The White Family [2]

The tension in the chamber had crystallized into something tangible—a viscous, almost metallic quality to the air that clung to the lungs like a shroud woven from centuries of unspoken sins. It was Amara, standing motionless beside Rose, who fractured the silence with a voice both serenely controlled and laced with a razor's edge of mockery: 

"Your father is right in front of you," she declared, curving her lips in a smile that was less an expression of warmth than a velvet-sheathed blade. The ambiguity of his words hung suspended, each syllable a riddle wrapped in enigma. 

Nayara's eyebrow arched—a single, deliberate motion—as her arms folded across her chest with the rigidity of forged steel. Her voice, when it came, was a masterclass in venomous sarcasm: 

"This reeks of farce," she spat, her glacial blue eyes dissecting the man before her for even a flicker of insincerity. "Spare us the theatrics." 

From the shadowed corner where he'd been draped in a posture of calculated nonchalance, the man stirred. His voice—a bass rumble that vibrated with the authority of a war drum yet frayed at the edges by decades of bitterness—sliced through the room: 

"I *am* your father." 

Nael, who had until now been a statue of watchful silence, lifted his gaze. His eyes—those impossible, shifting hues reminiscent of auroras trapped in human form—locked onto the speaker with predatory focus. When he leaned forward, it was with the languid menace of a panther testing the weight of its prey's neck beneath its paw: 

"So… *this* is the architect of our existence?" The question was a scalpel—precise, sterile, and capable of laying bare every hidden tumor of truth. 

The chamber itself seemed to recoil. Nael's words had struck not just flesh, but marrow. 

"By blood, yes!" The man's composure cracked like thin ice, his voice swelling into a roar that rattled the crystal decanters on the sideboard. But before the tempest could fully erupt, a voice deeper than midnight and colder than a grave's embrace commanded: 

"**Enough.**" 

It came from the eldest among them—a figure whose very presence seemed to warp the room's geometry toward obedience. The self-proclaimed father stiffened, jaw working soundlessly as he retreated into resentful silence.

Nayara, however, was a storm denied its lightning. She turned her gaze—now the blue-white core of a star going supernova—toward Celestia. When she spoke, it was in the whisper of a scalpel sliding between ribs: 

"You've yet to *answer*." 

Celestia's exhale was the sound of a fortress gate lowering against its will. Straightening in her chair—a queen reluctantly abdicating her throne—she met her daughter's glare. The words emerged weighted, each one an epitaph: 

"He speaks the truth. This man… is your sire." 

The silence that followed was not mere absence of sound, but an entity unto itself—a living, breathing testament to legacies gutted and masks shattered. 

---

The air curdled. Nayara unfolded her arms with the deliberate slowness of a duelist unsheathing their blade. 

"What *flaw* in your psyche," she began, each word polished to a diamond's edge, "could possibly mistake this… *creature* for anything resembling worth? His aesthetics, I'll concede, are passable. But you—*you*, who could have had kings groveling at your feet—lowered yourself to…" Her gesture toward the man was less a pointing finger than an act of excommunication. 

Celestia's lips parted, but Nayara was already a tempest unchecked: 

"—And as far as I know, he is married. He has a 22-year-old son, which means he was already stuck with someone else before I was even born. So tell me, mom... — Her voice grew, almost turning into a high-pitched scream. — Are you telling me it was fun for him? Your little toy? From him... "

"**Mistress.**" The word detonated like shrapnel, Nayara's voice now a sonic blade that left phantom vibrations in its wake. "That's the term, isn't it? Or does 'whore' suit your pride better?" 

The ensuing silence had teeth. Even the ancestral portraits lining the walls seemed to lean away from Nayara's fury—a force so palpable it warped the candle flames into frantic, cowering arcs. 

Nael remained a study in glacial poise, yet his eyes—those ever-shifting prisms—had darkened into the violet-black of gathering thunderstorms. 

Celestia's hands betrayed her first: a tremor so fine it might have been mistaken for a trick of the light, had the room not been holding its breath. 

It was Nael who finally spoke—three words delivered with the clinical finality of a guillotine's drop: 

"You… Raped… Her." 

The impact was physical. Grown men—hardened by wars and boardroom massacres—flinched as if lashed. 

"No denials?" Nael pressed, tilting his head with the curiosity of a viper tasting the air. "How… refreshing." His gaze shifted to the man beside Ethan, and now his voice carried the sweet rot of promise: "I'll ensure your screams are *educational*." 

Celestia was on her feet before the last syllable faded. "**Elyon—don't!**" The plea tore from her throat raw-edged, a sound alien to her regal bearing. 

---

But he didn't look at her. Instead, he took a step forward, the previous calm dissipating, replaced by a cold, deadly expression. His eyes, once filled with vibrant light, were now like stones of ice, unyielding and impassive.

 —I will take revenge alone. — The statement came out in a serious and somber tone, the words sliding through the air full of implacable determination. But even so, Celestia's words didn't seem to have any power at that moment.

 Elyon leaned forward slightly, his presence becoming even more threatening.

 — Choose, — he continued, his voice low and cutting, letting out a raw threat: — Either I blow your brains out, or I rip your balls out. Make a wise choice.

