The sun had completely dipped below the horizon, leaving the estate shrouded in the blue-black velvet of a cold Ottawa evening. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with a new kind of tension.
Francis entered the house, shedding his overcoat with the weary grace of a man carrying the weight of a kingdom. He found Aaron sprawled on the Italian leather sofa, a glass of amber liquid in his hand and a look of amused contemplation on his face.
"You're late," Aaron noted, swirling the ice in his glass. "And your houseguest is currently barricaded in the east wing like she's expecting a siege."
Francis's jaw tightened. "What did you do, Aaron?"
"Me? I just said hello. The girl has the reflexes of a startled cat and the eyes of a hunted deer. She bolted the door, Francis. I heard the lock click from all the way down here."
Francis didn't answer. He didn't even look at the bar where Aaron had clearly made himself at home. Instead, he climbed the stairs, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. He stopped in front of Hannah's door. He could hear her breathing on the other side—shallow, rapid, and terrified.
"Hannah," he said, his voice dropping into that low, grounding frequency. "It's me. It's Francis."
Silence. Then, the softest whisper. "Is he gone?"
"No. But he's harmless. He's my brother, and he has a big mouth, but he won't hurt you. I need you to come out, Hannah. You can't live behind a locked door."
"I don't belong out there with people like him," she replied through the wood.
"You belong wherever I say you do," Francis said firmly, yet with a hint of warmth. "I promised you protection, didn't I? Trust me. Come down for dinner. Do it for me."
There was a long pause. Francis waited, his hand resting against the doorframe, his patience infinite. Finally, the bolt slid back with a reluctant clack. The door creaked open, and Hannah stood there, her eyes red-rimmed but her expression set in a mask of forced composure.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to be... I just..."
"I know," Francis said, gesturing for her to follow him. "Come. Let's clear the air."
As they descended the stairs, Aaron stood up, tucking his hands into his pockets. He watched them—the way Hannah stayed exactly half a step behind Francis, using his large frame as a human shield.
"Aaron," Francis said as they reached the living room floor. "This is Hannah McKay. Hannah, this is my younger brother, Aaron. He's a nuisance, but he's family."
Hannah stepped out from behind Francis, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She bowed her head slightly, a gesture of humility that felt painfully out of place in the modern room.
"I... I'm sorry for running earlier," she said, her voice small but steady. "I wasn't expecting anyone. It was a habit. I didn't mean to be rude to a member of the family."
Aaron's eyebrows shot up. He was struck again by her beauty—now that she wasn't in a defensive crouch, she looked even more like a classic painting, all soft lines and haunting eyes. But what shocked him more was her tone. With him, she had been a spitfire; with Francis, she was a lamb.
"Apology accepted, Hannah," Aaron said, his voice losing its mocking edge for a fleeting second. "I've been called worse things than a 'nuisance.' Don't sweat it."
He looked at Francis, a smirk playing on his lips. "She only listens to you, doesn't she? I tried to be charming for ten minutes and got a door slammed in my face. You give her one look and she's quoting etiquette books."
Francis ignored the jab. "Sit down, Hannah. We were just about to discuss your future."
As they sat, the conversation turned toward the practicalities of Hannah's stay. Aaron, leaning back and watching Hannah over the rim of his glass, narrowed his eyes.
"So, Hannah," Aaron said, his gaze lingering on her for a beat too long to be purely casual. "You're nineteen, right? That puts you right at the start of university age. What's the plan? What are you studying?"
Hannah's face clouded over. "I'm not. I'm done with school."
"Francis mentioned something about you leaving in Grade Eight," Aaron continued, his tone conversational but his eyes sharp. "Look, if it's a money thing—the cost of tuition, the books, the 'fees'—I can handle it. I've got a foundation that handles 'lost causes,' so to speak. No cost to you, no debt to Francis. You just show up, sit the equivalency exams, and get the paper. Easy."
Hannah shook her head vehemently. "I don't want it. I don't need education to know how to survive. I've survived six years without knowing how to solve for x or who won the War of 1812. It's useless to me now."
"It's not useless, Hannah," Francis interjected, his voice stern.
"I'm not bright!" she burst out, her frustration bubbling over. She looked at the two men—both highly educated, both powerful, both comfortable. "I've spent six years thinking about where to find a dry blanket, not how to write an essay. My brain doesn't work like yours anymore. It's better this way. I'll just stay here and work. I don't need to be smart to clean or cook."
Aaron leaned forward, his casual demeanor slipping. "You think you're not bright? You survived the Ottawa streets for six years as a child. Most 'bright' people I know wouldn't last a weekend in a tent in February. You have a different kind of intelligence, Hannah. But the world—the one Francis lives in—doesn't care about street smarts. They want the paper."
There was a subtle shift in Aaron's energy—a flicker of genuine interest that went beyond his usual predatory flirtation. He was seeing the steel beneath the fragility, and it intrigued him more than he cared to admit.
Francis stood up and walked over to the window, looking out at the dark city.
"Education isn't just about 'the paper,' Hannah," he said, his back to them. "It's about power. Right now, you feel like you have to work for me to earn your place. You feel like you have to be useful to be safe. But with an education, you have your own power. You won't have to depend on the whims of men like me or the insults of women like Evelyn. You'll be beholden to no one."
He turned around, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch.
"I don't want a servant, Hannah. I want to see that fire in your eyes turned into something that can build a life, not just protect a scrap of pavement. Do it so that the next time someone tries to look down on you, you can look them in the eye and know you are their equal in every way that matters."
Hannah looked from Francis to Aaron. Aaron was watching her intently, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he remained silent, letting his brother's words hang in the air.
For a long minute, the only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.
Finally, Hannah let out a long, shuddering breath. "Just the exams? No... no classrooms full of kids?"
"Just the exams," Aaron promised, his voice low. "I'll get you the materials. You study here, in the library. Private. No one watching you."
"Okay," Hannah whispered, looking at Francis. "I'll try. For you."
Aaron's smile was small, a bit crooked. "For him. Right. Of course." He stood up, draining his glass. "Well, I should head out before I start feeling too much like a 'good influence.' It's bad for my reputation."
As Aaron walked toward the door, he paused beside Hannah's chair. He didn't touch her—he knew better now—but he leaned in just enough for her to catch the scent of his expensive cologne.
"You're smarter than you think, Hannah McKay," he murmured, so low that Francis, across the room, barely heard the cadence of it.
He winked—a quick, subtle flash of charm—and then he was gone, the front door closing behind him.
Hannah sat in the silence, her heart still racing. She looked at Francis, who was watching her with a quiet, proud approval.