Page 5 of Degradation (The Brethren Lords #3)
Pailtyn
M y mother brushes my hair, humming away, while I sit staring at my face in the mirror. I’m not unattractive, I know that much. My mother ensures I have the best products, so my skin is literally glowing, that my hair is so glossy it feels like literal silk.
When I was fourteen, I underwent my first round of cosmetic surgery, fixing the slight wonk on my nose; a wonk I inherited from her.
After that, I had a few more, fixing other issues, other imperfections.
When I was sixteen and had officially stopped growing, I underwent the most gruelling one, having the bottom two ribs removed, giving me what is now, the perfect hourglass figure.
It took me months to recover from that one.
Months of pain, months of rehab. But apparently it was worth it.
I have a personal trainer, I’ve been on the same strict, plant-based diet for years - I have endured everything necessary to ensure I look like a damned goddess. That I fit the dreamlike image most men want in a wife.
“You’re just nervous, Paitlyn,” My mother says, her voice soft but firm. “It’s natural to feel this way. Marriage is a big step but think of the security it brings. Think of the family you’ll have, the duty you’ll fulfil.”
I turn to face her, the sunlight casting a warm glow on her features, softening the lines that time and worry have etched. “But what if it’s the wrong step? What if our Grand Master punishes us for this, punishes me?”
My mother’s smile is gentle, indulgent even, as if she’s humouring a child afraid of the dark. “It’s not the wrong step because God himself is putting this path before you. Why would our Grand Master disagree with God, when he is his mouthpiece?”
I want to believe her, to soak up her words like the parched earth drinks the rain. “So, I won’t go to Oblivion then?”
She waves her hand, dismissing my concerns like they’re mere flies to be shooed away. “Don’t be silly, Paitlyn, no one’s been sent to Oblivion for something as trivial as this. And you’re a Founder, remember, you can do as you please.”
Trivial. The word tastes bitter on my tongue. How can something that feels so monumental, so life-altering, be classed as trivial? I turn back to the window, staring out at the gardens. “But what if I want more? What if I want love, not just security? What if I want to choose, not just be chosen?”
My mother’s sigh is heavy, a sound that carries the weight of tradition and expectation. “Paitlyn,” She says gently, lovingly. “We’ve talked about this before. We don’t always get to choose our path in life. Sometimes, it’s chosen for us. And it’s our duty to walk it with grace and dignity.”
Her words spark a memory, a conversation I had with my father when he was on his deathbed.
He told me that duty was like a road, one that we must follow even if it’s strewn with sharp stones.
But he also said that the best roads were the ones we paved ourselves.
I cling to that thought, that small ember of defiance in the face of my mother’s resigned acceptance.
“And what of my father?” I ask, turning to face her again. “Would he want this for me? Would he want me to marry someone, despite it being against the rules?”
My mother’s expression softens, her eyes glistening with what looks like unshed tears. “Your father always wanted what was best for you, Paitlyn. And sometimes, what’s best isn’t what’s easiest. He understood the importance of duty, of sacrifice.”
Sacrifice. That word hangs in the air like a stark reminder of what’s expected of me. I’m not just sacrificing my freedom, my chance to choose my own path. I’m sacrificing the chance to love, to truly love someone who loves me in return, not just out of duty or obligation.
Oh, I know it’s a foolish thing to think I could ever have the luxury of being in love.
People like me, people like us don’t get such things.
We’re granted power, riches, things ordinarily people could only dream of, and in return we accept that notions such as love are as unattainable as dancing on the moon.
“What if he decides he doesn’t want me?” The words are out before I can stop them, a whispered rebellion against the inevitability that my mother presents.
I hear her sharp intake of breath. Her face betrays her for the minutest of seconds before she fixes that smile back on it.
“Why would he ever do that?” She asks. “You’re the most accomplished, the prettiest and by far, the greatest prize out of all the Founder girls.”
God, I hope that’s a lie. I hope that’s utter bullshit.
I nod back, giving her a placating smile. It makes no difference at this time anyway, Gunther will decide and all of us ultimately are just pawns in his hand.