I wish I could say that I felt like something was wrong when I walked in the door. But I didn't.

I was oblivious to the atmosphere of the large house, a mistake I never made again.

My shoulders sunk when I opened the door to my father's mansion, feeling the cool chill touch my skin. My eyes flicked around the void, barely noticing the security guards that stood by the back door that led out to the back ground. The smell of oak filled my lungs, coming from the wood paneling that dressed the walls and curled up the stairs.

Just as my foot went to take another step towards the stairs, Mrs Philips voice stopped me, "Patrick!"

My head snapped to the right, spying her pacing out of the doorway that led into the kitchen. Her white apron was already stained with cookie doe and her blonde hair a fuzzed mess. I halted, just for her, plastering a small smile on my face.

"There you are?" She puffed, storming straight over to me, "where the hell have you been?"

Air caught in my throat, not realizing why I was already in trouble. How did she know that I had stolen Father's cigarettes?

"Ah, with Piero," I swallowed, nodding my head and slightly turning my body so she didn't notice the box poking out from my jeans pocket.

Her brows drew together at her eyes, confused by my sudden change in behaviour.

"I guess we loss track of time," I lied, deciding to get defensive, "why are you on my case? It's not like I've done anything wrong."

Her eyes narrowed at me, stamping her foot, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms. My heart pounded as her eyes dug deep into my skin, seeing straight through my act.

"Give me them," she demanded, offering out her palm.

"What?" I scoffed, taking a small step back.

Her eyes narrowed even more, taking another step forward.

"Give me them," she ordered this time, gesturing to her hand.

I scoffed again, reluctantly handing them over.

"God, Patrick," she growled, ready to start her lecture, "it's a filthy habit and I expect more from you."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes, "Father smokes."

"He's not fifteen," she snapped at me, slapping my shoulder, "now, go upstairs. Your father wants to speak to you."

I frowned, blinking a little, "really? I thought he was at a funeral."

"He was. Now he's home and surprise, surprise, he wants to speak to you," she told me, sarcasm dripping from her voice, "do you need a mint?"

I glared at her, knowing what she was implying, "no."

"Good, now go," she ordered once again, nudging my shoulder.

I grumbled, but followed her request and stomped my way up the red carpet stairs.

My father's office was down the open hallway that looked over the second level. I came to the double doors and opened up one stepping into the room.

His very presence always seemed to freeze the air around him. It didn't matter if it was the hottest day in summer. And it had been this way for as long as I could remember.

My eyes darted around the wood room, taking in that oak smell again. Red carpet covered the floor as little light came through the stain glass windows. I wondered in, stepping closer to the leather lounge that faced the wooden desk. My father sat behind it, his eyes deep in thought.

"You wanted to talk to me?" I questioned, my voice rough in my throat.

Father's head shot up from the desk, spotting me by the lounge.

"Ah, yes, Patrick," he coughed clearing his throat as he busied himself by tidying up his desk.

I watched him with careful hawk eyes, already noticing that something was different.

The past couple of weeks he had been walking around with the weight of the world on his shoulders. And since Mrs Uccello's death, there had been something in his eyes, something evil that I couldn't quite put my finger on. Now, everything about him was...different.

Noticing the silence that we had quite frequently gotten ourselves in, I asked, "how was the funeral?"

"Fine, fine," he hushed me, walking around his desk and gesturing to the lounge, "come, sit. I have something to talk to you about."

My curiosity grew, allowing my feet to wonder to the lounge where he had gestured and watch him take a seat on the wooden coffee table parallel to it.

"Now, do you remember Eliza Uccello?" He questioned me first, entwining his hands together and allowing his gaze to rest on mine.

The name only brought up a memory of a girl no more than six. I knew little of her, besides from who her father was and that they buried her mother today.

"Maybe," I answered with a shrug, "what of her?"

"Well," he started, than paused, "your going to marry her."

I was still. He was joking. He had to be joking. Though my father had no sense of humour what's so ever, he had to be. Nothing else made sense.

"What?" I blurted out, "you want me to marry a six year old?"

His eyes narrowed at me, "in fifteen years."

I released a small breath before the thought truly began to settle.

"In fifteen years, Eliza will be twenty-one and you'll be thirty. And you will be married," he repeated again, forcing me to accept the reality.

My head began to shake a no unconsciously.

Marry her? In fifteen years? I struggled to think about tomorrow. What if I didn't want to marry her? What if I didn't want to marry at all? Who knew what I wanted?

"B-but, what if I don't want to?" I stuttered, already knowing the answer.

Father's face hardened, "Patrick, you are my son and you will do as I say.

I shook my head, standing on my feet. The walls were closing in, squeezing me tight. I couldn't give my life to this. I couldn't do what he asked.

"Patrick, you listen to me," he ordered, he hissed through his teeth, "this isn't about you."

"Isn't about me?!" I roared before I could stop myself, "who else are you trying to sell off?"

"Patrick!" He barked, "you listen to and you listen to me right now."

Again, I shook my head, beginning to pace the room and rub my chin to release the energy.

"Someone wants to ruin us," Father growl, continuing anyway.

"Who?" I snapped, while I paced.
I felt Father's dagger-like eyes dig into me deeper, knowing full well he didn't like my attitude. I didn't care.

"Someone who was once a friend," he almost whispered, "he killed Chloe Uccello, do you know that? He killed your future bride's mother."

Oh I felt sick. My stomach stirred and my heart pounded in my rib cage. My forehead pulse, freezing all thought of thinking.

"You will do this, Patrick," he told me, with little space for argument, "you will marry Eliza Uccello."

I started to hyperventilate, unable to control my breathing. The air had suddenly come too thick. My hands crawled at my throats, struggling to live, struggling to survive. I could feel the panic like nothing else. So many emotions, so many at once.

Anger, panic, fear.

Emotions I had vowed never to feel.

I heard my father sigh and stand from his seat. I stumbled my way to the his desk, trying to escape from him. Whatever he had to say, what ever he wanted to do, I wanted no part in it.

My body bent forward, my arms resting on the desk to support myself. I closed my eyes, fighting everything inside myself. To go against his order or willingly follow it. Be the good son or become an outcast.

His strong hand clamped down on my shoulder, causing me to flinch at his rough touch.

"Sometimes we must do things we don't want to do, Patrick," he told me, his voice softer than what it was before, "it's these that shapes us, make us who we are."

"What if I don't want to change?" I asked him, shaking my head gravely.

His hand tightened on my shoulder, perhaps for comfort and support, perhaps as a way to control his anger.

"Come on," he sighed again, finally letting go, "it's time I explain some things."