"How is your wife?" Judge greets me in the entryway.
"She's...alive." I swallow and glance over his shoulder, beyond the vast space of his foyer.
The familiar notes of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” are a distant murmur in another part of the house, and it brings me back to another time and place.
"She will come home soon, I hope?" He gestures for me to follow him into the sitting room.
Home.
That word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Ivy said my house would never be her home, and I know she's right. Too much has happened. We are living like strangers beneath one roof. A practice that is not uncommon in arranged marriages within The Society. But ours feels wrong. Tainted. And there is no fixing it.
"I believe I made a mistake." The confession spills from my lips freely as I collapse onto the sofa and close my eyes. I'm too exhausted to keep the truth inside.
"How so?" Judge asks.
I blink up at the ceiling. The music changes to a faster, angrier tune.
"I never should have married her."
The words settle over us, dark and heavy, much like the current atmosphere of my life.
"But you did," Judge responds, unmoved by my admission. "Why regret it now?"
I drag a hand over my eyes, attempting to revive myself. But how can I? All I see is Ivy, lying lifeless on the floor. I can't erase that image from my mind. I can't deny I'm responsible for her actions. And logical or not, I can't forgive her for the constant throbbing ache in my chest.
What is this pain? This feeling of suffocation I get when I think of how desperate she was to escape me. I don't recognize it. I don't know how to navigate it or how to make it stop. I've tried, but it won't go away.
She's having my child. Everything is as it should be. But she hates me so much that she would rather kill herself than continue in this life with me. I can't say I should have ever expected anything else. There was never any possibility of changing the rules of the game halfway through.
"This plan was never going to work," I tell Judge. "It was foolish."
The housekeeper appears, asking if I'd like a drink, which I decline. Judge tells her to set dinner for an hour later, and she leaves again. Then he leans back, cocks his head to the side, and studies me.
"You're falling for her."
"Don't be ridiculous." I wave his suggestion away. "This isn't a joke."
"I'm not joking."
When I look at him, I can see that he's not. His face is as serious as ever, and it concerns me.
"You really think me that weak?"
"It's only a weakness if you believe it is." He arches a brow at me. "I think the only real conflict you're having is that you never intended to. But you are. And now you have to face the facts."
"You know I'm not capable of those emotions." I laugh grimly. "I can't believe you'd even suggest it."
"Alright." Leaning back, he crosses one leg over the other and takes a sip from the glass of whiskey in his hand. "Then let’s discuss your options.”
I don't think I'm going to like wherever he's going with this, but for reasons I can't quite understand, I allow him to go on.
"How do you plan to kill her?" he asks. "When all is said and done."
I shift in my seat, my eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. Anything to keep myself from thinking about what he's asking.
"I haven't decided yet."
"You want her father to suffer for his crimes," he points out. "So perhaps, slow torture. Strangulation. Mutilation. You could send her back to her family piece by piece."
Fucking Christ.
My jaw clamps shut as my eyes drift to the empty table beside me, wishing I had taken the housekeeper up on her offer of a drink.
"But first, you need to determine how many times you will breed her," he remarks. "Ideally, you should have at least two sons. There might be girls in between, so that could take time. Although she only needs to be healthy during the pregnancies, I suppose. There's still a possibility for torture in the downtime."
The music from the other part of the house seems to grow more frantic. Haunting. Punctuating the violent images of Judge's words with a soundtrack to match his casual horrific suggestions that I myself had indulged in not that long ago.
"Of course, you'll need to ensure your children hate her too,” he adds. “There would be no sense in fostering an attachment for a mother who won't be around to see them grow. That will surely bring her the suffering she deserves. Effective, but if you really want to break her, death might not be the only option."
My fists curl at my sides, my pulse throbbing in my neck.
"What do you mean?"
"Perhaps when you are done with her, you could send her to work at the Cat House. Offer her up as leftovers to any man who might use her for a few minutes of pleasure. That would surely be a dagger to her father's heart."
"Enough!" I stagger to my feet, pacing toward the fire as I fight to rein in my temper. "I know what you're doing."
"I'm doing what you always said you would," he replies calmly. "You said you wanted to torture her. You wanted every Moreno to pay."
"I know that's what I said," I snarl.
