Sylvain reached for his phone. If he texted her he was coming, what would she do?
He started to punch the message in… but then saw a new one pop up on the computer from his father.
Come to my study. We cannot compromise your child.
Sylvain did a double take. Did his eyes deceive him? Why would his father care about his child?
Could it still be the liquor?
He read the message again. Sure enough, it stayed the same.
His jaw tightened. His body tensed. He turned the cameras to follow Leila. She all-but-ran to Sylvain’s father’s study. The damn feed didn’t extend there.
Sylvain cursed.
He watched the text message feed but nothing else came. Small wonder. Why communicate by text if they were face-to-face?
Sylvain had one other option. He did not think he would ever use it… but something about the situation dictated it.
He’d only added the capacity to his surveillance system as a precautionary, backup measure. This is what it was:
Every cell phone had a microphone. Every cell phone had an antenna. They had cameras.
Every cell phone had the same weak, flawed security protecting it.
Sylvain could, in theory, break into every single cell phone that was within range of his surveillance sphere.
It would not be instant. But at this point, in his current mindset, he had no choice.
He had to know what his father and Leila were discussing.
The last part of his father’s text triggered the necessity.
Sylvain hesitated for the slightest moment. This was a breach of privacy of the highest consequence. He’d installed the capability only as a last resort. And he’d done it purposefully so that it was not automatic, but required human input.
But fuck it. There were too many secrets and lies floating around the Alastair castle for his liking.
He opened the command prompt window that gave direct access to the network interface of any wireless electronic device on the property and set to work.
It took all but ten minutes. Longer than he would have liked—but his abilities were hampered by the lingering alcohol in his system.
Leila’s voice came first:
“…tell him? No, I won’t tell him!”
Then his father’s harsh reply:
“Don’t be a child! He has to know, at some point.”
“He’d kill me.” Sylvain heard the fear in her voice. “If he found out… he would kill me.”
“My son wouldn’t kill you,” his father grunted. “It is not in his nature to be violent.”
“How can you say that? How do you know?” Her words were frantic.
“Because life has given him plenty of cause before. Not once has he lashed out. And anyway—if you don’t tell him, I will.”
“No!” Leila gasped.
“We’ll wait until the child is born, of course,” his father continued over her. “That way there can be no mishaps.”
“But why?” Leila complained. “Why say anything? Why do you want him to know at all?”
“That the child he believes to be his daughter is actually his step-sister? Because, Leila, he is a man. And he deserves to know.”
For a moment blank shock washed over Sylvain. And then…
Then came the rage.
“Even I would not disrespect him enough to let him live out such a lie,” his father was saying. “He needs to know the truth. He needs to know—”
“That you bested him!” Leila exclaimed. “That’s what it’s all about! That, once more, you had him beat! You don’t give a shit about me or our daughter. Sylvain was right—you care only for your goddamn pride!”
“A man’s pride makes him who his is,” his father cackled. “It—”
Sylvain’s head was spinning. He’d heard enough. He hurled off his headphones and slammed his laptop shut.
The rage flared and consumed him. He let it all out. He did not give physical manifestation to it, but he let it fill him. On and on and on until there was no room for anything else.
He’d been played. Once more, he had been too trusting, too lenient.
And his father had made him look a goddamned fool.
He should have trusted his instincts. He shouldn’t have ever ignored his suspicions.
And now he knew. His connection with Leila was meaningless. It was empty. It was based on a reality that did not exist.
He had thought it too easy, too simple, too convenient, for Leila to simply become pregnant after their first night together. And the whore had been lying about it the whole time! She—
Sylvain cut off. He would not judge Leila yet. He was prone to forgiveness too easily when he was on his own.
He had to see her, to let her offer an explanation, and then—and only then—would his true judgement come storming out.
He left his belongings in the room and raged out. He took the key. He would buy the entire damn inn, if needed, and tear it to the ground as payback at Leila for stringing him along. He did not care anymore. He would do whatever it took to get back at her, at her family—at his father.
He got in his car and drove. He blistered past the stop signs and traffic lights. Again, he did not care.
His mind was wholly consumed by one thing:
Uncovering the truth.
He pulled through the gate of the estate. He slammed the breaks by the front door. He took the steps two at a time.
He opened the door. He heard raised voices from the other side of the castle.
He stopped for a moment to listen. It sounded like Bianca arguing with his father.
He waited to hear Leila’s voice. But she was not with them.
To Sylvain’s flickering surprise, the argument was not one-sided. His father was yelling—but Bianca was screaming right back.
That, at least, assured him that his sister could stand on her own. For a little bit.
He had to get to Leila. Now.
