Sophie Visage | Cameron Fairfield, Julian Sears

Sophie had left the kids in Julian and Cam’s hands–mainly Julian’s, despite any expectation that the fact that she’d chosen the ‘fun brother’ meant that she trusted him around other people’s children–in order to get some level of rest before the evening’s festivities. Jules had gone off to some private island to attend a rich people event, and though she was a bit more than slightly jealous, she was extremely happy for him. Though, in a sisterly way, she was also terrified for him. He seemed to have two sides, and neither had an off switch. In addition, neither one of them could be considered appropriate for a business event like the one he was headed to.

It couldn’t have been a long time later when she heard a knock at her door. Though she had been asleep, it was the light kind of sleep where if something startled her, she would be on her feet in an instant trying to recall how she had gotten there and if she had actually been awake the entire time. This was exactly what happened, and before she could even register the knock, she was on her feet at the door, bright blue eyes heavy with drowsiness. Her blonde hair was rather messy despite her typical knack for excessive hygiene, and her clothes were a pair of wrinkled pajamas in a bright blue color that was almost childish. She had barely bothered to change for her nap, but somehow she’d managed to stumble into a new pair of clothes that were more comfortable than what she’d worn for the plane ride.

When she finally looked up and came out of her stupor enough to become conscious of her surroundings, she was hardly surprised to find Cam at her door, despite the fact that she hadn’t given him any reason to be there. She rubbed her eyes and let them fall to her chest, crossed semi-defensively despite her blatant lack of alertness. “What’s wrong,” she mumbled barely coherently, though her body seemed to be gaining more life by the second. The initial adrenaline had worn off though, and it was replaced with an extreme amount of drowsiness that hit her in a wave. She opened the door and fell back to the couch, knees tucked, chin on her knees. “Everything okay?”

He spent the next series of minutes trying to reassure her that everything was okay, but the more he spoke, the more horrified she became. She stood up again, an indignant look on her face. “Cameron WhateverYourMiddleNameIs Fairfield! Are you seriously telling me–” She suddenly squealed and jumped back at the sudden sight of blood on his hand, presumably from a cat scratch or something of the sort. “Go take care of that,” she replied quickly and faintly, turning around. “I don’t do blood, I can’t even look at you right now. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod, I’m gonna pass out. I’m literally gonna faint. I’m a fainter, Cam.”

In the sudden anxiety and panic regarding the smallest scratch on his hand, Sophie suddenly forgot any regard she had felt for the kids minutes prior. Without looking, she handed him a towel and told him to take care of it in the sink while she sunk down in her bed, hands covering her eyes as if she were a child playing hide-and-seek. Of course, the prior mention of children with blood had been deterring enough as it was, but the weight of the responsibility of so many children continued to fall onto her shoulders and combine with the stress of the phobia his hand had triggered. Feeling very pale and very faint, Sophie stared at the ceiling, breathing quickly, pulse racing. “Please tell me Jules is still here and he’s watching the kids right now.” Miraculously, she’d somehow missed the part about the animal.

Julian Sears | Myra

“I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.”

With the girl now glancing away from him, Julian took the opportunity to study her properly. By some ugly combination of dim light, the masks, and his inability to convince himself that he knew what another was thinking, her face was a blank slate that he couldn’t even begin to read. There was something there, though - something that made him want to look a little closer, learn whatever language was going through that head of hers. (In all honesty, it was probably the general lack of stimulating conversation that did that, and less the smallest parts of her face that’d managed to be illuminated.)

She didn’t seem entirely interested in whatever conversation he was about to offer, which made it so much easier to start it. Her words had a hint of deja vu - he’d heard them somewhere, sometime, but he was too exhausted and vaguely hungover to bother finding that memory. He caught her eye, holding it for a moment in the hopes of sparking an explanation. Anything, really, that might prolong the inevitable of having to come up with a half-assed reply that couldn’t satisfy her, just moments after he’d convinced himself that it didn’t matter what he said at all.

“To be fair, I’m not a huge fan of this kind of thing in general.” Despite his father’s repeated efforts to mould his eldest son into the heir he needed, Julian couldn’t understand the point. “I mean, I have nothing to lose and everything to gain here. Those guys?” He gestured with his champagne glass, narrowly missing spilling onto the grass or his shoes.Two older men were stumbling onto an unsuspecting waitress, clearly a few too many flutes into the night that wasn’t even close to finished. “This is the highlight of their fading careers.” There was another train of thought there, something about the deeper values of the capitalistic working world that he thought might match her aura, but he couldn’t quite catch it.

