It’s when we’re closer, and I hear his voice that I realize who he is.
I stop dead, and I am grateful for the music and for the laughter that erupts from the group surrounding Mercedes because I make a sort of choking sound as I feel the blood drain from my face, my body going cold.
I turn to Santiago and shake my head, my heart beating so fast I’m sure he can hear it. “Please.”
As if sensing I’ll bolt, he wraps a hand around the back of my neck and pulls me to him and anyone who is looking at us would think he was kissing my cheek but he’s not. He’s whispering to me.
“Judge is my friend. You’ll need to get used to him.”
“He’s…I can’t.”
“I asked him to take you, Ivy. If anything happened to me, he knew what to do.”
“What?” I ask, pulling back to look up at him. “How?”
“It is the Rite.”
The Rite. God. It’s like we go back in time every time I set foot in this place. The Rite is when one Head of Household, if he’s the only male of age, passes on those in his charge to another in his absence or death or if he were to become somehow incapacitated.
“I trust Judge with my life. I trusted him with yours.”
“When you thought I tried to kill you.”
“Did he hurt you, Ivy?”
“He kept me in a cellar. He kept me—”
“Did he hurt you?” he asks again.
I shake my head.
“If he hadn’t stepped in that night, you’d have spent those days in a Tribunal cell, and trust me, that would have been far worse.”
“So, what? I should thank him?” I try to pull away, but he catches my arm.
“You should be respectful,” he says, and I realize it’s grown quieter. Santiago smiles and pulls me close again. “And you will behave.” There’s a pause after the will.
“Well, well,” Mercedes says, approaching with a wide grin on her face, drink in hand, eyes dropping instantly to my stomach before returning to mine. Her disdain or outright disgust of me is so apparent I’m sure Santiago must see it.
Judge has a hand at her elbow, eyes on me. He must know I recognize him.
“Santi,” Mercedes says. “So nice to see you two out and about together, a little family in the making.” She swallows what’s left in her glass, sets it on a passing waiter’s tray, grabs a full flute, and brings it to her lips.
“Easy,” Judge tells her, but I hear it, and I wonder if he’s keeping her in the cellar too because she gives him an annoyed glance but doesn’t sip from her glass.
He nods. And I try to understand the dynamic. Surely Santiago wouldn’t have sent her to him for whatever it is she did. Surely, Judge wouldn’t be the consequences he talked about.
Just then another man comes to us. I don’t know him, but he whispers something to Santiago. Santiago nods and turns to us.
“Do you ladies think you can behave yourselves for five minutes?”
I am about to say no, but Mercedes beams and comes to take my hand. Her nails dig into my palm. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll catch up.” She turns and walks us to a private sitting area before I can get a word in. We sit on the plush velvet couches. “You’re showing.”
“Not really.”
“Should I congratulate you?”
“What do you want, Mercedes?”
“You have no idea, do you?”
“I need to use the bathroom.” I try to get up, but she puts her hand on my thigh and digs her nails into it, smiling when someone walks by to greet her.
“Don’t look so smug. You haven’t won the war,” she says.
“What are you talking about? Any war is in your head.”
“Innocent Ivy. Sweet, precious Ivy. This battle goes to you, I’m graceful enough to give you that, but I’ll win in the end. You’ll see.”
“Seriously, Mercedes, you’re fucking delusional.” I shove her arm off and stand. I get about two steps away before she speaks.
“In nine months' time, I’ll be back in my rightful place.”
I turn to her, her choice of words stopping me. “What did you say?”
“Or eight months, I guess?” She sips from her drink.
“What are you talking about?”
She stands and walks toward me. “What did you think? That you could steal my family from me?”
“I’m not stealing anything. Your brother made a choice. He chose me.”
She pauses, cocks her head to the side. Then laughs. “Oh my god! I don’t believe it.”
I should walk away. I know I should, but I can’t.
“You’re in love with him. You are seriously in love with him.”
“I—”
“Well, poor, stupid Ivy,” she says, leaning closer, twirling a strand of my hair around her forefinger. “He doesn’t love you. He could never love you. Not after what your father did to him. To us.”