"So, what is the problem?" he presses. "Make your plans and be at peace with them. Unless there is a reason you can't or won't."
I turn to glare at him, and when I do, there is a small hint of amusement on his face. He gives me a moment to come back to myself, to regulate my breathing and calm this strange new beast living within me.
"It would not bother you if you didn't care," he observes. "You can only live in denial for so long. This was always going to be a possibility, whether you saw it yourself or not. Mercedes sees it too. There are rumblings through IVI how your wife has softened you. Changed you."
"No." I shake my head. "I don't accept that."
"At some point, you must. It's the only way to move forward. You can spend your time fighting it or implement a solution to both your problems. You're in it now. Find a way to satisfy your revenge and keep her, or you will lose it all."
"That isn't a solution," I scoff. "When I kill her father and brother, Ivy will never get over it. She isn't like me."
"So, don't tell her." Judge shrugs. "Keep it to yourself and let your wife be happy in her ignorance when she puts her grief behind her."
Doesn't he know I've already considered that? I've considered every option. But I can't. Already, I know I won't. There is no room for emotions in our marriage. We have too many secrets between us, and there is always the potential they would come out later and poison her against me. Why allow something to bloom only to have it snatched away when the truth inevitably comes to light?
"Ivy could never be satisfied without answers. She wouldn't stop until she had them."
"And you couldn't live with yourself if you kept them from her."
When I meet his gaze, I can finally see there is some truth in that. And at least to myself, I can admit that he's right. I couldn't keep that from Ivy. But it isn't because I have the potential to care for her. My father proved time and again that I wasn't capable of such a weakness. It was the only thing he ever praised me for. My coldness. He said it would serve me well in this life, and it has. I would be a fool to think for a second that things could be different. These feelings inside me are only temporary. They are new and unfamiliar but not permanent. They will go away, and I will return to the same man I've always been. The same unfaltering, empty, soulless shell.
The music in the other part of the house stops for a few moments, and when I glance in that direction, Judge watches me closely.
"She's playing again," he says softly.
A new ache lances through my chest at his confirmation. Mercedes hasn't played since our father died. And it gives me a strange sense of hope for her. Perhaps, she will be alright after all.
"Would you like to see her?" Judge asks.
I consider it carefully, weighing my options. Truthfully, part of the reason I came here was to see her. I needed to ask her about the aspirin. But now, I am questioning it.
"She would like to see you," he adds. "I am certain."
When I don't respond, he rises to his feet and sets his glass aside, gesturing for me to follow. "Come. I'll take you to her."
Mercedes sits at the piano, her body swaying as her fingers whip over the keys with a proficiency that betrays a lifetime of study. The tune is beautiful and violent. Melancholy and deep.
I had forgotten what it was like to witness her this way. In our father's absence, I have often noticed my sister molding herself to be more like me. For reasons I have never understood, she idolizes me, and she has made herself colder because of it. She would have everyone believe there is no passion in her heart, but when she plays, it is undeniable. She feels deeply. But she has become too good at hiding it.
When I glance at Judge, he's watching her with an expression I'm convinced I've never quite seen before. Equal parts awe and frustration, maybe. But something else. Something much more intense.
I glare at him, and it seems to break the spell, at least momentarily.
He clears his throat. "She's very good. But she can do better. I make her practice several hours a day."
The sound of our voices behind her alerts Mercedes to our presence, and she glances over her shoulder briefly, her fingers halting over the keys.
"Don't stop," I tell her gruffly. "Finish the song."
Relief shines in her eyes, and she offers a tiny nod, swiveling back around to resume. For the next two minutes, Judge and I watch her in silence. The performance is moving, even for me, and I find that it brings up unexpected feelings. There is a tightness in my throat and chest. A gloomy shadow settling above me as if to say this is what sadness feels like.
The song makes me think of my wife. My child inside her. And for a moment, I consider perhaps there is some truth to what Judge said before. Maybe I am broken. Because I can't deny that there are feelings in me I don't recognize. Feelings I still haven't figured out how to identify. But they are there, lurking in the depths. And the notion of extricating them now feels almost as unbearable as ending her life.
Still, there is a part of me that knows I must extinguish them. These seedlings will continue to grow if they are fed in her presence. It has to be now or never. I have to figure out how to hate my wife forever or live with the uncertainty that the decision might not be my own.