“Let me guess, you’re one of the new working students here for the summer?” He couldn’t have irritated her too much, if she was offering something new to toy with.

“One of the lucky ones,” he said wryly, resisting an eye roll. He was happy about this; of course he was. It didn’t matter that it meant too many formalities and far less actual riding; this was every rider’s dream, and he’d been fortunate enough to win the lottery. Julian could feel that he was on edge; he was saying a few too many things that he shouldn’t, and on the verge of doing worse. Maybe it was the jetlag, maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe those had simply been the final drops in the bucket of his years of pent-up rage. This was his sponsorship, he reminded himself. This was his achievements on the line, and he had no intention of dropping those in the spur of the moment. Didn’t he?

He found himself joining her in silent reflection of the sea, more instinctively than not. The buzz around them, not for the first time, was a grateful relief; he didn’t have to think about his breathing, or the way his fingers were tapping the glass that threatened to break with every new clench, or filling every second with conversation that might just persuade her to put up with him for a moment longer. He should be enjoying this, he knew, and any other night he might have.

“And what about you?” Julian glanced at her, not completely ignorant of the subtle moonlit reflection on her cheekbones.

“I’d say hunter-turned-showjumper to chase the glory-” he hoped that despite the darkness, she might catch the complete lack of gravity in his voice “-or the trophy wife of a seventy-odd billionaire who owns half the horses on the circuit.” Dipping his head, he indicated to a fresh batch of elderly men tripping in the dark and fawning over whatever young woman they could find in the area. It was almost entertaining, if he removed himself from the truth of the situation at all.

By some fluke of fate, he’d managed to place her earlier comment. Down to the movie, at least, even if he couldn’t remember who said it or what the context was.

“Tell me, Gatsby. Which one will it be?”

Myra | Julian

“I mean, I have nothing to lose and everything to gain here. Those guys?” He gestured with his glass, and she watched his hand wobble a bit. He barely missed spilling it everywhere, but yet, she didn’t think he was drunk. If he was, he was hiding it well. It seemed as if it was just nerves. “This is the highlight of their fading careers.” He said it with such a wistful tone that she stopped for a moment to study him. There was such intelligence behind his eyes, she could tell he had lived so much life beyond his years. It was like looking in a mirror.

He replied to her question with a jadedness that was equally surprising and refreshing. He seemed young, too young to lack the vibrance of life that everyone around them seemed to have. They were in Greece, in the middle of the summer, surrounded by everything desirable that money could buy. He had endless opportunities, but he came off as if he considered them already wasted. Not that she didn’t understand, in fact, she understood too well. She wondered who he belonged to now, which of the rich, arrogant tyrants would crush the rest of his spirit. She hoped it wasn’t Cyrus, but surely he wasn’t any better than the rest of them.

A comfortable, pained silence floated in the warm, salty air around them. Both were at a loss for words, or perhaps it was just easier not to breathe life into the thoughts in their minds. She was lost somewhere in her mind when he spoke again, and though she’d felt his gentle, intelligent gaze tracing the side of her face, the sudden sound caused her to look up. She didn’t look at him, but the way he studied her caused tension to build between them. Her eyes flickered up and down between the expensive boats floating about and the promise of what was beyond. The endless sea that faded into the starry, clear night sky.

A gentle smirk reached her lips, the slightest amusement in her eyes at his guesses. She raised her eyebrow, angling her body closer to him without drawing her gaze from the sea. “And if I were to say both, and so much more?” She was toying with him, she hoped he knew. If he didn’t, he had no place in her presence. Surely, he didn’t have any reason to be with her regardless. Yet, she allowed it. Surely it could be placed on some other cause other than the intense ache of loneliness. A soft breath fell from her lips, and she placed her arms on the railing. Her blue eyes were wistful, mature, still pained. “I am everything, yet I am nothing. Within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.” Again, she quoted the same text. It was the only thing she knew. He gestured to a group of men with young women, a gruesome sight that made her nauseated. “The pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired,” she smiled a soft, sad smile, hoping she would never grow indifferent to the sight. “Tell me, which are you?”

