The Oblivion

Chapter 20.

In the car again, laden with silent, expensive bags, Layla felt drained. "So, is there a manual for 'Not Saying Something Idiotic'? A phrasebook? Helpful Fae Insults for Beginners?"

Kieran started the engine. "Silence is your safest option. When pressed, a neutral observation about the weather or the gardens is permissible. Do not offer opinions. Do not tell stories." He paused, his hands tightening on the wheel. "Do not, under any circumstances, mention your divorce."

The air left her lungs. She stared at his profile. "How did you...?"

"I make it a point to know the liabilities of anyone I bring into my family's home." His tone was clinical. "A fractured human marriage is a vulnerability. It suggests poor judgment and instability. They will use it as a lever if they find out. Divorce among Fae is as rare as they take the act as an insult."

Shame, hot and bright, flooded her. Her personal catastrophe was reduced to a tactical weakness. "It's not a topic I was planning to bring up over canapés."

"Good." He drove for a few minutes in silence. "Navigating my family is...strenuous at best for Fae, let alone humans. I have two sisters and three brothers. The youngest, Elara, will likely try to befriend you. She is the family's chief destabilizing agent. Her kindness is a trap. Sevine cares for none; her mind is purely on expanding our family's dominance."

"And your brothers?"

"Theron prefers to watch from the shadows. He will say very little. He will remember everything. Baeylar will try to bait you, stir trouble where possible. Callan is a wildcard at the best of times. He won't hesitate to shine a light on your mortality. My father is strict and stoic. He does not tolerate useless emotions or lack of respect for tradition and hierarchy. And my grandfather...well, he can take a bit of getting used to." Kieran pulled up in front of her apartment building. He didn't look at her. "Be ready tomorrow at nine. We fly at noon."

Layla reached for the door handle, the weight of the day pressing down on her. "And your mother?" she asked quietly, the core of her dread finally voiced.

Kieran finally turned his head. The streetlight cut harsh planes across his face. "My mother," he repeated, the words deliberate and cold, "is the architect of the maze that our family operates. She will be polite. Kind. Charming, even. She will ask you thoughtful questions about your work, your childhood, your dreams." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that vibrated in the small space. "Do not be swayed by her words. She has spent years perfecting ways to kill without lifting a finger. Every answer you give her will be a brick in the wall she builds around you until you are choking. Do not give her bricks, Layla."

He drew back, his expression once again an unreadable mask. "Nine o'clock."

Layla got out, retrieved her bags from the trunk, and watched the sleek car disappear into the night. The old, familiar warmth of her apartment building felt like a lie. She was no longer just a woman with a failed marriage and a demanding job. She was ammunition. A projectile. A thing to be aimed.

Upstairs, she dumped the beautiful bags on her sofa. They looked alien amidst the secondhand furniture and the lingering ghost of Mark's presence. Mercury jumped up beside the collection, investigating the potentially new play bag he would no doubt drag around the apartment later. She opened one, pulling out the emerald green dress. It was softer than she'd remembered.

Her phone buzzed—a text from an unknown number.

It's Anya. Mr. Valarius forwarded me your numbers. I forgot to mention. Undergarments. What you own will show lines. Courier will arrive at 8 AM with suitable options. Do not argue.

Layla laughed, a sharp, sudden sound in the empty apartment. It was all so absurdly controlled. Her clothing, her words, her underwear. She was being edited and proofread for the Valerius press.

She ordered pizza, the greasiest she could find, and ate it straight from the box in her kitchen, Mercury trying relentlessly for her to concede in passing him a piece. It was a small, defiant act of self. As she chewed, her eyes fell on the last remaining box of Mark's things, still by the door. She hadn't had the strength to add it to the donation pile.

She got up, wiped her hands, and dragged the box to the middle of the living room. She ripped the tape off, not to salvage, but to purge. She pulled out old photo albums, a mix of their life together. She flipped through one, seeing pictures of a couple she barely recognized—smiling on a beach, holding up drinks at a wedding, wrapped in a blanket on a cheaper couch. Their faces were unlined, their eyes bright with a future that hadn't yet cracked.

She didn't feel a crushing sadness. She felt a distant, hollow pity, like she was watching a play about two naïve strangers. She closed the album and placed it back in the box, Mercury's little paws hanging over the edge in curiosity. The cufflinks she'd found earlier glinted from under a stack of old t-shirts. She didn't remember placing them in the box. She picked them up again.

To anchor you.

What a joke. She walked to her balcony, the night air cool on her skin. The city sprawled below, a galaxy of human and Fae lights. Somewhere out there, in a world of magic and marble, was Kieran Valerius, preparing to throw her to the wolves. He was arrogant, and terrifyingly perceptive. He had mapped the minefield for her, but he was also the one who had ordered her to walk across it.

She looked at the cufflinks in her palm, then at the city. With a swift, decisive motion, she drew her arm back and hurled them as far as she could into the dark. She didn't hear them land. The pitiful anchor was gone. She went inside, resealed the box, and left it by the door for the morning. Then she took a long, hot shower, scrubbing away the feeling of Anya's assessing fingers and Kieran's unsettling grip. She dressed in her oldest, softest pajamas.

In bed, sleep wouldn't come. The silence of her apartment was too loud. Her mind replayed his warning about his mother, the feel of his hand on her back during the waltz, the look in his eyes when she'd worn the green dress. A confusing heat pooled low in her stomach, a traitorous response to the memory of his control.

She thought of the Fae waltz. A conversation of power. Her role was to demonstrate graceful, unthinking compliance. She had followed his lead on the dance floor, and her body had responded effortlessly. The realization was a cold shock. Part of her wanted to rebel, to be the chaotic human that ruined his careful plans. A deeper, more unsettling part was intrigued by the simplicity of surrender, of letting someone else hold the map in a world she didn't understand.