Weaving Assumption & Intentions

CHAPTER 15

"Can you tell me something I don't know?" Raphael asked.

Tinges of white feathers fluttered around the fountain. The petrified cherub stood motionless, gazing upon the flock of pigeons while it spewed a constant stream of water. Beneath its stone form, ripples distorted the bronze and silver omens at the pool's bottom, where the glittering coins lay.

"Can we just have a moment to ourselves? Without all this drama and controversy?" Gloria's voice was soft, fatigued. She hugged his arm, resting her head on his shoulder. Together, they watched the pigeons, tracking the old man's hand as he scattered grains across the paved ground. The tiny seeds rolled with a staccato rhythm, pecked away just as quickly.

The old man fumbled for more alms, his shaking hands digging into the packet of oats tucked under his armpit.

One last throw. The birds devoured the remaining grains, their insatiable hunger appeased, for now.

"What do you think of moving away from all this?" Gloria asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Raphael didn't answer. The scent of jasmine drifted between them, subtle yet inescapable. His mother's presence--still, intoxicating--filled the space between her words.

"Where and when?" His tone was as direct as ever.

He couldn't see her smile, but he felt it--subtle, like a shifting breeze. Relief brushed against him, almost imperceptible.

Then--

Out of the corner of their eyes, an object swept past, grazing his cheek. The pigeons erupted into flight, abandoning their feast.

A young boy stood frozen. Bright eyes wide. Uncertain whether to retrieve the plate he had thrown or to apologize.

"I'm sorry," he stammered, voice trembling more from fear than embarrassment.

Gloria rose, retrieving the plate from the ground. She approached him, crouching, her touch gentle as she grasped his small hands--steadying. Grounding.

"What's your name?" she asked, reading the tension in his posture. "Don't worry, I'm not a bad person. Just curious."

"Jonathan," he whispered.

"That's a nice name." She searched his face, as if listening for something unsaid.

"Your parents must be proud of you. You're their blessing. Always remember that." Her voice softened, as if the words were meant for him alone.

Jonathan smiled--faint, yet burdened.

He took the plate from her hands.

"Thank you," he whispered, before turning and running, disappearing into the park's winding paths.

Gloria watched him go. Her expression unreadable.

Raphael said nothing, but something shifted in the air. A silence filled with something unspoken.

---

The park felt emptier after the boy left.

His mother's mood settled over them like the thickening clouds above. The wind rattled the branches, shadows shifting restlessly over the stone paths.

Raphael stood behind her, waiting. Patient.

She wiped at her eyes. Her sleeves damp.

"Can we talk?" she asked, quiet resignation laced through every word.

---

Sunlight shattered through the clouds, gilding the fallen jacaranda petals in a soft, melancholic glow. As they passed the benches and the fountain, the world around them felt lighter, occupied only by a handful of strangers lost in their own concerns. Raphael walked beside her, hands clasped behind his back, waiting. Watching.

"I can't gather my thoughts if you keep eating me up in public," she murmured, flustered.

He didn't respond, only let his gaze linger a second too long.

She folded her arms. "Are you thinking about your father?"

His steps slowed. Fingers brushed against the hedges as they passed. He plucked a leaf, absently, shredding it between his fingertips, watching the pieces scatter at his feet.

"As you said, let's not spoil the mood. It's a beautiful day. Nothing else matters if we just enjoy what we have now." His hand brushed against hers.

A warmth that silenced her thoughts. A fragile, fleeting peace.

Ring.

The moment splintered.

Ring.

Gloria tilted her head, a knowing look in her eyes.

"It might be an emergency," she nudged.

He exhaled sharply, surrendering to her logic. With a roll of his eyes, he pulled out his phone. The name flashing on the screen curdled his blood. His fingers tightened around the device.

He knew this voice before he even answered.

"Hello."

Silence. Then--

"Your disrespect is precisely why I never approved of your marriage to my daughter."

A deep voice. Authority coiled around every syllable. It twisted Raphael's stomach with nausea.

"Misspoke last time, did I?" he said coldly. "Well, I don't give a fuck, William. But since I'm divorcing your daughter, I'll let you get this off your chest."

A pause. Then, slow, deliberate:

"If my schedule weren't so demanding, I'd have taught you the lessons your father clearly failed to."

