After scanning over the papers, I get up and start making my way around the secret room, trying to get a grasp on everything I’ve just been told. I hate how it all makes so much sense. Carver isn’t lying at all, but now I so desperately wish he was. No wonder he’s been holding back the truth.
As I scan through the shelf and look at all the other books, I see the word Dynasty coming up everywhere, and I pause, looking back at Carver, who watches me closely. “So, this ridiculous group just thinks that they get to claim me, and they expect me to take a seat at some metaphorical table because of the blood that runs through my veins?”
Carver stands and walks toward me and I feel my heart beginning to race. “That’s exactly what’s going to happen. There’s no way around it,” he tells me. “And for what it’s worth, the metaphorical table isn’t metaphorical. It’s as real as it gets and it’s fucking huge.”
Ignoring his comments about the ridiculous table, I let out an irritated sigh. “Why?” I beg, desperately wishing I could get as far away from these people as possible.
“Because your grandfather, Gerald Ravenwood, wasn’t just one of the seventeen families, he was the founder of Dynasty, our leader,” he tells me. “He built it from the ground up with the vision of greatness, power, and integrity. Dynasty isn’t just some legacy passed down through your blood, it’s who you are. It’s our birthright, and for you, it’s your duty. Your grandfather passed his leadership down to his son, just as your father passed it to you. You are the rightful leader of Dynasty, the ruler, the one we’ve been waiting on for the past eighteen years.”
I shake my head. “What if I don’t want it?”
“It’s not a case of accepting or rejecting. You don’t get a choice,” he tells me, taking my waist and pulling me close, looking deep in my eyes. “Winter,” he says with that authoritative tone that has everything inside of me crumbling. “You. Are. Dynasty.”
CHAPTER 30
The memory of my dead parents surrounds me as I look around the massive living room, probably the space where they spent most of their time. I’ve been sitting in this same spot since Carver walked out last night and I can’t seem to wrap my head around it.
I’m not Winter with no last name whose parents were killed in a fire.
I’m Elodie Ravenwood, daughter of Andrew and London Ravenwood, who were so viciously murdered by the men and women of the prestigious secret society that my grandfather so proudly founded. Murdered by men and women who were disguised as friends. And look at me now.
I wonder if they’re watching down over me? I wonder what they think of me? Surely they couldn’t be proud of who I am. People like that would have turned their noses up to poor nobodies like me.
Just great. I finally found my parents and already have their disapproval.
I get up from the couch and make my way into the kitchen, shaking my head when I remembered that the last time I came through here, it was fully stocked. The boys must have had it prepared and ready to go the second I hit my eighteenth birthday. Those assholes. The 25th of February was nearly a month ago. I should have been let in on the secret the second I got here. I could have avoided the whole Sam thing, and I sure as hell would have avoided killing a man.
After making something for lunch and hardly eating a bite of it, I find myself upstairs in the master bedroom, sitting on the floor of the massive walk-in closet that’s bigger than my bedroom back at Kurt and Irene’s shithole. This closet is one of the only places in the whole house that can truly give me a glimpse of the type of people my parents were.
All their clothing is still here, eighteen years later, and I find myself taking it all in—the expensive designer gowns, the impeccable suits, the shoes, Rolexes, the jewelry. It’s incredible, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. They must have lived an amazingly glamorous life, one that they didn’t get to stick around to share with me. Though one thing is for sure, judging by the clothes they used to wear, I’d dare say that we probably would have clashed heads a few times, and I can guarantee that they wouldn’t have approved of my ...stylistic choices.
Glancing out the door of the closet, I spy their bedroom and the overwhelming emotions begin to creep up on me. This is where they used to rest their heads at night, where they would have shared private conversation, where I … eww, no. I don’t want to think about that.