He replied to her question with a question of his own, a refusal to allow her to skim by the conversation on classic literature and indignance. “Tell me, Gatsby. Which one will it be?” She couldn’t help the expression that grew out of the sentiment of fondness and warmth somewhere inside her, something rare for her. She warned herself not to get attached to this man, someone she’d never see again. Only from a distance perhaps. A man who was just like the rest, perhaps one who even knew who she was and sought to impress her for her father’s money. He didn’t really care, surely he didn’t. They never did. Everyone who had ever tried to come close to her either broke her or broke themselves trying. The more people that had used her in her youth, the more people she used in adulthood. Wasn’t that all life was, the sum of being used and using others to achieve things that wouldn’t mean a single thing once death came?

“Mm, very good,” she looked down, almost bashful at the way she had conceded. The slightest blush rose to her cheeks, peeking out from behind the black mask she wore. She was about to speak when Jensen appeared from the shadows, the same dead look behind his eyes that was behind hers.

“Hey,” his tone was urgent. Myra knew something was likely happening between their father and someone else, hopefully nothing too regrettable.

Myra turned to the man beside her, studying him for a fleeting moment as if trying to engrain his figure in her memory. Not because she hoped to find him again one day, but because she hoped not to. If this was all it was, it would retain all of its meaning without being corrupted by the imperfection of true humanity. He could be whoever she made him out to be in her mind without reality failing her. She had learned to make this all that she wished for, anything else would lead to sudden or gradual disappointment. “Excuse me,” she said softly, purposefully turning towards him rather than away so that their fingertips brushed on her way back towards the crowd, where she hoped to be swallowed up and never returned to this godforsaken planet. Without so much as a glance back, the young woman stepped back into the party scene and back into the grotesque reality of her life.

Julian Sears | Myra, Jensen

She had a gift for avoiding answering a question, he’d give her that much. Even after she’d offered some semblance of a reply, Julian knew as little about her as before - other than the fact that she was a complete Fitzgerald fan, though he’d already come to that conclusion. It was mildly infuriating - like a note half a step away from being on-key, or a crooked tie. So perfectly out of place that he couldn't decide whether he wanted to figure it out or not. (The mystery was half the fun, after all.) Instead of doing anything else - ask the handful of questions that threatened to tumble out of his mouth at any second, and more likely than not scare her off - he leaned back against the railing, elbows placed as carelessly as he could muster. There was a certain heaviness to his actions that betrayed what he’d never admit; his dark eyes flickered shut, as if caught in some deep contemplation, before meeting hers again.

“Tell me, which are you?”

Two can play at your game, love. He might be more willing to talk in his own words, but that said nothing about whether they meant any more. (It was far more telling to see what words people chose to hide behind, rather than whatever ones they created themselves. One’s own words could be twisted, easily, but as soon as someone became focused on hiding themselves, their mask of choice said more about them than they ever could.) Julian lowered his voice to a half-secretive, half-mocking tone. “Undoubtedly the latter. Though I’d say he’s nearer eighty, but the money makes up for it.”

“What can I say? Marry for riches, not love,” he nodded at her, as if about to impart some priceless words of wisdom. “The former’s the only one that lasts.” Julian couldn’t have lied and said he wasn’t pleased about the way her mouth pricked into a gentle smile. It was a shadow - he almost thought he’d conjured it himself - but a change nonetheless. (He couldn’t figure her out. He refused to figure her out.) It had been impossible for her strange combination of flight and steel not to catch his wavering attention.

She looked on the verge of saying something more before a man appeared beside her. Sibling, he’d guess, or close friend. He knew, almost instinctively, the look that passed between the two of them. Not because he’d ever done the same, but because he’d never had the option to. Nothing needed to be said; there was some strange code between things like that. “Of course,” he murmured, eyes on the ground, stretching his hand to embrace that lingering touch. “Until we meet again, then.” It was a promise to himself, that he wouldn’t lose the chance of getting to know someone that actually had something worth getting to know.

After the girl left, Julian wasn’t completely sure what he spent the rest of the night doing. Eventually, he caved and downed a champagne flute with the idea of more, before quickly realising that his hungover body had no intention of listening to anything he said. He knew he chatted up to a few wealthy men who were too far gone to remember the conversation, and he knew that at some point he was measuring his pulse in an attempt to calm his heart, and he knew that through it all, he couldn’t get her out of his head. Or, more specifically, he couldn’t stop thinking about the literature she entailed, largely for lack of better conversation. (The reason that he couldn’t recall much, he decided, was because there was nothing worth remembering.)

