“He comes from a place of hurt,” she offers as if reading my mind.
It takes me a minute. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for him then?” Because I don’t.
“No, I just want you to understand. To hear it from someone other than Jericho. He’s too emotional when it comes to this. To you and what he needs to do.”
“What does he need to do?”
“What he thinks he has to do,” she continues as if she hasn’t heard me.
“Which is what exactly?”
She sighs deeply. “Angelique likes you, Isabelle. Very much.”
“I like her. She’s sweet. Unlike her father,” I add that last part under my breath as I take a bite of my sandwich.
She chuckles. “Well, if there’s one thing my son has never been and will be it’s sweet.”
“What is he planning? What’s going to happen to me?”
She studies me, then stands, paces for a moment. “His fiancée, Angelique’s mother, died in his arms. Did you know that?”
God. No. I shake my head, putting the sandwich down, the bite in my mouth feeling too big, like it will choke me if I swallow.
“He was the target,” she adds.
“I didn’t know.” Goosebumps cover my flesh and I set the plate aside.
“Your brother hired the men who did it.”
I blink. “What?” Is it the words themselves, their meaning or the casual way she says it?
She doesn’t repeat herself. Just gives me a few minutes to hear her. It’s going to take me a hell of a lot longer than that to process.
“The feud between our families has been going on for generations. It started when we bought this land. Legitimately bought the land that was once Bishop land. The Bishops have always had money for as long as their history has been recorded. But as often happens with generation after generation of money, the less one has to work for it, the more entitled one feels, the more quickly a fortune is squandered.”
Entitled. There’s that word again. Reginald Bishop had felt entitled to Mary St. James. At least how Jericho told it.
“And of course, they were a founding family of The Society. How much do you know about IVI?”
“Not much. I never really was all that interested honestly. I only learned that my father, the man who was my biological father at least, was a Bishop a few years ago. I’ve never considered myself a Bishop. Never considered anyone but the man who raised me with love to be my father. I’ve never thought about anything else.”
“But you changed your name,” she says, and I can’t tell if her tone is accusatory or what.
“I was sixteen. I had just lost my brother in a brutal attack.” My eyes mist. “I had been beaten. I would have died if our neighbor hadn’t called the police. So, when Carlton came for me telling me the news of my parentage, taking me in, having me sign page after page of legal documents, I can’t say I really cared much about a name or any of the rest of it. I was numb.” No one bothers to remember how this all happened. How Christian, who wasn’t even supposed to be at the apartment but had come home to check on me, died. I stand up, wipe the tears that fall with the heels of my hands. “I’m tired,” I tell her.
“I know your story, Isabelle,” she says. She walks toward me, closes her hands over my arms. “And I’m sorry for your loss. Very sorry. We’ve all lost. But what Jericho is doing now, he’s doing to protect Angelique.”
“What does my being here have to do with Angelique? Because from what I understand, it’s all about revenge. What am I? Collateral damage?”
“There’s much more at play behind the scenes. Things you don’t know.” She drops my arms and walks away.
“Then tell me. Tell me and maybe I’ll understand and maybe I can help.”
She walks to the door. “I need to go check on Angelique. She still wakes up asking if her daddy is home. If he’s coming to see her. That child has lived a life like a fugitive on the run. And this, what he’s doing with you, it’s all to keep her safe. She’s our only concern. We’ll all do whatever we need to do for her.”
“And what does that mean for me? What’s he going to do to me?”
“To you?”
“What’s he going to do with me then?” I ask, my voice harder. “What does he think he needs to do with me to keep her safe?”
“We’ve all sacrificed. Keep that in mind. And you will be looked after. Kept safe.”
“Safe from who? Because from where I’m standing, the one person I need to be kept safe from is your son.”
“That’s not—”
“Tell me what he’s planning, Leontine.” There’s no softness to muster up.
“He’ll explain it to you tomorrow.” She bends to pick up her son’s suit jacket and folds it over her arm, putting her hand on the doorknob.
I rush to her, grab her other arm.
“No. Tell me now.” She looks down at where I’m holding her, and I follow her gaze. See how hard my grip is. I let her go. “Please.”
“Tomorrow you’ll marry my son.”
“What?” I take a step back, feeling like the wind has been knocked out of me.
“He’ll be gentler than most,” she says, one hand moving to the back of her neck. “Trust me, Isabelle, it’s better than the alternative.” She opens the door.
“Alternative? What alternative? That you let me go? That he lets me go?” My voice sounds hectic, panicked. Desperate.
She stops, turns back to me and I can’t read her eyes. They’re burning, like his burn, but there is a gentleness there. I’m just not sure it’s meant for me.
“Go where?” she asks. “Where would you go? Do you have any idea the things your brother has done? What he has planned for you? Did your cousin tell you any of that when she met you in the chapel?”
I’m taken aback. “How did you know about that?”
“You’re never truly alone at the compound. Keep that in mind.” She steps back into the room and closes the door. “You’ll marry my son tomorrow. Then you’ll be safe, and he’ll do what he needs to do. That’s all.”
“That’s all? That’s my life!”
“Your life was forfeit before my son entered it. Your brother saw to that.”
“What does that mean?”
“What was Carlton Bishop doing the night you met my son? Wasn’t he parading you around under the noses of eligible Sovereign Sons in that ridiculous dress? Do you know how old some are? Do you know the one he’d chosen for you? Maybe you’ll recognize the name. Joseph Manson.”
“Joseph Manson?” the horrible man Carlton had me dance with at the masquerade ball? Surely not. He was old enough to be my grandfather. But then I remember the way he looked at me, how his hands roamed a little too low on my back. How his rancid breath brushed my neck as he held me closer than necessary. I shudder at the visceral memory and wish I could shower again.
“You know the name,” she says. “Three wives came before you. Ask your cousin about that next time you talk to her.” She opens the door, steps out then turns back to look at me. “You’ll have my son’s protection. Remember that. And you need it, Isabelle Bishop. More than you know.”