Raphael's jaw tensed. "I'm divorcing your daughter," he repeated, teeth clenched.

Silence stretched, taut and suffocating.

Then--

"We need to meet," William said, his tone unnervingly calm. "It concerns your mother. And your safety."

His grip on the phone tightened. His pulse roared in his ears.

Without a word, he hung up.

Gloria watched him warily, hands gripping her sleeves. "Who was that?"

"William," he bit out, voice thick with hatred.

"Should we go to the police?" she asked cautiously.

His lips curled, condescending. "Do you want that?"

She flinched. A tell. A secret on the verge of exposure.

"What are you trying to say?"

Raphael exhaled through his nose, smirking.

"The first time Edward saw William, he nearly tore his throat out--for no reason. Why?" His voice was steady, but his thoughts unraveled. "You never intervened. You just... watched. Like you understood something I didn't."

His fingers flexed at his sides. "Ezekiel wasn't there that day to add to my suspicions. But after everything--the schemes, the lies--I finally understand."

"You had an affair. Plain and simple."

"And I might not know who my father is, but I know what kind of man he was." His voice dropped, quiet, lethal. "He abandoned you with a child. That tells me everything I need to know about his morals."

Gloria choked on a sob. Her shoulders trembled before she bent over and retched onto the pavement.

Raphael sighed, rubbing slow circles on her back before handing her a handkerchief.

When she finally stood, she looked at him. Really looked at him. Measured his resolve.

He needed answers. And she could no longer stop him from seeking them.

So she turned away, walking ahead, putting distance between them.

Raphael didn't move. He watched her retreat, disappearing into the crowd.

Is this how it feels to disappoint someone?

A tired exhale.

His gaze dropped to his phone. Hesitation curled in his stomach. Then--he pressed redial.

"Where can we meet?"

He pocketed his hands and walked in the opposite direction. Further away from the peace he had wanted.

---

CHAPTER 16.

Raphael glanced at the side mirror of the taxi before departing. His reflection flickered for a moment--an illusion of escape--but he knew better. There was no running. Not from this.

His target's identity lurked in the vast emptiness of his former home, just beyond reach. The fallen leaves--piled high, undisturbed--were the only voices left to speak of what once was.

After paying the driver, Raphael stepped onto the pavement. Silence pressed against him, heavier than memory. He had lost too much. If only he had been more aware, more attentive. The missed clues screamed louder than any of his regrets.

The door was unlocked--a quiet signal that "he" was already waiting.

Inside, the familiar void greeted him. The statue--once a relic of his past--was gone, erased. His eyes traced the stripped-down hallway, each empty space a wound.

He found him in the office. William sat behind the desk, one leg propped up, lazily peeling an apple. The distant waves held his attention more than Raphael's arrival.

"Have a seat," William murmured.

Raphael's gaze sharpened. "I'd rather not. I'm not here for pleasantries. Just the truth."

William smirked, unbothered, nudging the fruit bowl forward. "Relax. She already signed it."

Raphael's eyes flicked to the document beside the bowl. He reached for it, but William pulled it back, offering an apple instead.

"Eat. Those bastards starve their detainees." His gray eyes held an eerie sincerity.

Raphael snorted. "You're the last person who should care about anyone's well-being." Still, he took the apple. The crunch filled the silence.

William's voice dipped into something almost amused. "If you knew how wrong you were..."

Raphael leaned in, curiosity tempered with wariness. "Enough. Just tell me what I need to know."

William's smile deepened. "Do you know why I stopped trying to ruin your marriage?"

Raphael's brow furrowed. "She was too stubborn?"

"Not just that," William said, gaze shifting back to the sea. "It was part of a bigger plan."

Raphael stayed silent, chewing, absorbing.

"She was assigned to you--your brother, your father."

The words landed like a slow, creeping poison. Raphael didn't react, but the apple in his hand suddenly felt heavier.

"She was supposed to get close, use you to retrieve our clan's heirlooms."

Raphael exhaled through his nose. "And which clan is this?"

William finally met his eyes, voice dropping to a warning. "One you should avoid if you value what you hold dear."

Silence. The waves crashed outside.

