Chapter 5

Ivy

The car had been driving for about twenty minutes.

When it turned onto a narrower private road, the canopies of trees on both sides nearly met overhead, casting the light a shade darker. At the end of the road stood a black wrought-iron gate that slid open silently after the license plate was recognized. The driveway continued, winding past a neatly trimmed hedge, and then the vintage building came into view.

Sebastian parked the car and came around to open my door.

The butler was already waiting inside, leading us through the foyer. The floor was marble, polished to a mirror finish. Overhead, a chandelier descended from the second floor, its crystal pendants hanging motionless. We passed through a short corridor, and the living room door stood open. Floor-to-ceiling windows made the entire room seem excessively bright. Tea service was arranged on the coffee table, with pastries stacked neatly beside it.

Two people sat on the sofas.

Victor Sinclair's hair had gone completely white, cut very short. He wore a dark gray cardigan over a white shirt, sitting upright with gold-rimmed glasses resting beside him. He looked somewhat more approachable than he had last night.

Beatrice Sinclair sat in an armchair, dressed in a dark green suit with a pearl brooch at her collar—looking much the same as last night. Her back was ramrod straight, hands folded on her lap. When she saw us enter, her gaze swept over Sebastian first, then settled on me.

"You're here," Victor said, standing up. He nodded at Sebastian, then turned his gaze to me with another nod. "Vivian, please sit."

Beatrice didn't rise. She held her teacup, her eyes moving from my face to my earlobe for a moment, then lowered her head to blow on the surface of her tea before taking a sip and setting the cup back on its saucer.

I sat down beside Sebastian.

The butler came over to pour tea for Sebastian and me, then retreated to stand by the door.

Beatrice set down her teacup and finally looked at me directly. Her gaze traveled from head to toe. After completing her inspection, she turned to Sebastian.

"The wedding was well done," she said, her tone flat.

She said "well done," not "congratulations."

Well then! I was familiar with this kind of rhetoric.

Performance reviews in the assassination business weren't like rating a restaurant on Google Maps, a driver on Uber, or a movie on Rotten Tomatoes—you couldn't just slide freely between one and five stars depending on the situation. Assassins could only receive client evaluations through intermediaries, and intermediaries typically gave situational feedback: "adequate" usually meant the target was dead but the execution was too noisy or flawed; "thank you for your efforts" meant the cleanup costs exceeded budget; "well done" meant the job was completed, though whether it would be followed by a "however..." depended on luck.

Could it be that she didn't approve of this marriage?

Sebastian didn't respond.

She turned back to look at me. "Margaret must be very busy lately?"

Her intonation rose slightly at the end, sounding almost like schadenfreude.

"Mother is doing well."

"Managing a crumbling family isn't easy." She lifted her teacup and took another sip, her voice just loud enough for everyone present to hear clearly. "It must have been hard on her to put together a wedding like this."

My hand paused as I held my teacup, then continued bringing it to my lips.

She was stating facts—the Clairmont family's shrinking share at the Round Table in recent years was public knowledge. She likely meant that Margaret had gone to great lengths to organize the wedding merely to maintain appearances.

The temperature was just right.

Fine tea, with a hint of honey's sweetness.

Her words were truly unpleasant.

This situation was no different from an interrogation room.

Interrogators never ask you directly for answers. They present a conclusion first, then observe your reaction. Hesitation, anger, defensiveness, silence, sarcasm... every response could become a new opening. The only difference was that in an interrogation room, you just had to keep your secrets until someone came for you. Here, everyone expected you to react—prolonged silence would itself arouse suspicion.

"Mother certainly put a lot of thought into it," I said, setting my teacup back on its saucer, keeping my voice level. "She said she'd been hoping for this marriage for a long time, and being able to make it happen gave her peace of mind."

Beatrice's gaze lingered on my face for a moment. Though her expression didn't change, I could sense she probably... didn't like that answer.

Being likable wasn't part of my mission objectives. Rumor had it Sebastian's relationship with his parents wasn't good, and I had no obligation to forcibly mend the mother-son bond. Compared to winning affection, avoiding exposure was more important.

She turned to Sebastian and posed another question.

