Free Web NovelChapter 12: The Eisenthurn Letter
Auclair Mansion
"AAAGHHH!"
William’s scream tore through the living room like a thunderclap, raw and guttural, the sound of a man who had lost control and didn’t care who knew it.
He grabbed the nearest expensive vase—a Chinese porcelain piece worth more than most people’s annual salaries, a treasure he had bragged about acquiring for years—and hurled it against the wall with all the strength his aging body could muster.
The ceramic shattered on impact, shards exploding outward like shrapnel, leaving a dark, ugly gash in the ivory paint. Tiny fragments rained down onto the hardwood floor, skittering across the surface like broken teeth.
"WHAT THE FUCK!"
His chest heaved beneath his expensive suit. His face was flushed an ugly, mottled red, veins bulging in his forehead and neck, spit flying from his lips with every enraged word.
He was so angry—beyond furious, beyond rage, into something wilder and more dangerous, something that had been festering inside him since the moment he saw that photograph on the news.
His hands trembled, not from fear but from the sheer force of the fury coursing through his veins. His children and Vilma, his wife, sat frozen in their respective seats around the ruined living room, none of them knowing how to calm him down.
They had learned over the years that William Auclair in a rage was like a hurricane: unpredictable, destructive, and impossible to reason with.
"Where the fuck is she?!" William spun around, his eyes wild and unfocused, scanning the room as if Asteria might be hiding behind the velvet curtains or crouching beneath the grand piano.
His gaze darted from corner to corner, seeing nothing but red. "Where the fuck is that Asteria?!" He grabbed another vase—this one smaller, blue and white, a family heirloom that had belonged to his grandmother—and threw it at the fireplace.
It exploded against the brick with a satisfying crash, ceramic dust puffing into the air like smoke, leaving behind a scattering of blue-and-white fragments that looked almost pretty against the dark hearth.
"If she gets here, I’ll surely teach her a lesson that will leave her crippled for the rest of her life!"
He wasn’t finished. He grabbed a crystal decanter from the sideboard—cut glass, filled with expensive whiskey that he had been saving for a special occasion—and sent it crashing to the floor.
The liquid splashed across the wood in an amber wave, soaking into the cracks between the planks, mixing with the broken glass and ceramic shards.
Then a brass candlestick, heavy and ornate, which bounced twice before rolling to a stop against the baseboard. Then a framed photograph of the family at some long-forgotten gala—all of them smiling, all of them dressed in their finest, all of them looking for all the world like a happy, loving family.
The glass shattered beneath his feet as he stomped across the room, grinding the photograph into the floor with his heel, destroying the image of a family that had never truly existed.
Marco sat back in his chair, watching his father’s tantrum with the detached expression of someone who had seen it all before.
He didn’t flinch when the vase shattered. He didn’t move when the decanter exploded. He just sat there, his fingers drumming lazily against the armrest, waiting for the inevitable moment when his father would exhaust himself and they could all get on with their day.
Frank, beside him, was even more relaxed. He had pulled out his phone and was scrolling through something—social media, probably, or maybe the news—completely unfazed by the destruction happening around him.
A vase shattered three feet from his chair, and he didn’t even look up.
Emmaline had her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, her eyes burning with barely contained fury. But her fury was not directed at her father’s outburst. No, Emmaline’s anger had a different target altogether. Her jaw was clenched so tightly that her teeth ached. Her nails were digging crescent moons into her palms.
Vilma, for her part, had risen from her chair the moment the first vase fell. She stood now at the edge of the destruction, her silk slippers crunching on broken glass, her hands held out in front of her in a placating gesture that she knew from experience would do absolutely nothing.
"William!" Vilma’s voice was teetering between pleading and commanding, the careful balance she had perfected over decades of marriage to a volatile man.
"Calm down! Sooner or later, that stupid girl will be here!" She stepped carefully around a pool of whiskey, her silk robe brushing against a shard of crystal. "Please calm down!"
But William didn’t calm down. He grabbed the edge of the long dining table—the massive, mahogany table that had been in the family for generations, where countless dinners had been hosted and countless deals had been made—and flipped it.
The table rose into the air for one breathless moment, suspended as if by magic, and then crashed down onto its side with a deafening crash. Plates and silverware and centerpieces went flying, scattering across the floor in a cascade of fine china and polished metal.
The white tablecloth billowed like a ghost, caught the air for a moment, and then settled over the debris like a funeral shroud.
William stood in the middle of the wreckage, breathing heavily, his fists clenched at his sides, his chest heaving. His expensive suit was rumpled, his tie askew, a thin line of sweat tracing down his temple. He looked like a man who had just fought a war and wasn’t sure if he had won or lost.
Across the room, Emmaline finally spoke. Her voice was sharp and bitter, dripping with venom that had been building since she first saw that photograph on the television screen that morning.