Raphael changed course. "Why did you try to kill Ezekiel?"

William narrowed his eyes, assessing. "Veronica pushed your mother into a corner. I wonder how much she actually told you." A flicker of something--regret? Sadness?--crossed his face.

Before Raphael could respond, William slid the document across the desk. His expression turned cold. "But before we get to that, confirm something for me."

Raphael hesitated. Something about this didn't sit right. He took the document and scanned the clauses. His pulse remained steady until he reached the signature at the end. His fist clenched--not in relief, but something far worse.

Then, beneath it, another document, half-hidden. He shifted it forward. Read the contents.

His stomach lurched.

"Is this a joke?" His voice came out hoarse.

William studied him, unreadable.

"No. No, this can't be true." Raphael's hands clawed at his hair. The hysteria threatened to break free.

William stood, closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. He patted Raphael's shoulder as the papers slipped from his fingers, fluttering to the floor.

Raphael staggered back. "This is a sick joke. You can't be serious."

William remained still, unmoved by the outburst. "No matter how much you try to outrun your origins, it's impossible."

Raphael exhaled sharply, steeling himself. He walked back to William, his voice steady but lethal.

"Forging a DNA test won't shake me. Whatever game you're playing, stay out of our lives." His finger jabbed against William's chest.

William barely blinked. "I'm not playing. You're my biological son." The words dripped with distaste.

Raphael let out a bitter laugh. He picked up the glass of water from the desk and poured it over the paternity test.

"Whatever deluded world you live in, I'm not part of it." He turned and walked out, leaving the soaked papers behind.

But William wasn't finished.

"You can hate me all you want," he called after him. "But don't waste your sister's efforts. Your brother has already taken a toll on her."

Raphael stopped dead in his tracks.

"What do you mean by that?" His voice was low, dangerous.

William's words came slow, deliberate. "She fell in love with you. Wasted time and resources protecting your identity. She should've killed you--but instead, she chose Edward."

The impact was instant.

Raphael turned, his mind unraveling. "So everything--the gallery, our first meeting--it was all part of her plan?"

William sighed. "Yes. She targeted Edward when he was already on guard. She never intended to sleep with him, but he played his cards well. You were a pawn in their game. If I hadn't stepped in, you'd be dead."

Raphael sank into a chair. Everything tilted, unsteady beneath the weight of betrayal.

William sat beside him, voice quieter now.

"Veronica's plan backfired. To keep you alive, she sacrificed her dignity. And even though you're apart now, it was inevitable. If your half-brother hadn't interfered, she would've disappeared from your life like a ghost. A worse fate, in my eyes."

Raphael forced himself to his feet, hollow. "How did you meet my mother?"

William's lips curved into something thin, tired. "She was a lonely girl, abandoned after a plane crash. I gave her a new heart, one better than my broken one. I never knew she was my brother's savior. Never knew she would become his, six months after I left her."

A lie. Somewhere in there, a lie. But Raphael had no strength to unearth it.

He turned and walked away.

His father's voice followed. "The road ahead may take you far, but don't forget where you came from."

Raphael didn't answer. His steps were heavy. His soul, heavier still.

---

William welcomed the silence, the sea stretching out before him. The salt in the air did little to ease the exhaustion weighing on his bones.

His wristwatch beeped--a sharp reminder. Reluctantly, he turned away from the waves, climbing the stairs to the waiting door.

The moment he unlocked it, his eyes landed on the bloodstained floor. A crimson trail led to the bedstand, where a body lay, lifeless.

Cool metal met his fingertips as he retrieved the knife from his pocket. The silver sheen caught the room's dim light, reflecting the corpse at his feet.

"Old man," he muttered, a quiet mockery, "how much blood must be spilled to satisfy your ambition?"

His father's rival had underestimated him.

The phone rang. William answered without hesitation.

"Did you really have to meet him?" Her voice was direct, annoyed--but beneath it, something softer.

"You should be grateful I broke my promise. If I hadn't, your precious one might've ended up like the others."

He crouched beside the body, blade in hand.

"Tell me," he mused, "who's the real reaper here--me, or the old fossil?"

The voice on the other end didn't hesitate. "So, will you help me?"

William smiled. The knife sliced.