Still, by the time he stumbled into his hotel room in the early hours of the morning, he wasn’t entirely disappointed. He’d managed to avoid anyone he vaguely recognised, kept most of the conversation - if one could call it that - off himself, and had too many contacts he’d have to follow up with in the morning. All in all, it’d gone the best that it could’ve. (Of course, the one person that he might have been genuinely interested in seeing again was the one that he had no reference for. Fate was a tricky bitch, he’d give it that much.)

Julian began unbuttoning his collar and cuffs, pausing only to glance at himself in the mirror. All he needed was a cold shower and some sleep, and he’d be good as new. The face that stared back at him, with its dark-ringed eyes that were quickly emerging through the badly-applied foundation, as well as the fading bruise he’d almost forgotten about, seemed to disagree. He touched the bruise, tracing his cheekbone in some sort of a daze. There was something behind there that would take a good lot more than a night’s rest to fix.

Myra Eliopoulos | Jules, others <3

The remainder of the party had gone for Myra as they all had, with her sole responsibility not being to enjoy herself, but to become Cyrus’ personal cleanup crew. Jensen typically managed his parent, her stepmother, and Myra managed Cyrus. Though there was nothing enjoyable about being called every vile name in the book, and being endlessly listed every perceived disappointment that a drunken brain can retrieve record of, it was nothing compared to the way Cyrus treated his stepsons when he was in one of these states. He was aggressive regardless, but the extent of what Myra received was a swing every now and again. He shamelessly slapped his nth wife around and that was nothing to be proud of, but he was the worst with the boys, especially Jensen. Perhaps it was because Jensen always tried to protect the rest of his blood, or perhaps it was that he fought back unlike everyone else in the household, but Myra was convinced that one of these days Cyrus would actually kill him. She’d somehow negotiated a deal with Jensen that if he managed his mother, who, oh, by the way, wasn’t any less crazy, she would handle Cyrus, and they’d both be safer that way. That deal had been sealed last time Jensen’s mother had been drinking, and she’d gone after Myra with a knife. Convenient timing, in her jaded opinion.

Though she’d enjoyed the company of the man, no matter how brief it had been, she’d been too caught up in her family’s dysfunction to think much of him the rest of the night, or to try to find him again. After Jensen had gone to get her, the pair had followed their parents into the house to try to get them on opposite ends of the mansion. The younger children were in bed, so the parents were their only responsibility. Cyrus was combative as usual, threatening her and degrading her in the way only a father can until the early hours of the morning when the liquor finally lulled him to sleep. By six in the morning, she was on a flight to Milan, where she had a business meeting to discuss contracts with some of her father’s associates. By the time she was back at the start of the next week, the festival was already in full swing, and there was absolute chaos around the island and, in general, the country itself. She dressed in formal attire to join her family’s breakfast in the manor hall as she did every morning. It was the beginning of every day, and a stern reminder to everyone with the Eliopoulos surname to play their parts in their production of the model family. Perhaps it was less of a family meal, and more of professional acting practice with the best of the best. Still, when she arrived, she noticed that, beside her chair, a young man about her age was sitting with the family. There was nothing particularly wrong with that, other than the fact that her mentor and the closest to a real father figure she knew typically sat in that seat. Surely he’d met his professional demise for one arbitrary reason or another in the few days Myra was gone. She felt her stomach sink.

“Good morning, Myra,” Cyrus said, picking through a plate of eggs with a distasteful expression on his face. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, we have a guest at breakfast this morning. Meet…” he trailed off, as if either he’d purposefully decided not to acknowledge the man’s name, he’d forgotten it already, or he’d never asked it to begin with. “Our newest working student, he’s taking Miles’ place for the summer, with the potential to extend it to an annual contract. If he so pleases, of course.”

“And what became of Miles?”

“Don’t ask questions that have answers that are of no importance to you, stupid girl. Just greet the man, and eat your breakfast. Perhaps you’ll remember what a gift it is to have a seat at this table while you do.” He gave an ugly smile in Julian’s direction as Myra sat down. “She’s a beautiful girl, isn’t she? It’s a shame she ever opens her mouth.”