"I was supposed to be the person Keres Eisenthurn was meeting," Emmaline said, her words cutting through the silence like a blade.
"Not her." She spat the last word like poison, her lip curling in disgust. "Her audacity to even dream of a person like Keres is infuriating."
She was clearly mad—furious, actually, in a way that had nothing to do with her father’s rage and everything to do with her own wounded pride.
The thought that Asteria—weak, pathetic, worthless Asteria—had been able to be with Keres Eisenthurn was a burning coal in her chest that she couldn’t extinguish.
It should have been her. It was supposed to be her. She was the beautiful one. The charming one. The one who knew how to talk to powerful people, how to smile and laugh and flirt and manipulate.
She had been planning her approach to Keres for weeks, rehearsing her lines, picking out her outfit, imagining the moment when the great heiress would look at her with interest.
And then Asteria had ruined it. Of course Asteria had ruined it. Asteria ruined everything she touched. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom
"Yeah." William’s breathing was still heavy, but something in his eyes was changing. The wild, unfocused rage was cooling into something colder, more calculating.
The storm was passing, and in its wake came the calm—the dangerous calm of a man who had stopped reacting and started planning. He straightened his suit with a sharp tug, ran a hand through his disheveled hair, and forced his face into something resembling composure.
"The plan didn’t work. We must devise another plan."
Marco leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. A confident smirk played on his lips—the smirk of a man who had never failed at anything in his life and didn’t intend to start now.
"Name it, Pa. Me and Frank will take care of the rest."
Frank looked up from his phone long enough to nod once, his expression blank but his eyes was sharp and attentive. The two brothers had always been their father’s instruments—willing hands for whatever dirty work needed to be done.
Marco was the brains, the strategist, the one who thought three steps ahead. Frank was the muscle, the one who didn’t ask questions, didn’t hesitate, didn’t feel guilt. Together, they were a formidable team.
But William held up a hand, stopping them before they could offer further assistance. "No." His voice was low and measured, each word carefully chosen. "Don’t. I’ll create it myself."
The room fell silent. Every eye turned to William, watching him with a mixture of respect and wariness. When William said he would handle something himself, it meant he was thinking of something cruel.
Something personal. Something that no one else could be trusted to execute—not because they weren’t capable, but because William wanted the satisfaction of doing it himself.
He wanted to see Asteria’s face when she realized what was happening. He wanted to hear her beg. He wanted to feel the weight of his own fist connecting with her skin.
The silence stretched on, heavy and expectant, until it was broken by the sound of footsteps in the hallway.
The family secretary appeared in the doorway, tall and thin, dressed in a black suit that seemed to absorb the light around him. His face was as expressionless as ever—a mask of professional neutrality that revealed nothing, hinted at nothing, gave absolutely nothing away.
He had worked for the Auclair family for over twenty years, and in all that time, no one had ever seen him smile or frown or show any emotion whatsoever. He was a ghost in human form, efficient and invisible.
In his gloved hands, he held a black envelope.
The paper was thick and expensive, the kind of stationery that cost more per sheet than most people spent on groceries in a week. The edges were sharp, perfectly cut, not a single stray fiber or uneven corner.
And on the back, sealing the envelope closed, was a wax insignia pressed into a deep, blood-red circle.
The Eisenthurn seal.
Every person in the room recognized it immediately. The intricate design—was famous throughout the underworld. It was a symbol of power, of wealth, of influence so vast that it spanned countries and continents. To see that seal was to know that something important was about to happen.
"Sir." The secretary’s voice was flat, cold, utterly devoid of emotion. He might have been announcing the weather or reading a grocery list.
"A letter from the Eisenthurn family."
He walked forward, his footsteps silent on the carpet, and passed the envelope to William. William snatched it from his hands with barely contained impatience, his fingers trembling slightly as he turned the envelope over in his palms.
He ran his thumb across the wax seal, and for a moment, something like reverence flickered across his face.
Then he tore the envelope open—ripping it in his eagerness, the paper shredding down the middle, the wax seal cracking in two—and pulled out the letter inside. The paper was just as thick and expensive as the envelope, cream-colored and watermarked with the Eisenthurn family crest. The handwriting was elegant, flowing, clearly written by someone who had been taught the old-fashioned art of penmanship.
William’s eyes scanned the words quickly, his expression shifting with each line. Anger faded into surprise. Surprise faded into curiosity. And curiosity faded into something else entirely—something that looked almost like satisfaction.
A slow, spreading smile crept across his face, pulling at the corners of his mouth, revealing his teeth.
"This is the Eisenthurn family," William read aloud, his voice dripping with smugness, each word pronounced with deliberate care,
"respectfully sending you our warmest invitation to our estate mansion. Our personal vehicle will come to escort you. Feel free to decline anytime."
