Legacy Unbound

Prologue

Luc

I sat alone in my father's vast, dimly lit office, nursing the last drop of whiskey in my glass. The amber liquid caught faint light as I swirled it, watching it spiral in my left hand, the burn reminding me I was still here, still waiting. My mind wandered, grazing the edges of irritation, but I kept it locked down. Any sign of frustration would give him exactly what he wanted: proof that he could still unsettle me.

My father rarely summoned me; rarer still were the times he dared to question my choices. Even now, with whatever lecture he had in mind, I could sense his hesitation, the faint whiff of fear. His disapproval was not what stung—it was the futility of it. This meeting, whatever it was, already felt like a waste of my time.

Standing, I set the glass down with a soft clink and wandered through the room, eyes skimming over trophies, old books, artifacts of the Mathieu legacy, each a reminder of the family name I carried like armor. A name that sent people glancing nervously over their shoulders or whispering after I'd left the room. The things on his shelves might intrigue anyone else, but to me, they were just fragments of a burden I'd known too well since childhood.

I settled back in the chair and downed the last of my drink, letting the bitterness sear my throat, grounding me. Footsteps echoed in the hallway, and soon the door creaked open. My father entered, his sharp gaze flicking to the empty glass on the table.

"I don't like you drinking," he said, tone laced with quiet reprimand. "It dulls the senses."

I arched a brow, keeping my voice cool. "I don't like waiting, but here we are. Why was I called?"

He smirked—a rare, unsettling expression—as he took the seat across from me, watching me with that same silent scrutiny. Finally, he spoke, the smile never quite reaching his eyes. "This is your last year at Vauquelin. It's time you built alliances. Trusted people." The word "trust" tasted foreign on his tongue, as if he didn't believe in it any more than I did.

I met his gaze, unflinching, yet his request weighed heavy, pressing memories I'd tried to bury. Friends, allies—he'd called them trustworthy, as if surrounding myself with people could somehow soften the sharp edges of my name, could make me safe. Yet he knew better than anyone that the Mathieu name demanded nothing less than distrust, a life spent watching your back and playing games no one could see. The first thing I'd learned was that power attracts leeches, and kindness was a currency you could never afford.

"Fine," I murmured, rising from the chair, brushing off his gaze like dust. "I'll try."

As I turned to leave, he spoke again, his voice oddly sincere. "Thank you, Luc."

But I didn't look back.

Delphine

It's strange how quickly a name can sour. Three months ago, the Allard name meant something in New Orleans—pride, tradition, family. But now, thanks to my father, it's poison. Overnight, he went from respected coven member to the most hated man in the city. A thief. A traitor. And he left me to face it alone.

In the beginning, I held out hope that it was all a lie. I convinced myself he'd come back, that he'd clear our names, that the father I'd loved hadn't really betrayed us. But as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks to months, his absence became my answer. He'd left us. He'd left me—to bear his shame alone. And the people around me have made sure I feel every ounce of it.

At school, the stares linger a second too long, old friends vanish without a word, and teachers who once praised me now barely acknowledge my existence. I'm the girl they whisper about in the halls, their voices hushed but loud enough for me to hear: The traitor's daughter. Some call me that to my face, their voices dripping with contempt. Others just look at me like I'm something filthy they wish would disappear.

But the worst pain comes from the ones I once trusted—the friends who swore we'd always be there for each other, who now won't even look me in the eye. They've turned my name into something twisted and ugly, just like my father did. And all I can do is swallow it down, pretending it doesn't hurt, pretending I'm not breaking inside.

Every day, I come home to a house that feels emptier than the last, my mother hiding behind a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. She's tried to shield me, to keep life moving forward as if nothing's wrong, but we both know the truth. We're living in the aftermath of my father's betrayal, buried under a shame we never asked for.

Today, something feels different in the air. When I walk through the door, I see my mother in a hurry, moving around the house, packing up our things. Her movements are rushed, frantic even. She's tossing clothes, books, and whatever she can find into suitcases.

"Mom?" I call, my voice tentative, unsure what's happening.

She doesn't respond at first, her focus entirely on the task. I step closer, confusion blooming in my chest. My heart starts to race.

When she finally looks at me, her eyes are wide, a mix of exhaustion and something else I can't quite place. Her breath is shallow, almost panicked.

"Delphine," she says, her voice strained. "We're leaving."

My stomach tightens. Leaving? I freeze in the doorway. "Leaving? Where?"

She hesitates, glancing down at the suitcase in her hands before meeting my gaze again. "Paris," she whispers. "They've arranged for us to go to Paris. All expenses paid."

The word Paris hangs in the air, as if it's too big to fully take in. My mind flashes with a dozen questions. Who arranged this? After everything that's happened, after the years of whispers and looks from people who hated us, who would want to help us now?

But the questions quickly fade away, replaced by something else—something that feels like relief. The kind of relief I haven't felt in months.

Paris. No one there knows me. No one there will look at me like I'm a traitor, like I'm the daughter of the man who ruined everything. No one there will judge me. I can just be... me.

"Who arranged this?" The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, and I watch my mother's face tighten, her shoulders stiffen. She doesn't answer. She keeps packing, her hands shaking just slightly as she grabs another shirt and shoves it into the suitcase.

"I... I don't know," she says softly, not meeting my eyes. "But it doesn't matter. What matters is that we go. Now."

I feel a strange knot in my stomach, but it's not fear. It's the weight of all the questions I can't ask, the weight of everything unsaid between us. She's hiding something, I can feel it. But I don't push. Not now.

For once, the answers don't matter. We're finally leaving. Finally free from the whispers, the hatred, the stares. We'll be in Paris, where no one knows us. Where I can finally breathe.

"When do we leave?" My voice is a little more desperate now, like I'm afraid this is all a dream that will vanish the moment I ask too many questions.

"Right now," she replies, the tremor in her voice mixing with something else—something I can't quite place. Hope? Relief?

I don't have time to think about it. She grabs my hand, pulling me out the door. The moment feels sudden, surreal even. But it doesn't matter. We're leaving. We're going to Paris. And for the first time in a long time, I don't care about the why.

I don't care who arranged this for us. I don't care what they want in return.

All I know is that, finally, I'm free.

And as we drive away, I let myself believe that, maybe for the first time in my life, we're going to be okay.