 The threat hit the room like a blow. Even the most senior men exchanged nervous glances; The slight tremor in Ivan's right hand betrayed the restlessness he was trying to hide.

 It was then that John slowly stood up, each movement heavy as if carrying the weight of the environment.

 — Everyone, remain calm! — His deep and authoritative voice cut the tension, interrupting the imminent chaos. — Let's not resolve this now. Let's leave this conversation for another day.

 Celestia, visibly relieved by John's support, tried to calm things down.

— That is right. You can do whatever you want... but not today," he stated, his voice firm, although a hint of exhaustion was lost between the lines.

 Nael and Nayara exchanged looks full of understanding. They both knew that this "postponement" was just a ploy to buy time, and neither of them seemed willing to give in completely. It was Nayara who reluctantly broke the silence.

 "I promise," he said, his voice firm but a slight tremor betraying the intensity of the feeling he struggled to control.

 All eyes turned to Nael. He remained motionless for a long moment, as if time condensed in his stillness, before turning his face and, in a sharp whisper, declaring:

 — Next time we meet, you will have to choose an option. And believe me, none of them will be pleasant. And I will like it – a lot. This I promise.

 The atmosphere in the room became so heavy that even the air seemed to hesitate in circulating. Rose, trying to ease the tension with a shy gesture, took a step forward and gave a nervous smile, while the atmosphere remained suspended between threats and dark promises.

The atmosphere curdled into something that defied breath. Rose, her smile a fragile bridge over an abyss, stepped forward. 

— Well... Now that that's out of the way, — she said, her voice slightly shaky but carrying a controlled firmness, — I think it's time for some formal introductions.

 She gestured with her hand to the man whose presence dominated the room, his dark aura reflecting a history of fears and secrets.

 "This is Kendrick," he announced with a forced smile, trying to ease the tension. — You already know Ethan, of course. And this one," she indicated the man next to Ivan, "is Knave, your uncle.

 Knave looked up, the vertical scar over his right eye drawing a line of silence between him and the others, as he settled in between Ethan and Kendrick.

 Finally, his gaze landed on Ivan. She hesitated, but continued:

 — And this is Ivan, your father.

 The words hung in the air. No response echoed. Nael remained motionless, his eyes fixed on his father, a silent flame burning deep in his iris. Beside him, Nayara crossed her arms, pressing her fingers against her elbows, as if trying to anchor herself to the crumbling reality.

 Celestia sighed and ran a hand through her hair, aware that the avoided battle was just the prelude to something bigger.

 Then, as if in perfect synchronization, sharp words broke the silence:

 — He is pathetic.

 Nael and Nayara, almost at the same time, repeated the accusation. Their voices resounded through the hall like hammers on cracked glass, so direct that even the most hardened faces contorted in discomfort.

 Rose, visibly shaken by the lack of respect, intervened with authority:

 — More respect! We're talking about your father.

 His voice, firm but permeated with deep disappointment, seemed to want to restore order. She sighed, sweeping her gaze around the room, trying to redirect the course of the conversation.

 "Well," he continued, his eyes still shining with a mixture of sadness and determination, "after this, I think we should introduce your cousins."

The air in the room became even heavier, as if every word marked by hatred and contempt carried the weight of the secrets that everyone there was trying to hide. The opulent environment, so full of history and oppression, made each performance a delicate dance between authority and rebellion, where even the slightest misstep could ignite a storm.

 As Rose continued speaking, a subtle detail went unnoticed by most.

 Nael and Amara exchanged intense looks, a silent dialogue that carried a deeper story than time would dare tell. In his eyes, a forbidden connection flashed, a secret that made the air become denser, loaded with something unsaid. But no one seemed to notice.

 Introductions followed, and for about thirty minutes the conversation flowed slowly. The room, however, remained permeated with a restless energy, as if each word was a breath held against its will.

 Kaedrick, Knave and Nael spoke little; his answers were monosyllables or short sentences, saving words as if each syllable were a rare coin.

 Knave kept his arms crossed with a rigidity that created an almost palpable barrier, while Kaedrick leaned back in his chair with studied indifference, his eyes wandering lazily around the room.

 Nael, in turn, remained impassive. But the sharp gleam in his eyes revealed that he absorbed every detail—every gesture, every nuance of the silences that hung in the air.

 Nayara contrasted with him. His eyes, crystal clear and intense, searched each face with curiosity mixed with disdain. There was confidence in her and, at the same time, a hint of frustration, as if she was fighting not to explode at any moment.

 Celestia watched everything with a look that mixed exhaustion and caution, aware that the tension was like a keg of gunpowder, ready to explode at the slightest mistake.

 Rose did her best to keep the atmosphere light, but her attempts came up against the wall of silence erected by the men.

 Meanwhile, Amara, even in her usual silence, kept her eyes fixed on Nael, trying to decipher every subtle expression without revealing too much about herself.

 When the conversation began to end, silence reigned in the room again, heavy and charged.

 Every pause, every look exchanged, spoke more than the words spoken, leaving the feeling that the unspoken secrets weighed much more than any statement made in that environment full of tension and mystery.

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