"What are your plans afterwards? Will you live there or are you planning to move back here?"

The question itself was ordinary, but when she asked it, her intonation pressed down on the word "planning." She was waiting for me to say more—the more I said, the easier it would be to make mistakes.

I quickly ran through the facts in my mind. Vivian's social media had never mentioned any plans for after the wedding. Everything she'd talked about—the wedding dress, the ceremony, the arrangements—were all handled by Margaret. She herself had never even met Sebastian. And I'd only been inserted into this marriage yesterday, so I couldn't possibly know the answer to this question.

I held my teacup without rushing to respond.

Sebastian glanced at me, then he spoke.

"We'll stay there for now."

Beatrice's lips pressed together. She looked at Sebastian with an expression I couldn't quite read—as if she'd been caught off guard, completely unprepared for him to speak first.

"I was asking Vivian," she said.

"My answer for her is the same," Sebastian replied, his tone cold.

Beatrice lifted her teacup and set it down again, the bottom making a soft clink against the saucer. Victor turned a page of his newspaper, pretending he hadn't heard anything.

I raised my teacup and took a sip, using the motion to give my gaze somewhere to land, avoiding looking at the wrong place and inviting criticism. The tea really was excellent, very refined. It would have been even better to taste it under different circumstances—being scrutinized by Beatrice with such a critical gaze was honestly more terrifying than being held by the chin and examined by Vivian.

She didn't like this marriage. Hadn't liked it from the beginning.

Whether it was the Clairmont family or Margaret, they were probably just excuses.

From the moment we'd entered until now, she hadn't said "congratulations" once, nor had she called me by name. She'd mentioned "the wedding," "Margaret," "the Clairmont family"—everything except the fact that Sebastian and I were husband and wife.

Come to think of it, Vivian had mentioned that this marriage was initiated by the Sinclair family approaching the Clairmonts. At the time, I'd assumed it was the parents' idea on both sides, but now it seemed Beatrice disapproved, and Victor didn't look like someone keen on arranged marriages either. So who had pushed for this marriage?

The answer seemed to leave only one option.

Sebastian himself.

But why?

It couldn't really be for love, could it? That would put Robert in a rather awkward position.

Besides, Sebastian hadn't even met Vivian in person.

Beatrice looked at me again.

Her gaze made me feel somewhat unsettled. At this rate, would she be making a call to have me eliminated as soon as I left this house?

With the Sinclair family's resources, making me disappear from this world would probably require just one phone call.

Come to think of it, I'd taken similar jobs from wealthy families before—dealing with inheritance issues, extramarital affairs, sibling rivalries... Rich people's methods of solving problems were all pretty much the same. Just with higher budgets, and sometimes these solutions eventually developed into contract killings.

Beatrice looked like the type who would make that call.

Hopefully that wouldn't happen.

"You young people have your own plans," she finally spoke again, her tone slightly gentler than before, "but the Sinclair family is different from others. A marriage isn't just about the two of you."

These words were directed at me, but the intended recipient was Sebastian.

At this point, Victor folded his newspaper and placed it on his lap, saying, "That's enough, Beatrice. They've just arrived, haven't even finished one cup of tea."

Beatrice didn't respond to him. She simply lifted her teacup and took another sip, her gaze moving toward the window.

It seemed this topic was now closed.

After sitting for about another twenty minutes, Sebastian glanced at his watch and stood up. I followed suit. Victor nodded: "Go on back, drive safely."

Beatrice remained seated, lifting her hand slightly as a farewell gesture without looking at me, ultimately saying nothing.

When the car drove out through the gate, I leaned back into the seat, my entire spine tense, staring at the house in the rearview mirror as it grew smaller and smaller until it was completely hidden by the shadows of trees. Only after a while did I realize I was exhaling, my back soaked with cold sweat.

Sebastian sat in the driver's seat without speaking, hands resting on the steering wheel. He drove for a stretch before finally opening his mouth.

"I'm sorry."

I sat up a bit and looked at him.

"What?"

"They've always talked like that," he said, his gaze fixed ahead, his fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel.

I leaned back into my seat again.

"It's fine. My mother's words can be quite cutting too. I'm used to it."