He held the letter up, showing it to his family like a trophy. The paper caught the light, the cream color glowing against the destruction behind him.
It was a simple letter—short, polite, unassuming. There were no threats, no demands, no mentions of the scandal or the photograph or the engagement.
But everyone in the room understood what it really meant. An invitation to the Eisenthurn mansion was not something that came lightly. It was not something that was sent to just anyone. It was a sign of favor, of interest, of being deemed worthy of their attention. It was a door opening—and behind that door, anything was possible.
William smirked, his earlier rage completely gone, replaced by the cold, calculating gleam of a predator who had just seen an opportunity. His mind was already working, already planning, already figuring out how to use this invitation to his advantage.
"Yeah." He folded the letter carefully, precisely, and tucked it into his inner pocket, close to his heart. "This might be our chance."
~~~•••~~~
Eisenthurn Estate – Outside
The morning air was cool and fresh, carrying the scent of roses from the sprawling gardens that stretched behind the mansion. Dew still clung to the grass, sparkling in the pale sunlight, and somewhere in the distance, a bird was singing a repetitive, cheerful song.
The back terrace was quiet and peaceful, a world away from the chaos of the Auclair mansion.
Keres stood outside, looking out at the garden entrance from afar, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her posture was rigid, her jaw was clenched, and her eyes were fixed on some distant point that only she could see.
The morning light caught the sharp planes of her face, highlighting the angles of her cheekbones and the set of her mouth. She looked like a statue—beautiful, cold, and utterly untouchable.
She had been standing there for almost twenty minutes, not moving, not speaking, just staring out at the gardens with an expression that could curdle milk. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm
The servants had learned long ago not to disturb her when she was like this. Their footsteps was silent and their voices were lowered to whispers.
Alfonso emerged from the mansion, stepping out towards Keres. He paused for a moment, taking in the sight of his daughter standing alone outside, in front of their mansion, and something in his chest tightened.
She looked so much like him at that age—angry, defensive, pushing everyone away before they could get close enough to hurt her. He had been the same way, once. Before Faye.
Before love had cracked open his armor and showed him that there was another way to live.
He approached slowly, his footsteps soft on the stone tiles, and came to stand beside his daughter. He didn’t speak at first. He just stood there, looking out at the same view, giving her space.
He had learned over the years that Keres was like a wild animal. A mad dog—if you pushed too hard, she would bite. But if you were patient, if you waited, she might eventually come to you.
"Keres." His voice was calm, conversational, as if they were discussing the weather or the latest news. But there was a weight beneath the words, a seriousness that Keres recognized immediately.
Keres didn’t turn to look at him. Her eyes remained fixed on the distant treeline, her arms still crossed. "What now, Pa?" Her tone was clipped, impatient, the voice of someone who had already been asked too many questions and was running out of patience. The words came out sharp, like stones skipping across water.
Alfonso’s eyebrows rose slightly, considering his next words carefully. When he spoke again, his voice shifted—still calm, but with an edge that Keres had learned to respect over the years.
It was the voice he used when he was about to say something that mattered, something he expected her to listen to.
"Hey." Just one word, but it carried the weight of decades. "I look like I am a loving father, but you know how I disciplined you back when you were a child."
Keres’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. She wasn’t scared of her father—she had never been scared of anyone—but she was cautious whenever she heard his serious voice.
That voice meant he was about to say something that she didn’t want to hear. Something that would challenge her, push her, force her to confront something she would rather ignore.
"Yes, Pa." Her response was quieter now, more compliant. Not submissive—Keres Eisenthurn would never be submissive—but willing to hear him out. It was as close to deference as she ever came.
Alfonso nodded, satisfied. His hands slipping into the pockets of his trousers.
"Now that you have acknowledged Asteria as your fiancée, maybe you should do something to soften yourself a little towards her."
Keres scoffed—the sound sharp and disbelieving, almost a laugh but not quite. She finally turned to face her father, her eyes cold and hard, her expression a mask of incredulity.
"Soften?" She repeated the word like it was foreign, like it didn’t belong in her vocabulary. "She should be happy that our one-night stand last night was revealed. Because if not, I would have left her there." She paused, letting the words sink in. "No note. No car. Nothing."
Alfonso sighed—a long, weary exhale that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. He shook his head slowly, his expression a mixture of disappointment and frustration.
"I don’t know where you got that behavior."
"From you?" Keres shot back, one eyebrow raised in challenge. The words came out before she could stop them, sharp and accusatory.
"No!" Alfonso’s response was immediate, almost offended. He pulled his hands from his pockets and pointed a finger at his daughter’s chest, his expression fierce.
"Before I met your mother, yes, I was ruthless. I had multiple women to fuck every night and day." He paused, his expression softening slightly, the fierceness fading into something gentler. "But when I met your mother, I learned how to stick to one woman."