Ignoring his comment as she’d learned to do in the lifetime she’d spent with him, she gave the man a soft smile. He was surprisingly attractive, and uncharacteristically young. Typically Cyrus either chose crass old men or broke, talented girls younger than Myra that he forced to do unspeakable things to keep their careers afloat. Surely, this individual was not meant to come, or he was the son of one of his father’s business associates. Some unorthodox deal had to have been made for him to end up riding one of the Eliopoulos horses.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Julian,” she spoke softly after he’d given his name, unsmiling but not unsociable. “Where do you come from?”

Julian Sears | Myra and family

“She’s a beautiful girl, isn’t she? It’s a shame she ever opens her mouth.”

Julian forced the tension out of his body. What Cyrus said to his daughter, in front of him or otherwise, was none of his business. Or, at the very least, was not worth losing the opportunity of a lifetime over. (Naturally, this had to be the moment where he grew a pair of morals. Excellent timing, even if he said so himself.) Keeping his voice measured and being sure not to glance at Myra - as much as he wanted to offer her some semblance of an apology - he murmured a vague agreement, enough to - hopefully - keep his employer satisfied without entirely throwing his name away to everyone else around the room. He smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. (He doubted that Cyrus was good at noticing when someone was faking it, or else the entire table would’ve been overturned by this point.)

Julian thought he saw a glimmer of annoyance, anger, disappointment, behind Myra’s eyes once he decided it was safe to engage with her. (It took a whole thirty seconds of conversing with Cyrus to distract him from his daughter.) “Julian Sears, of White Oaks,” he said, by means of introduction. The room felt like it demanded official credentials in order to pass some unwritten test that he knew Cyrus was grading him on as he spoke. (It was only fair that he reciprocated their free scrutiny; he would feel even more out of place if he didn’t.)

“The honour is mine, I’m certain.” His nod paired with an equally superficial smile hardly seemed out of place at the Eliopoulos table. There was something off about this family. None of them seemed willing to make eye contact with each other when it wasn’t absolutely necessary. It felt more like a business meeting than a family breakfast. (On his part, at least, he was excused. That was all it would ever be.) His collared shirt felt too casual, and he fought the urge to loosen the tie he’d reluctantly agreed to wear. It fit in perfectly, and that was about all of him that did. Instead, though, he focused on everything but that. Ignorance was bliss, or whatever that bullshit phrase said. (He knew from experience that it wouldn’t be awkward if he didn’t make it awkward, and so it wasn’t too difficult to slip into someone else’s skin for the hour or less that he’d be stuck at this table for.)

“Where do you come from?”

“German-born, American-raised. Don’t hold the latter against me.” His face cracked into a half-smile that didn’t seem to make much sense at the current setting, which meant that it quickly faded to a solemn but not unfriendly expression. Julian didn’t bother returning the question; the one thing that Kholo had been quite strict upon was thoroughly researching the Eliopoulos’ before he left, in the little time he’d had. She’d seemed wary, anxious even, about the rules she told him he’d have to follow. He’d been offended at her disbelief that he’d be able to obey them without fault, but now he was quickly finding out why. Keep your head down. Don’t ask too many questions. And above all else: never question Cyrus’s authority.

Somehow, he got the sense that all it would take was a single misstep to lose his job and any credibility he might have once had.

He could feel Myra’s gaze on his cheek, and so he returned the favour. Only a glance and a more measured smile, before returning to the barrage of questions that he had no choice but to agree to. It was less of an interview and more of an unspoken run-through of the rules he’d have to follow. (As expected, the laws hidden between the lines weren’t too far off from what Kholo had already drilled into him. Cyrus was nothing if not self-aware, he’d give the man that much. He was barely even trying to fake his animosity towards what seemed like all of his offspring.)

Julian was wary about interacting too much with Myra - or any of the assorted siblings around the table, for that matter, but she seemed the most receptive to any niceties. Or the most eager to keep up an image; he couldn’t settle on which it was. Cyrus was certainly someone he didn’t want to anger, and from the few words that he’d exchanged with his daughter, Julian didn’t think that he’d get on his employer’s good side by talking to her like his life depended on it, or by so much as giving her the light of day. (Neither of which, it was important to note, Cyrus was doing to any of his family at the moment.) Still, he made a mental note to remember her. Having one person vaguely on his side - or at least not actively against it, which he was discovering was difficult to find - would be nice if he was stuck here for the next couple weeks.