"If I can't shove this up his chauvinistic ass, what good am I?"

"What's the plan?" Veronica asked, ever cautious.

"I won't drag it out this time." William's voice was cold, unwavering. "A final stand to end this bloodshed. Maybe you'll have a chance, but we'll have to pay for it. Are you ready to make 'her' proud?"

On the other end, his daughter's voice crackled with a mix of excitement and fear. "If this won't do it, I don't know what will."

She hung up abruptly. William didn't press her--she had her own burdens to carry.

The door clicked shut behind him. The severed head lay at his feet.

---

Veronica stood before the mirror, examining her ceremonial robes. The fabric, stitched and buttoned by the maidens who had since left, felt heavier in their absence. The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Then, a presence entered--undeniable in its weight.

Her grandmother, the matriarch of the clan, stepped forward.

Veronica didn't greet her. There was no need. Their reflections met in the mirror, and in them, the old woman saw everything--the hesitation, the reluctance, the silent war within her granddaughter.

But there was no escaping fate.

"You want to rebel against the status quo," the matriarch mused, her cane tapping against the stone floor. "But you've done well to fool me, child."

She gazed out the window, surveying the land beyond--their empire, their legacy. The guards below, loyal but distant, maintained their watch.

"No matter how much you struggle, you can't outrun your fate," she continued, her words steeped in history. "My own brother tried to kill me. Look where it got him."

Veronica remained silent, listening.

"You're in a better position than I ever was." The old woman's voice softened, laced with something rare--regret. "You fight for someone. Someone you care about. Me? I sent assassins to erase my enemies, and still, they live. Think carefully about what you truly want."

Her eyes, dim with age, held a weary knowing.

Veronica finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper. "Why me, and not him?"

"Because he's unqualified." The answer came without hesitation. "He was ruthless in his youth, yes. But he never dared to spill the blood of those who truly threatened him--family or not. If he had the resolve of our line, even my husband would have bent the knee."

The truth settled in Veronica's chest like a stone.

"Don't overthink it," the matriarch advised. "One step at a time. When the seal is imprinted on your blood, you will have what's yours. Like the spiders before you, you will spin your web and consume those caught within it."

Veronica's gaze darkened. "One step at a time."

Her thoughts drifted elsewhere.

She called for Amalda. The redhead entered, clad in leather armor, sharp-eyed yet affectionate.

"I need you for a mission." Veronica's tone was firm. "I never properly compensated you for your last task."

Amalda's gaze softened.

Veronica continued, voice heavier now. "What if I offered you a chance to give him a taste of his own medicine?"

A smile tugged at Amalda's lips. "I have my own plans. But you're my sister first. I'll send you the coordinates. You'll know what to do from there."

Veronica's expression hardened.

"Can't I watch it with you?" Amalda asked.

But Veronica was already turning away. "It's a curse, not a blessing. I'd rather you make someone's life miserable than watch me be a slave to another vow."

Amalda nodded. No more words needed.

And then, Veronica was gone.

---

The hall was vast, its marble floors as cold and unyielding as the weight of tradition. Cloaked figures gathered in silence, watching as Veronica ascended the steps, each footfall echoing like the ticking of a clock.

Anticipation thickened the air.

Her grandmother stood at the altar, flanked by elders draped in white. The ceremony had begun.

The leader of the elders spoke, her voice cutting through the silence.

"In the dawn of freedom, innocence stained our ancestors. The wisdom they sought was a falsehood, leading only to bloodshed. Yet, fortune smiled upon them. The first widow claimed the ground where blood was spilled, and through her sacrifice, she rose to power."

She reached for the dagger upon the altar, its blade gleaming under dim light.

"I, Elysian Preystor, abdicating my mantle, pass it to you, Veronica Preystor. Will you accept your fate, as all before you have?"

The moment stretched, the weight of centuries pressing down.

"I do."

Veronica's voice was steady. Unwavering.

Elysian's bloodied hand met Veronica's, their palms bleeding together, sealing the sacred bond.

The chant rose in intensity. Veronica stood tall. Her fate was now in her hands.

Her grandmother leaned in, whispering, "Carry our legacy well. And do not disappoint me."

Veronica smiled--a calm, cold thing. "On my own terms, you will be satisfied."