Edward marched towards the West Wing, his footsteps heavy with anger and impatience. The air grew cooler as he crossed the threshold; the heating system in this part of the manor was notoriously unreliable, a problem Edward had never bothered to fix.
A servant, Arthur, stepped out of the shadows. He was a nondescript man, balding and quiet, but he blocked the hallway with surprising solidity.
"Master Dereck is resting, sir," Arthur said. "It's a bad day. The pain is..."
"I don't care if he's in a coma. Wake him up," Edward barked. He pushed past Arthur and threw open the double doors to the study.
The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp. The smell of medicinal herbs-acrid and bitter-hung heavy in the air.
Dereck was positioned by the window, his back to the door. A thick wool blanket covered his legs. His head was slumped forward slightly.
"Father," Dereck's voice was raspy, weak. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"You're getting married," Edward announced bluntly.
Dereck turned the chair slowly. His face was pale, his cheekbones sharp, dark circles painted expertly under his eyes. He looked like death warmed over.
"To whom? The nurse?" Dereck mocked, coughing into a handkerchief.
"Annette Adams. Hank ruined it. You're fixing it."
Dereck feigned surprise. He raised a shaking hand to his chest. "Hank's leftovers? I have some pride left, Father."
"You have nothing!" Edward shouted. "Except this roof over your head and the medicine I pay for. You are a drain on this family, Dereck."
"Marry her, and I sign the Trust over to you."
Dereck paused. He let a glimmer of greed enter his eyes. "The full Trust? And the voting rights?"
"Yes. Just sign the papers and show up at the gala. Tonight."
"She wants me dead, you know," Dereck said cryptically.
Edward frowned. "What?"
"Nothing. Just a feeling," Dereck corrected himself. "Fine. I'll do it. For the money."
Edward let out a breath of relief. "Good. Get dressed. Use the... motorized chair. Try to look alive."
Edward turned and left, slamming the door behind him.
Arthur locked the door. The click echoed in the silence.
Dereck sat still for a moment. Then, he threw the blanket off his legs.
He stood up.
He didn't struggle. He didn't wobble. He rose with the fluid grace of a predator. He stretched his tall frame, his spine cracking audibly. The "raspy" voice was gone.
"She wants a widow's life," Dereck mused to Arthur, walking over to the wardrobe. His stride was long and powerful.
"It seems the Adams girl is more interesting than the reports suggested," Arthur said, handing him a tuxedo.
"She's calculating," Dereck said, pulling on the shirt. "She thinks I'm a safe bet. A stepping stone."
He reached into a hidden compartment in the drawer and pulled out a slim, black holster. He strapped it under his arm, covering it with the tuxedo jacket.
"Let's go, Arthur," Dereck said, checking his reflection. The pale makeup made him look ghostly, but his eyes were sharp as steel.
"I have a wedding to attend."
