Beatrice POV:
I heard the collective gasp of most of the guests in the room.
My father stared at me as if I were a stranger. He looked ready to flee any second.
My eyes found Brent House again. I held his gaze, my chin high.
My personal crisis was now their public catastrophe. My humiliation was now their challenge of honor.
Brent held his silence for a full thirty seconds before he finally spoke, his voice low and weighted. "We'll discuss this elsewhere."
I was escorted into a small, wood-paneled sacristy behind the altar. Two of Brent's men, silent and built like brick walls, stood guard at the door. My father tried to follow, sputtering about needing to be with his daughter, but one of the men simply put a hand on his chest and blocked his way. The door clicked shut, sealing me inside with the Houses.
The air was thick with unspoken rage. Eleanor House sat in a high-backed velvet chair, the only seat in the room. She was the queen on her throne. The rest of the family members I recognized stood around her: Martha House, Devin's aunt, with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue; Warren and Cecil, Devin's cousins; and a few other grim-faced men as senior members.
And then there was him. Brent House, Devin's adoptive father.
Brent didn't sit. He stood behind his mother's chair, half-swallowed by the shadows cast from a single stained-glass window. He was a mountain in a bespoke suit, his presence so immense it seemed to suck the very air from the room. He hadn't said a word, but his silence was louder than anyone's anger.
"Have you made enough of a scene, girl?" Eleanor's voice was low and sharp, a blade honed by decades of command.
I met her gaze without flinching. Though the weight of the matriarch's presence nearly buckled my knees, I couldn't afford to let it show. "I was merely demanding the respect I am owed, Mrs. House. And collecting on a promise your family made."
"Respect?" Martha House let out a derisive snort. She stepped forward, her face a mask of contempt. "You think you're in a position to demand anything? A jilted bride making a spectacle of herself. You should have scurried away in shame."
My gaze shifted to her. I gave her that smile, the one I had perfected over years of Cline family dinners. Polite. Distant.
"I was under the impression that the honor of the House family was more important than my personal feelings. It seems I overestimated it," I said softly.
The barb hit its mark. Martha's mouth snapped shut, her cheeks flushing with anger. I had turned her insult back on her, and more importantly, back on the family. The issue wasn't my shame. It was theirs.
Eleanor's eyes, sharp as a hawk's, assessed me. For a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of something that looked like approval. Or maybe it was just surprise. She raised a hand, a silent command that stopped Martha from sputtering another retort.
"You want a House husband," Eleanor stated, her voice flat. "Fine. I will grant you that."
She gestured with her chin toward her grandsons, who stood awkwardly near the wall. "Warren. Cecil. They are my blood. They are unmarried. Choose one."
Warren and Cecil looked like they'd just been sentenced to death. Their handsome faces were pale, their eyes filled with a mixture of resentment and the clear disdain of men being forced to accept another man's leftovers.
My gaze swept over them, dismissive and quick. Marrying either of them would be a life sentence of my own. I would be a constant, unwelcome reminder of Devin's betrayal, a joke within the family, married to a man who despised me.
I shook my head, a small, definitive movement.
Eleanor's perfectly sculpted eyebrows drew together. "No?"
"Them?" I said, my voice quiet but carrying a distinct note of contempt. "They are not worthy."
Warren and Cecil's faces went from pale to a deep, mottled red. It was one thing to be rejected at the altar; it was another to be deemed unworthy by the woman who had just been thrown away.
Eleanor's patience was clearly wearing thin. "Then who do you want, girl? My son Preston? He's already divorced. Perhaps you'd like to be his second wife?"
Her voice dripped with sarcasm. But my eyes weren't on the silent Preston at her side. They weren't on anyone in the circle of power gathered before me.
I lifted my chin, my gaze traveling past them all, into the shadows behind the throne.
My eyes landed on the silent, brooding figure who had been watching this entire exchange like a spectator at a play. The man whose gaze had felt like a physical weight in the church.
Don Brent House.
He felt my stare. His gray eyes, which had been hooded and unreadable, flickered. For the first time, a discernible emotion crossed his face: surprise.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, wild thing. It was a terrifying gamble, the most audacious move of my life. But my voice, when it came, was unnervingly clear.
"No," I said. The single word silenced the room.
"They cannot repair the damage done by the heir's betrayal." I kept my eyes locked on the Don. "The insult was delivered by the heir apparent. The compensation must be of equal or greater value."
I took a breath.
"I will marry the only man who can fully control him, who can punish him, and who can grant me the highest status and absolute security."
I paused, letting them absorb the terrifying logic of my words.
Then, I made my choice.
"I choose him."
My hand lifted, my finger trembling slightly but my aim unwavering. I pointed past the matriarch, directly at the center of all power in the room.
At that motion, Martha stumbled backward, her hand flying to her mouth. Warren and Cecil stared, their jaws hanging open. And Eleanor House, the unshakable matriarch, looked at me with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock.
"I choose Mr. Brent House. The Don of the House family."
