Page 37 of Crimson Fate

“Sometimes our parents are the hardest to please,” she states, but this isn’t a discussion I wish to take any part in. We move from room to room, the echoes of our footsteps mingling with the ghosts of laughter and arguments that once filled these halls. With every step, the weight on my chest grows heavier—but I push through, determined to make new memories, better ones, perhaps even ones with Gia by my side.

As we drift through the corridors, Gia’s gaze lingers on the faded family portraits, her concern for me evident.

“Is that...?” She looks at one of the pictures, and I can tell she is second-guessing her assumption.

I smile when I see the picture. “Eva.” I chuckle at the memory. “God, she and my sister were attached at the hip.”

“I used to be so jealous of them,” Gia confesses.

“Really?” I ask, not hiding my surprise.

“Are you kidding me? Absolutely! It was like the two of them had this hidden language between them. I always wished I’d found a kindred spirit like they have in each other,” she explains.

Gia isn’t wrong about her perception of Eva and Amelia’s relationship. I always had a front-row seat to it, and sometimes, I was lucky enough to be included.

“Honestly,” she says, “all three of you always seemed so close.”

I shrug, not wanting to talk about Eva. I force a half smile, though the effort feels herculean. We continue to the ornate staircase, each step creaking under the weight of our tread and the history they bear.

As we move along, I can tell she wants to say something else. “What is it?”

She sighs and shakes her head. “I just want you to know if you ever want to talk about what happened with your parents—”

I cut her off a bit more sharply than I intended. “There’s not much to say, Gia. My family...” A bitter chuckle escapes me. “They were liars. Most of what I knew, what I believed about them... wasn’t true. But there’s no point in dredging up the past.”

Her mouth opens, then closes—words forming and dissolving in the span of a heartbeat. She wants to ask, to delve deeper into the shadows of my legacy, but she refrains.

“Okay.” Her gentle voice is a soothing balm to the sting of my sharpness.

We move toward the balcony of the main suite. The night air is crisp, the stars reflecting off the water’s surface.

“It’s beautiful,” Gia says with a long exhale.

At that moment, with her by my side, I almost believed that this home could be a sanctuary for our family once again—a place untouched by the sins of the Kings, a foundation for a future yet unwritten.

“My father bought this place because... well, as we grew older, he wanted us to have somewhere to escape. A retreat from the obligations, from the life, I suppose.” I gesture vaguely, encompassing more than just the physical space.

“Sounds like he cared—a lot.”

Gia had no idea how wrong she is about my father. He was willing to pit my sister and me against each other in some quest to decide who was fit to sit in his seat one day. He wasn’t the loving father figure so many people viewed him as. Amelia and I understood in a way most people never will, just how calculating he was.

“Christmas here was sacred.” I continue, choosing to ignore the stain on my childhood for the moment. “All of us, the whole family, under one roof.” My voice trails off as I realize how foreign the concept now feels. It’s like a relic from another lifetime.

“Maybe we could start that tradition again,” Gia suggests softly, her gaze meeting mine, full of hope. “I’d love to host Amelia and her husband for the holidays. Keep the families close, you know?”

A scoff escapes me before I can temper it. The idea is ludicrous—two families, bonded by blood and betrayal, breaking bread as if it were all so simple. “Gia, that’s naïve. The Ivanovs and Kings sitting around a Christmas tree? It’s a fairy tale.”

She doesn’t flinch, nor does she back down. “Well, then, I guess I prefer to live in a fairy tale. We were always close to my mom’s family until she got sick. I miss having my cousins around and the house filled with family members.”

The earnestness in her eyes chips away at my cynicism, even as I fight it.

Staring at the water, she muses as she grips the railing, her gaze still fixed on the horizon. “We can make new memories here and start our own traditions,” she adds.

“So you still think you want to move forward with the marriage?” I ask, stepping closer, feeling the pull of her optimism.

“Anyone can see you always try to be a good man, and I believe, by extension, you will try to be a good husband.” She turns to me, determination etched into her delicate features. “And honestly, the idea of trying to build something different, something better, excites me.”

“You know, in this world, as much as I may try to be a good man, I will have to do terrible things at times,” I remind her.

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