I can hear the low murmur of voices as I approach the grand dining room, each word sharp and clipped, none of them aimed at anything other than me.
The house is too quiet today—eerily still. I know what's coming before I even step through the door.
My brothers. All four of them.
Their silent judgment pressing down on me like the weight of the world.
As the door creaks open, I see them, each one seated around the polished mahogany table, their eyes hard, unreadable. Their faces betray nothing but disapproval. It's like walking into a courtroom, and I'm the defendant.
After the stunt I pulled with the media, with Julian's and Dante's help, and the eventual reprimand I received from Marcus, it was clear that my eldest brother was not particularly happy. He had been keeping it bottled up—until today, that is.
Marcus is the first to speak, of course. The oldest, the most methodical. The most calculating.
