Encore of the Avenging Muse (Sylvia and Rupert)

He was stubborn to the core-old-fashioned, pigheaded, and about as

chauvinistic as they come.

Being called out like this in front of everyone by his usually quiet son was a punch to his pride. His face went red with anger. He snatched up his coffee mug and hurled it to the hardwood floor. The ceramic shattered, sending shards everywhere. No one dared even breathe.

"You've got some nerve, boy! Who do you think you are, speaking to me like that?"

Edwin, for once, didn't back down. He met his father's glare, calm and steady. "Dad, you really think you had nothing to do with what happened to Warren? Not even a little?"

Tristan's jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscles jumping in his cheek. He said nothing, nostrils flaring.

Warren, who'd been staring at the floor the whole time, looked up, startled. "Uncle Edwin, what are you talking about?"

Edwin's lips twisted in a bitter half-smile. "Maybe it's better if someone else explains."

He turned to the old oak doors at the far end of the room.

Three figures slowly stepped inside.

so did most of the others. Even Sylvia, who had been quietly standing in the back, realized she'd seen his

was Warren's father, Patrick Garcia. The

at his temples and deep lines on his face, much more so than Edwin, despite being only a couple years apart. But his smile was

Warren's voice trembled. "You're

a small, apologetic nod. "Yeah. I'm

at Rupert. "Dad, tell

together in annoyance. "Who told you that? Rupert had nothing to do with what

can't be!" Warren gasped,

it, Tristan shot up

happened to

behind him. "Sorry, Dad.

tense but at least civil, turned

at the woman and her daughter. The woman wasn't Hollywood gorgeous, but she had clear eyes and a bright, open smile. Her short chestnut hair framed a healthy, sun-kissed face. The girl next to her, maybe eleven or twelve, was

couldn't help but notice that, unlike the rest of the family in their designer clothes and stiff postures, these two seemed refreshingly real. The cold, stifling air of the parlor suddenly felt

the peace shattered as Tristan's voice boomed from the

family is trash, and I don't want her kind here. Get them out-now. As far away as possible. And you-" he pointed at Patrick, "-you'll hold a press conference with Fiona and say you'd lost your memory, that you were recovering somewhere else. I won't have you dragging this family's