Page 1 of Silent Oaths
1
THEODORE
I’vealways preferred watching from below.
Youlearn more from the shadows than you ever will in the light.
Seatedon a leather chair in the basement,Ilean forward, my gaze fixed on the wall of screens.
Myeyes glance between the flickering images as the cameras shift to the front of the property, where the first guests arrive for theWhitmorefamily’s infamousHalloweenparty.
Throughthe footage,Iwatch as headlights slice through the thickening fog clinging over the driveway.Theiron gate opens, and costumed figures step cautiously onto the grounds, casting long, ghostly shadows under the orange glow of the lanterns.Someof them pause, looking around with hesitant expressions, as if they can sense a more nefarious undercurrent.
Onone of the monitors,Ispot my adoptive father in the grand entryway, his polished smile directed at each new guest.There’sa calculated warmth in his greeting, his handshake firm, his eyes assessing.Fora moment, it feels as though he’s looking straight at me through the monitor, and a chill runs down my spine.Ishift in my seat, my fingers tapping restlessly against the armrests.
Iwatch as the visitors drift deeper into the house, unaware of what lies beneath its perfect, polished surface.Downhere, surrounded by silence,Ifeel as ifI’mpart of the mansion itself, bound to its secrets, watching as the night unfolds.
Foras long asIcan remember, my father has hosted these parties.WhenIwas younger,Ihad no idea what was involved.Wewere never allowed to stay long enough to know.
Likeclockwork, he’d send us to the smaller guest house on the property with our keeper,Ms.Deering.Myadoptive brothers andIweren’t strangers to that house—we often hid there when we needed to escape the mansion’s stuffy atmosphere, where everything inside felt cold, monotone, and lifeless.
WhentheWhitmoresadopted us, we didn’t have a place to call home.So, in a way,Ishould feel grateful.However, there was always something sinister about this place, a feeling that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up when the halls were too quiet.
Earlyon, we learned not to question things, thoughIwould often catch myself clenching my fists, trying to keep my thoughts buried.
Therewere ominous meetings between my father and the men he entertained, whispered exchanges between my parents and the house staff, and forbidden rooms we were never allowed to enter.Andthen, of course, there was this very area in the basement, filled with monitors displaying footage of every corner of the house, save for the living quarters.
Slowly, my brothers andIstarted uncovering the truth, and in turn, our father began involving us more in the family legacy.
Iremember the first time he took me aside.
“Youare not just my son,”he told me.“Youare a tool to ensure theWhitmorename survives, thrives, and grows.Youare a piece in this family’s legacy, and every choice you make is a choice for the family.Itis the only thing that matters.”
Hesaid it with such conviction, as if it was a truthIshould have known from the dayIarrived, but those words dug in deep.Theyreminded meIhad never been allowed to be anything more than an extension of his will.Hedidn’t raise us to think for ourselves, to question what we were being taught.Heraised us to obey.
Asthe eldest,Iwas assigned the role of heir, my brothers as my seconds, even thoughInever wanted the responsibility.
Eachtime he talked about it,Ifelt a heavy weight settle on my shoulders, a tightness in my chest that grew with each passing day.
Buthe promised power.
Power… a tantalizing allure that whispers sweet nothings to the soul.Itis a seductive little thing—intoxicating, like the richest wine, seeping into the veins and igniting a primal hunger.It’sa force that taps into a person’s deepest needs for control and security.
Iwanted it, wanted to hold it, feel the sense of control, a chance to mold the world to my will and decide my own fate.
Asalways, the members ofVanguardwill attend theHalloweenparty, each required to wear the same eerie white mask—my brothers and me included.Themask covers only half our faces, and thoughI’venever understood its purpose, my father insists it’s tradition.
Vanguardis a sanctuary for the city’s wealthiest and most influential men—socialites, politicians, business tycoons, and the like.It’sa place of privilege, an inner circle where only a select few are permitted.Membershipis strictly by invitation, and each potential inductee is subjected to an exhaustive investigation to ensure they meet the club’s exacting standards.
It’sa fucking joke.
Ipick up my mask from the desk, tracing its sleek surface with my fingertips.Oneday, these masks will represent more than theWhitmorelegacy andVanguard.Mybrothers andIwill redefine it.
Forus, the experience was far different.Therigorous screening didn’t apply to us; the family name alone served as our admission.AsWhitmores, we weren’t invited so much as forced, inheriting memberships like a curse.
Thoughwe aren’t trulyWhitmores, not by blood.Eachof us came from different families, plucked from different pasts and thrust together under the same roof.Weshare a name, not a lineage, bound not by love or loyalty but by the heritage forced upon us.
Settingthe mask down,Ilook back at the screens.