Directly after breakfast, he was escorted to the barn. An older man who was clearly unhappy about being assigned the role of babysitting the newbie gave him a lecture on what he was expected to do; and, more harshly, everything that he couldn’t. Julian couldn’t remember his name, but given that he certainly wouldn’t remember his, he didn’t feel too bad about it. Now that politics were out of the way, it didn’t matter. (The less ambitious side of him that had been envying his predecessor for escaping this shithole all through breakfast quietened down, too.) If he could make it through the daily meetings, he might just survive.

Gonna be replacing Heather Proudstorm and her two horses with a new character and two new horses that are coming with said new character and I'll probably also be dropping Sandra and her horse. I just can't really get myself to write creatively with this character anymore to be completely honest

Myra Eliopoulos | Julian Sears

“Julian Sears, of White Oaks.” Myra’s eyes immediately shot across the table to gauge Jensen’s expression, though she was largely unsurprised to find that his devious gaze was already burning into her. She couldn’t hold back the smirk that reached her face, one that exactly matched his. She kept switching between stealing glances in his direction and zeroing her line of sight in on literally anything else, mainly because she knew that if she made direct eye contact with him, the pair of them would lose their minds.

Julian cleared his throat after a thoughtful pause from Cyrus. It was the first time Myra had noticed that Jensen’s mother wasn’t sitting in her usual chair between Cyrus and Jensen, likely due to whatever marks her husband had put on her the night before. Julian mentioned that his stepfather was still inconsolable by the time he left his mother’s side, and had even taken a swing or two at his stepson which was unpleasant but fairly expected. Jensen’s younger brothers were not allowed in the dining hall, partially because Cyrus hated them, and partially because he didn’t want them to catch his rage in the midst of his daily hangovers. Myra and Jensen were good company, primarily because they were so jaded they had nothing to say. They communicated to each other in glances, and neither of them desired to conduct any sort of business with the other two guests that typically sat at the table. Miles had always understood the cutthroat culture of the Eliopoulos meal table, perhaps merely because of his British roots. This American would not last, and both Myra and Jensen were already sure of it.

“That’s in the foothills of Caucasia, no?” Jensen swirled his glass of wine and emptied it without looking over at Julian once. “You must be the prince then.”

The rest of breakfast went by rather quickly with Myra, Jensen, and Cyrus all consuming ungodly amounts of alcohol for such an early morning hour. They all dispersed and went their separate ways, and as Myra found her way back to her room, she glanced across the hall at the open door. Several suitcases were strewn across the floor with a few blankets that had obviously been kicked off overnight. A suit hung near the window, and the clothes Julian had been wearing at breakfast were in a pile at the end of the bed.

“Maria,” Myra found the woman in her room, dusting her drawers.

“Yes, hija,” the woman glanced up, her gaze kind.

“Was the new working student in that room last night?”

“Yes, it is what I believe.”

Making her way down to the barn, Myra found Julian in the tack room. He was with Nico in the tack room, seemingly getting berated.

“Myra-”

“Not now, Nico. I need a word with the new working student.” When he appeared to get more belligerent, she crossed her arms and took a stance that proved that she would not back down. He grumbled under his breath and slammed the door behind him.

Turning back to Julian, Myra studied his expression. “I did not find you in my room last night.” To his bewildered expression, something that seemed sheepish and defensive at the same time, she shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose with her hand. “You may be German-born, but you are American stupid.” Her incredibly bright eyes burned into him like fire. “You do not understand the culture of this island. It is my father’s wish that I am at your disposal.”

The prospect of what she was trying to convey seemed to go completely over his head, or perhaps it was wishful thinking that she wasn’t saying what he thought she was saying. She seemed even more taken aback by this, an amused grin spreading across her features. She crossed her arms once again. “Mmm, you are what they call σεμνότυφος. Yes, a prude.” She seemed amused by this in a devilish way that was not of that world if the way she looked him up and down without wiping the smug expression off of her face was any indication. “Well, it is your reputation to ruin, but if my father finds out you are not utilizing his resources, he will think you are disrespecting him. Or worse, he will think you prefer men. That is the nicest way you will hear that said to you here.” She studied his expression, but he was more difficult to read than she had anticipated. He hadn’t cracked as easily as she had expected. Perhaps he was less fragile than she thought. In a lighthearted, cynical tone, she added, “well, you are lucky that you can keep your virtue for another night. I am going to a party tonight, so nothing is expected of you as far as I am concerned. Enjoy your innocence,” the devilish smirk never left her face, she was far too amused at his reaction to the family’s affairs in a cold Myra way. As she turned to leave, she called over her shoulder, “dinner is at nine, you are expected to be there. Or don’t. We’re all surprised you’re still here anyway.”