He sighed again and massaged the bridge of his nose, a gesture that Keres recognized immediately—because it was one of her own. She had inherited it from him, along with his stubbornness and his temper and his tendency to push people away.
The realization irritated her more than she wanted to admit.
Keres shook her head, her expression hardening again. "But clearly, I am not you. And Asteria is not Mom." Her voice was flat, final, as if she were stating an undeniable fact. "What we have now is not love. It’s protection. Nothing more."
Alfonso’s hand dropped from his face. He looked at his daughter with something that might have been disappointment—or maybe just sadness.
It was hard to tell with Keres; she made it difficult for people to care about her, and then blamed them when they stopped trying.
"You’re getting everything you want, Keres." His voice was sincere now, stripped of its usual teasing edge, stripped of the humor and the lightness that usually accompanied his words.
He sounded tired, suddenly, like a man who had been fighting the same battle for years and was losing hope of ever winning.
"The company. The entire vast majority of the crime empire we built." He paused, searching for the right words. "All I ask you, Keres, is please give Asteria an ounce of respect. The girl has been through so much."
Keres’s expression flickered—something unreadable passing across her face before her cold mask slipped back into place. For just a moment, there was something there that looked almost like guilt. Or curiosity. Or maybe just confusion.
But it was gone before Alfonso could identify it, replaced by the familiar hardness that Keres wore like armor.
"I don’t even know why the fuck you and Mom love that woman." Her voice was harder now, defensive, the words coming out in a rush. "What’s so special about her?"
Alfonso was quiet for a long moment, considering his response carefully.
"If I tell you, you won’t believe it." Alfonso finally spoke, his voice low and thoughtful. He paused, weighing his next words.
"And now is not the right time. Also, I want you to know it from your own mother, not me." He made air quotes with his fingers, a gesture that looked slightly absurd coming from a man of his size and reputation.
"This is clearly girls’ thingy."
Keres stared at him, her expression contorting into something between confusion and disgust. Her father was many things—ruthless, powerful, intimidating—but he was not usually... Whatever this was.
"That’s new."
"Yeah." Alfonso grinned, suddenly looking much younger. "I just saw it from TikTok, hahaha. Clearly enjoying that app."
Keres’s face twisted into a weird expression—the kind of look someone makes when they witness their parent doing something deeply embarrassing, something that makes them question everything they thought they knew about the world.
It was the expression of a woman who had just watched her father, the former head of a crime empire, reference a social media app used primarily by teenagers.
"You’re really enjoying your retirement, aren’t you?" Keres’s voice was flat, but there was something beneath it—something that might have been grudging amusement, if Keres were capable of such a thing.
"Of course." Alfonso crossed his arms over his chest, smiling proudly, his chest puffed out like a peacock displaying its feathers. "I get to spend more ’me’ time. And the rest is for your mother."
Keres shook her head, but there was no real heat in it. She turned back toward the vast expanse of their estate, her arms still crossed, her posture still tense.
But something in her shoulders had loosened—just a little, just barely, but enough for a father who had known her since the day she was born to notice.
"Fine." The word came out like a concession, reluctant and grudging, pulled from her like a tooth. She didn’t look at him when she spoke. "I’m going to talk to Mom. Then I’ll return to my office to fix some things. Then I’ll buy a ring. And then I’ll come back."
Alfonso’s face lit up like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. His grin widened, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and he stepped forward with his arms open wide, clearly intending to pull his daughter into a hug.
But Keres was already walking away, her long legs carrying her across the ground toward the driveway where her limousine waited, black and sleek and gleaming in the morning light.
She didn’t run, but she moved quickly, as if she could outpace her father’s affection if she tried hard enough.
"Stop it, Pa." She didn’t look back. Her voice was flat, but there was something in it—something that might have been embarrassment, or fondness, or maybe just the exasperation of a daughter who had been dealing with her father’s antics for twenty-three years.
"Hey, hey, hey!" Alfonso called after her, his arms still outstretched, his voice rising in protest. "Come back here!"
But Keres had already reached the limousine. The driver, who had been waiting patiently by the door, opened it for her with a respectful bow.
Keres slid inside without a backward glance, disappearing into the dark interior. The door closed with a soft, final thud.
The engine purred to life—a low, powerful rumble that seemed to shake the very ground.
The black limousine pulled away from the mansion, gliding down the long driveway toward the iron gates, growing smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared into the trees.
Alfonso stood there alone, his arms dropping to his sides, watching the spot where the car had vanished.
Then he shook his head, a small, fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He shoved his hands back into his pockets and turned toward the mansion, his footsteps slow and unhurried.
"Heh." The sound was soft, almost amused. "How come my daughter became such a spoiled brat?"
