Cracks in Control
1696 Words
Vernon walked through a narrow alley lined with modest houses—faded paint, iron gates, the quiet weight of middle-class life.
He stopped in front of a two-storey house.
His eyes moved once—left, right, behind—making sure no one was watching.
Then he pressed the doorbell.
The door opened almost immediately.
Emma stood there, irritation written across her face.
Without a word, Vernon stepped inside.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Upstairs,” Emma replied sharply. “And why did you bring her here?”
The frustration in her voice was impossible to miss.
“It’s temporary,” Vernon said. “I’ll move her soon.”
Emma let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I don’t know if I’ll survive that long. She’s a beast.”
She raised her hand.
Two fresh bite marks, red and swollen.
“Look what she did when I tried to feed her.”
A pause.
“She bit me."
“Like an animal.”
Vernon glanced at the wounds, then back at her.
“Just bear with it this once,” he said quietly. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
Emma didn’t look convinced.
Vernon didn’t wait for a response. He headed upstairs.
At the far end of the corridor, there was a small room—more like a storage space than anything meant for living.
He opened the door.
There she was.
The “beast.”
Eleanor.
She sat on the bed, wrists tied behind her back, ankles bound. Still. Silent.
Watching.
Vernon stepped closer.
“Eleanor,” he said calmly, “don’t make things harder for everyone.”
No response.
He sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Let’s make one thing very clear,” he said quietly. “Do you want to live… or die?”
Silence lingered.
“Because if you’ve decided to die, then there’s no point dragging this out.”
Slowly, Eleanor turned her head to look at him.
Her eyes were steady. Not broken. Not afraid.
“I thought this was where I die,” she said. “You made that clear enough. Living was never part of the plan.”
A brief stillness settled between them.
“But now it seems I have options.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“What changed?”
Vernon held her stare.
“Nothing has changed yet,” he said. “But it can… if you prove you’re useful.”
A quiet moment passed.
“So tell me—how do you plan to do that?”
Eleanor shifted, turning fully toward him despite the restraints.
“That depends,” she said softly, “on what you’re willing to offer me.”
Vernon studied her for a moment.
Then, almost amused—
This girl… is something else.
He said, “I can let you live.”
Eleanor didn’t move.
Her wrists were tied tight behind her back, rope biting into the skin. Ankles bound. Shoulders stiff from strain.
Still—her voice came out steady.
“Living without money is pointless” she said. “How exactly am I supposed to survive like this?”
A faint creak of the bed as she shifted.
“So,” Vernon said, watching her closely, “now you want to work for us?”
Eleanor let out a quiet, breathless scoff. “No. Never.”
Pain flickered across her face.
“My father has no intention of saving me. And I’m sure your boss doesn’t want me alive for even a second longer.”
Her eyes lifted to him—sharp, clear.
“So I’m on my own. I have to think about my own survival.”
Vernon cut in, voice flat. “The man you met in the cellar… he’s not my boss.”
“I don’t care who he is.”
She pushed herself forward—slow, deliberate—as she dragged herself inch by inch closer to him.
“So here’s the deal,” she said, lower now. Controlled.
“I feed you information about Van Laurent Pharmaceuticals—something your boss, whoever he is, will find very valuable.”
A small pause—just enough to let it sink in.
“In return…”
Her lips curved faintly.
“You keep me alive… and give me access to phone calls and my bank account.”
Vernon didn’t react immediately.
“Keeping you alive is the hardest part right now,” he said at last. “Everyone—including me—wants you dead.”
"And giving you access to phone calls… your bank account—that’s a risk. I don’t trust you.” His tone remained even.
Eleanor’s smile didn’t disappear.
“No,” she said quietly. “That’s clearly not true.”
She leaned forward as much as the restraints allowed, ropes tightening, breath hitching for a second—then steady again.
“I would’ve been dead long ago if it weren’t for you.”
A direct hit.
“I’m still alive… and you’re the reason.”
Vernon’s expression hardened.
“Careful, Eleanor,” he said. “Kindness doesn’t exist in our world.”
A slight lean closer.
“If I’m keeping you alive, there’s a reason.”
His voice dropped.
“A selfish one.”
“I don’t care,” Eleanor replied immediately.
No hesitation. No fear.
“I stopped caring about anything else a long time ago.”
Her fingers flexed uselessly against the bindings behind her back.
“Right now… my only instinct is to survive.”
Silence stretched between them. Only her faint breathing broke it.