The rest of the day passed slowly, and by the time dinner came, everyone was once again quiet for just about the same reasons as family breakfast hours earlier. None of the family liked each other, and it was even more tense when Jensen’s mother and brother were brought into the mix. They ate in the dining hall in the mansion’s ballroom, and all was quiet other than the younger brothers’ bickering. Myra was the last one to enter the room, just as Cyrus seemed prepared to throw his knife across the table to end his youngest stepson’s life. She was wearing a shimmery silver dress that ended just below her hips, revealing her long legs which seemed extended by the heels she wore. Her makeup was done, but her hair seemed out of place, and she wore no jewelry. Almost immediately, Cyrus began speaking to her in a grumbling tone in the Greek language. Jensen had a very amusing expression on his face, something between knowing and forced humor. He swished his glass of wine as he had earlier in the day, glancing across the table at Julian who seemed confused enough. “Don’t worry, none of us speak Greek either.”

Seeming to look right through Myra, Cyrus glanced across the table at Julian. “You,” he shook his glass, nearly spilling it on the silk tablecloth as he gestured harshly at the American from across the table. “You go with her tonight. You are too much σεμνότυφος, my horses do not like σεμνότυφος.”

Without a word, Myra withheld a knowing glance, having already desensitized the man beside her to that conversation many hours prior. She knew if she so much as raised an eyebrow, Cyrus would have shot across the table and destroyed her before she even had the chance to chaperone his new employee to a party he had no business being at. He barely even drank anything at breakfast, and the first time he’d touched his wine had been directly after Cyrus’ latest command. Somehow, he’d managed not to ask about Cyrus’ wife’s black eye, or any of the other various cuts and bruises visible on her at dinner. Not long after, Myra said something to Cyrus in Greek, and he nodded, barely respecting a word she said. Nudging Julian’s arm gently, she said, “come on, it’s time to go.”

They walked up the corridor together before dispersing into separate rooms, Myra giving him the command to dress quickly, semi-formally, and without any sort of drama or girlishness. She entered her room to finish curling her hair, but ended up accidentally burning herself on the iron. No amount of makeup hid the burn mark across her right cheek, but she didn’t put any effort in trying to hide it, either. This was a woman who had experienced her share of marks, scars, and bruises, and seemed to pay it little mind.

Exiting her room, she found Julian combing his hair in the mirror. She eyed his outfit and couldn’t avoid the look of amusement that flashed over her features. “Wow, you’ve genuinely never been touched by a woman,” she deadpanned, continuing to glance over his bright hawaiian shirt. All the buttons were done up on it, and it was tucked into a pair of dark slacks. “Come here,” she said it gently, with some sort of unspoken eloquence, walking into the room and guiding his warm frame towards her from his position still staring in the mirror. She took the comb out of his hand and smoothed over his shirt with a soft touch, pulling it out of his slacks and proceeding to unbutton the top three buttons of his shirt. She was in an extremely close vicinity to him, made closer by the way that her heels made up the few inches of height difference between them. His body was unusually warm, perhaps due to nerves. It was calming. In addition, he didn’t reek of the strong cologne that most of the men she knew smelled of, he smelled faintly of fresh linen and that was all. She didn’t ignore the way he leaned into her touch, the way he studied her face as she fixed his buttons. Despite the attraction he seemed to be feeling or feigning towards her, everything she continued to learn of him only confirmed the assumptions she’d already made about him. Perhaps he was a good man, but good men didn’t survive in the world she lived in. He would not last but a few more days at the most.

“Shall we?” She smiled faintly at him, pausing to fix the collar on his shirt. “Don’t feel too self-conscious, everyone will already be too drunk to notice whatever,” she gestured with her hands, “this is, that you’re wearing.”