He stormed through the halls, slamming open doors, hoping to catch her off-guard. But no matter how he searched, he could not find her.
The castle was vast. A person could easily hide in one of the rooms for hours before being discovered.
He heard his father and Bianca move their argument outside. He ignored them. He stalked through the dining hall, went up to his father’s study…
All empty.
On a hunch, he turned up to his father’s bed chamber.
The Black Tower.
He made the climb in silence. He reached the top, pushed open the door…
She was there.
“Sylvain!” Leila gasped. “I didn’t think—”
“Save it,” he growled. He closed the door and bolted it.
Nobody would interrupt him in this.
He turned to her. She had the fucking gall to look him in the eyes.
“What’s going on?” she wondered. “When you disappeared last night…”
He surged toward her. She swallowed and cut off.
He stopped a hair’s breadth away. His eyes stormed. All the rage was crashing about, unrestrained, within him.
He kept his voice purposefully calm.
“I heard your discussion,” he said.
“Discussion?” she seemed confused. “What discussion?”
“The one,” he told her, “that you had downstairs, in my father’s study, about an hour ago.”
Her eyes went wide. “No…”
He caught her wrist. He pulled her hand up between their faces. “You thought I would give you a ring,” he sneered, “if you gave me a daughter?”
From his peripherals, Sylvain noticed his father’s shotgun was missing from its usual place on the wall.
“Your father brought it up—” she began, haltingly. Sylvain could tell she wasn’t sure what he knew. “The marriage, he—”
“I know,” Sylvain interrupted, “that the child you say is ours? Your daughter? I know it isn’t mine.”
Leila gaspe
d. Sylvain let go of her wrist.
She withdrew.
He stepped into her. “It’s true, isn’t it?” he said softly. His voice was now dangerous—that rage was boiling inside him, begging for an outlet. “You lay with my father. You became pregnant with his child. Then you came to me, you claimed it was mine.”
“Sylvain…”
“You lied to me. You lied to my face. For months.”
She started to tremble. Sylvain thought her about to cry.
“And when I go, you come here. Here, to his bedroom. Here!”
He ripped away and stalked to the opposite wall. He was trying—trying—not to let his anger seize him.
“Sylvain, Sylvain, no, you have it all wrong—”
“Do I?” he questioned softly. Then he turned on her and screamed: “DO I?”
She cowered back.
“I intercepted the text messages, Leila. I know the conversation you had with him! I heard it, with my own ears. But I had to look at you, to see your guilt, so I would know.”
She tried to muster up the courage to deny the accusation…
But failed.
“And you continued to lie,” Sylvain said. “You never stopped lying. Every single word out of that fucking mouth of yours—not one was the truth. Was it? WAS IT?”
“Sylvain…” she began. She couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. “Sylvain, I love you, I—”
He hit her. He couldn’t stop himself. His arm flew across his body and connected with her cheek in a lethal backhand.
Leila crumbled to the floor.
“LIAR!” Sylvain screamed at her form. All his rage was there now, all of it had consumed him, all of it was storming. “DIRTY, FUCKING, LYING WHORE!”
He advanced on her. He didn’t know what he was capable of. All he knew was that he could not control himself. And the final insult? The one about “love?”
It was too much.
He picked her up by the hair. She struggled and screamed. He flung her against one wall. She hit it and fell. He stalked forward, mind empty except for the animalistic desire to see her hurt.
He raised his arm again. All the things his father had done to him were coming back. And he was turning into the man. All the lessons, all the abuse—
Sylvain was the embodiment of it now. And he was ready to unleash it all on this girl. This trembling, poor, pathetic, lost little girl…
A flicker of his conscience came to him. He saw what he was doing—saw it objectively.
He froze.
“I—” he stumbled away. He gripped the bed to support himself. He felt sick. “Leila, I—”
A shotgun blast ripped through the air.
Sylvain’s head whipped around. “What was that?”
Leila froze. “Bianca…” she breathed.
Leila suddenly forgotten, Sylvain got up and ran through the door. He raced down the stairs. He bolted outside, into the gardens, where he heard his sister and father arguing last.
“BIANCA!” he screamed. There was no answer. His eyes flew over the landscape.
The maze. He saw the entrance to the maze.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no, no…”
He flew forward. He burst into the middle of the clearing.
And there, on the bench, slumped over and bathed in her own blood, he saw his sister’s lifeless form. The shotgun lay on the ground before her.
The back of her head was blown out.
Dazed, shocked, unable to comprehend reality, Sylvain felt something tugging at him. It compelled him to look back to the castle.
He did…
And found his father smiling down at him from the window of his grand study.
He had just architected his daughter’s suicide.
The End.
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The Alastair Affair 4: Sylvain Page 8