Vernon studied her. Measuring. Calculating.
“Alright then,” he said finally. “Let’s see how useful and loyal you can be.”
A step closer. The air tightened.
"If I doubt you—even once—you’re finished.”
Sharp. Final.
Eleanor didn’t answer.
She just smiled.
Slowly.
Because despite the ropes cutting into her skin…
Despite the pain…
Despite everything—
Her plan had worked.
⸻
The crystal glass didn’t just break—it detonated.
A violent crack tore through the silence, echoing across the vast marble hallway. Shards scattered like shrapnel. Amber liquor bled across pristine white stone, a stain too dark, too alive.
For a man built on control, that sound was a scream.
Ten minutes earlier, the mansion had been still.
Lucien descended the grand staircase in a charcoal silk robe, the fabric whispering against each step. His hair was slightly undone—just enough to fracture the perfection. In his hand, a lowball glass. Scotch. No ice left. Just something bitter, burning.
At the center of the vaulted foyer stood Theodore.
Not like Vernon.
Not silent. Not immovable.
Theodore watched—calculating, precise. A man who lived in the margins, where power shifted quietly and loyalties rotted.
He already knew.
Luka was gone.
Vernon had done it.
And if Vernon secured his place beside Lucien… Theodore’s position would be at risk. Or worse—it would disappear.
He wouldn’t let that happen.
“Theodore.”
Lucien’s voice cut through the dim amber light—calm, distant. His eyes remained on the slow swirl of liquor.
“What brings you here at this hour?”
A bow. Respectful on the surface. Coiled underneath.
“Sir. Something urgent. About the asset Vernon brought in.”
Lucien didn’t stop walking until he was close enough to feel breath.
“Speak.”
Theodore exhaled slowly, stepping onto dangerous ground.
“Now that we know the captive is useless… perhaps we repurpose her.”
Silence stretched, heavy and watchful.
“We put her to far better use. Something more… profitable.”
Theodore’s voice remained smooth—measured, deliberate. Testing the edge. Pressing just far enough to see if Lucien would react.
“She holds no value to Adrian. His silence makes that clear. Not a move. Not a message.”
A faint pause, controlled—intentional.
“It doesn’t matter to him whether she lives or dies.”
His gaze sharpened slightly.
“Because—”
Lucien’s hand lifted—just enough.
The room fell dead quiet.
“How can you be so sure?”
Same tone.
No warmth.
Theodore leaned in, precise, surgical.
“Because… she isn’t Edith.”
The words settled like poison in the air.
“She’s the twin.”
Everything shifted.
Lucien didn’t blink.
His grip tightened—slow, controlled. The crystal creaked under pressure.
“What are you saying?”
Low. Rough. Dangerous.
“I assumed you knew,” Theodore said softly.
“I discovered it a few days ago. Vernon, however… may have been aware long before me.”
He let that linger—long enough to matter.
That wasn’t carelessness.
It was deliberate.
A planted fracture.
A secret with weight.
Lucien went still—not the stillness of calm, but of something breaking beneath the surface.
Vernon.
The man who stood beside him while Luka screamed.
The man who looked him in the eye—
and said nothing.
Lucien’s gaze locked onto Theodore, dissecting him, searching for any trace of deception.
There was none.
Only hunger.
Only quiet satisfaction.
“You can go,” Lucien said at last.
Flat. Hollow.
“We’ll speak tomorrow. Noon.”
His eyes sharpened—cold, unforgiving.
“And find the girl.”
A brief breath.
“Yourself.”
Theodore bowed deeper this time, victory barely contained.
“Yes, sir.”
The doors opened.
Then closed.
Silence returned, thicker than before.
Lucien stood motionless for a moment.
Then it hit.
Vernon’s voice echoed in his mind.
She’s in a motel—for now. I’m fixing it.
The lie wasn’t loud.
That was the problem.
It was calm.
Controlled.
Deliberate.
Something inside Lucien snapped.
Not outwardly.
Not yet.
Just enough.
His arm moved—sharp, sudden.
The glass slammed against the marble—
—and exploded.
Shards scattered across the floor. Scotch splashed outward, staining white stone like spilled blood.
Lucien stood over it, breathing harder now. No longer composed. No longer precise.
His control—fractured.
His trust—gone.
This wasn’t Adrian anymore.
This wasn’t external.
This was inside.
Inside his walls.
Inside his circle.
And now—
it was personal.
- Writer