The song comes to an end, and Mercedes turns, eyes shining with sadness. She's searching my face for the hatred she is certain she'll find.
"Santi?" she whispers. "You came to see me?"
"Yes." My tone is cold, and a small part of me wishes it wasn't when her face falls. "I came to ask you about the aspirin you left in my wife's room."
She clasps her hands together in her lap, answering softly. "Aspirin?"
"Yes," I grit out. "The aspirin you gave her. The aspirin she used to try to kill herself and my child."
"Child?" she repeats, her voice fracturing. "You... you got her pregnant?"
For a moment, her anger returns. Her eyes harden, and she shakes her head as she rises to her feet, sneering in disgust. "How could you? She's the enemy, Santiago. What part of that don't you remember?"
Judge walks to her, his shadow falling over her face as he clasps her jaw in his hand, leaning in to whisper a threat that seems to hold more power over her than I'd expect.
"Behave."
She glances up at him, her face softening a fraction before she dips her head and nods begrudgingly. Admittedly, I am surprised by this. I knew Judge to be more than capable of guiding her, but I did not expect her to be so pliable just yet. It leaves me to wonder if there is more between them than he is letting on. If I should have even left her here at all. But Judge wouldn't betray my trust by exploiting Mercedes’s vulnerability. He wouldn't risk his position within The Society by ruining her for another man who actually would intend to marry her. And I feel more confident in that knowledge when he turns back to me, his expression as cool as always.
"You think I gave them to her intentionally, to kill herself," Mercedes says. "That's why you came here."
"It isn't out of the realm of possibility," I reply sharply. "I need to know what other schemes you may have left unfinished."
She casts her eyes to the floor to hide the tears she's fighting back. And after a moment, she regains her composure enough to look up at me again.
"I didn't have any other schemes, Santi. I gave her the aspirin for pain. That was my only intention. I never meant to hurt your precious wife or child."
The last of her words are colored with bitterness, and I know it's because she feels like she's losing me. The only family she has left. I knew she would not bear the news gladly, but it bothers me more than it should. I consider offering her my assurances that she will always be my family, but how can I? After what she has done, how can I ever trust her again?
"For your sake, I hope that isn't another lie," I answer.
She crosses her arms and casts her eyes to the floor, closing herself off. Clearly, we are both finished with this conversation, and I think it is best to leave any other pleasantries for a time we might actually mean them.
I turn to go, Judge by my side. But when we reach the hall, Mercedes calls after us.
"Goddammit. Wait a second. I have something to tell you."
I turn slowly, weary this might be another confession. Another trap she's set. Another threat to my wife.
"I'm not telling you for Ivy's sake," she clips out. "I'm telling you because I want to show you that you can trust me."
"What is it?" I demand.
She hesitates again, shifting her weight as she glances at Judge as if to seek his approval. He nods at her, and she returns her gaze to mine.
"It's about Chambers," she says. "That doctor."
"What about him?"
She glances briefly at Judge again, and then back to me. "After the poisoning, when you mentioned Abel, and the pieces started falling into place, I was following him. I wanted to see how he was involved. And there were a few times I followed him to a storage unit. I figured there must be something in it. A reason he'd keep going back there. So, I broke into it."
Judge and I are both glowering at her when he speaks up.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
"I had to see for myself," she bites out. "It could have been nothing. But it wasn't."
"What was in the storage unit?" I ask.
She dips her head down and shrugs. "A bunch of file boxes. Papers. They all belonged to Chambers."
Judge and I glance at each other as an idea begins to take shape in my mind.
"That wasn't it," Mercedes continues on. "There was something else."
"What?" Judge asks.
"In the back of the unit, beneath a tarp, there was a rolled-up blanket. It was bloody, and when I picked it up to look at it, a wallet fell out. It belonged to Chambers."
My blood runs cold as the weight of her words settle over me, casting an accusation that can't be refuted.
"He's dangerous, Santi." She looks at me. "And I overheard him say something on the phone. Something I can’t stop thinking about.”
"What was it?" I rasp.
"He said he would sooner rot than let you impregnate Ivy. And if you did, he would cut the baby out of her himself.”