thing. Corin balled her fists behind her back to stop her fingers from shaking.

  “From whom?”

  She had a name and a paper trail, but the night was too delicate for such an accusation.

  “I did not hear you,” he spoke again, forcing her to use the blade she had accidentally drawn.

  “I—”

  She could see Townsend softly shaking his head, pleading with her to stay quiet.

  “Robert Spencer.”

  Gordon Clarendon slapped her so hard her head snapped sideways. She hit the floor. The fountain pen slid from his pocket and clattered across the wood. She must have been tired of living to even speak the name of the man he trusted most.

  Townsend knelt beside her, pulling out a white kerchief to wipe the blood from her mouth. Corin brushed his hand away.

  “No.”

  She quietly picked up the pen next to her knee and forced herself up.

  “You let a nobody take your rank—this Lucien Green—and your excuse is this?” her father said. “Desperation is unbecoming of a Clarendon. Weaving a tall tale about Robert just to mask your failure. I didn't think you could sink this low, Corin.”

  Behind her back, her hands deftly uncapped the fountain pen. It would be so easy to strike. Townsend would not have time to shield him.

  Just one swift blow.

  “Get out.”

  She withdrew the pen, hands shaking, throat tight with swallowed curses, but she still managed to curtsy and lower her head. It took everything in her to step back and walk out.

  Patrice lost all the colour in her face when she saw Corin's broken lip.

  “Miss—”

  “Let's go,” Corin said, but Guilford stood in her way.

  “Please, allow me to get you a change of clothes at the very least, Miss,” he said, eyeing the blood dripping from her chin onto her uniform.

  Corin had arrived at Claremont in her school colours; she left wearing a hoodie to hide the “badge of honour” her father had given as a parting gift.

  When they reached the dormitory, Corin was desperate to be alone—to get inside her room and start breaking things. But she was truly unlucky today.

  “Corin?”

  Lucien Green stood near the steps, as though he'd been waiting for her, a dark navy cap pulled low in a futile attempt at invisibility.

  It happened too quickly. He was on her in a few strides, his shadow swallowing hers. Before she could strike with the pen still hidden in her sleeve, his hands were there—gentle, terrifying, pulling back the hood.

  “Lie to me...” he whispered. His voice was a jagged thing, his fingers trembling as he cupped her face, thumb hovering just a hair's breadth from her split lip. “... tell me the Chairman did not do this to you.”