4. A Seat At The Table

~Esmarie Seraphine Vale~

My fingers trembled as I caressed the brown oak of the front door. My heart kept pounding so hard it felt like a physical weight on my chest. The contents of my empty stomach threatened to spew out of my mouth as I retracted my hand back into my pocket.

You've done this a thousand times,Esmarie.

My father's voice–weathered down by age but sparked with that condescending and chilling tone that plagued my dreams for years echoed from within the house.

I swallowed hard and reached for the doorknob again, my fingers curling around the cold brass like it might bite back.

God, help me.

Just as my fingers began to twist the knob, it turned on its own. The door creaked open slowly, and I was met with a smirk so familiar and yet so unwelcome, I felt the ground beneath me tilt slightly.

“Still taking your sweet time, huh?” Jared said, leaning casually against the doorframe like he wasn't the reason i had been out all day. His smile didn’t quite reach his black and beady eyes—it never did—and there was something more malicious than usual glinting behind them.

I didn’t answer. I simply stepped inside, the scent of aftershave and overcooked beef instantly washing over me. The hallway loomed in front of me, empty, dark and desolate. Leading me to the man I didn't want to see for a second long. My blistered feet scraped softly against the polished hardwood floors as I hesitated by the entrance, letting my eyes scan the small shoe rack by the wall.

And there it was—an unfamiliar pair of black leather dress shoes. Shiny. Polished. Large.

My pulse picked up, drumming against my ears. My breath hitched, and my throat began to close up. I turned to Jared, whose smile had grown wider, like he was watching a deer edge closer to a hunter’s trap.

Micheal appeared from the hallway, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. He didn’t say a word. He just stared, his mouth twisted in amusement. His knuckles were red—probably from punching something. Or someone.

He glanced at Jared and they shared a moment of glee over my predicament, their striking resemblance with their father doing nothing to soothe the tempest of fear raging in me.

Why are they being nice? I wondered as I ripped nervously at my fingernails,  Neither of them pushed me. No taunts. No shoves. Just silent mockery behind their stillness. That was worse.

I could feel the dread like a drug in my veins as I slipped on the grey indoor slippers by the side of the shoe rack.

My legs moved before my brain gave permission, carrying me down the hallway toward the dining area. My hands clenched by my sides as I forced them into my pocket to prevent my father from noticing my pathetic state.

The scent of freshly baked bread and rich gravy drifted out before I reached the dining area. The cook had already come and gone, her presence marked only by the clinking of cutlery and the faint trace of vanilla from the dessert left uncovered.

I rounded the corner and froze.

Seated at the head of the dining table was my father, grey hair slicked back with oil, face unreadable but for the narrowed eyes that darted toward me. The lines on his face further deepened as he glanced up and down my attire.

The hem of my dress was dirty, soiled with mud and blood where I had knelt to tend to the creature, and to make matters worse, he wasn't alone.

Beside him sat a man who made my stomach twist into hard knots of disgust—the Mayor of Thistlebank.

Cornelius Merrill.

A beefy, ruddy-faced man with too-small eyes and a mustache that twitched every time he looked at me. I felt his gaze like a living, slimy,disgusting being, slithering around every inch of my skin. His lips curled into what I think was supposed to be a polite smile, but it felt more like a leer.

“Mary,” my father barked out, his voice cold and deliberate, “Join us.”

He was angry. I could tell from his grip around his fork. His knuckles had turned white but he remained deathly still, his face unreadable.

The air in the room thickened. I walked to the table with stiff limbs and sat where the maid had laid a plate for me. The silverware gleamed under the chandelier’s golden glow, and I could see my reflection in the knife—pale, eyes wide, terrified.

Jared and Micheal took their seats, Micheal beside me and Jared beside the Mayor.

Dinner was served in heavy silence, punctuated only by the clinking of cutlery against ceramic. I could barely swallow the mashed potatoes, my throat tight as a fist. My fork hovered above the meatloaf, unmoving.

“My,My” Merrill began, slicing into his portion with exaggerated enthusiasm, “The rate at which girls develop nowadays is alarming. You've grown into such a beautiful young woman, Mary.”

My fork almost slipped from my grip as my breath stuttered. I glanced up from the plate to find Mayor Cornelius's eyes on my chest, his gaze fixated on the subtle swell behind my layers of clothing.

He stared unabashedly, his eyes twinkling with glee as I held myself back from wrapping my arms around myself.

I wasn't scared of Cornelius Merrill. Not one bit, but the man next to him who barely glanced at the plate before him. His eyes were trained on my face and they sent a simple direct message across.

Don't mess it up.