Chapter 5: Marlo’s Demand

Montclair wore the morning like a shroud. The pale sunlight barely penetrated the fog that lingered over the grounds, and inside, the air was heavy with the silence of an uneasy truce. The Blackmans had scattered across the mansion in an attempt to adjust, though “adjust” felt like an ambitious word for simply enduring.

Venus, ever composed, sat in the grand sitting room, her coffee cup perched delicately in one hand. Across from her, Jeun-Pierre Jr. pretended to read a newspaper, though his constant fidgeting betrayed his inability to concentrate. James, curled in a corner with one of Joufua’s journals, watched the interplay between his parents with quiet curiosity, sensing the tension they wouldn’t speak aloud.

The silence was shattered by the crash of the front doors, followed by the sharp, staccato rhythm of a cane striking the floor.

Marlo had arrived.

The Storm Arrives

Marlo swept into the sitting room like a tempest, his heavyset frame barely contained by the rumpled suit he wore. His silver-tipped cane thudded against the floorboards with every step, each one a declaration of his outrage. Behind him trailed Aunt Lucinda, who clutched her handbag as though it contained her dignity, and Cousin Gerald, whose solemn nodding gave him the air of a funeral director in training.

Venus didn’t rise. She didn’t even flinch. She simply turned her head slightly, regarding Marlo with the faintest hint of a smile. “Good morning, Marlo. How thoughtful of you to drop by unannounced. Shall I have the butler fetch tea? Oh, wait—we don’t have one.”

“Cut the sarcasm, Venus,” Marlo snapped, his cane slamming against the floor for emphasis. “I’m here to see the will. Again.”

Venus set her coffee down, the porcelain clinking softly against its saucer. “The will has been read, Marlo. Multiple times. You were there. You even managed to stay awake for most of it. What exactly do you think has changed since then?”

Marlo’s face turned a deeper shade of red. “This five-year clause is absurd. Ridiculous! Living in this—this drafty mausoleum for five years? It’s a setup, and I want proof that it’s even real!”

Jeun-Pierre Jr., who had been cautiously eyeing the interaction, stepped forward, hands raised in a conciliatory gesture. “Marlo, let’s be reasonable. Hackett was very clear—the will is airtight. There’s no point in—”

“Reasonable?” Marlo spat, turning his fury on Jeun-Pierre. “You think this is reasonable? You’re the reason this family is in this mess! Joufua only tolerated you because of her,” he said, jerking his thumb toward Venus. “And now you’re hiding behind her like always.”

Jeun-Pierre froze, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and frustration.

The Gloves Come Off

Venus rose slowly, smoothing the front of her dress with practiced elegance. “Careful, Marlo,” she said, her tone colder than the morning fog. “You’re walking a very fine line for someone with as much to lose as you.”

Marlo jabbed his cane in her direction. “Lose? You think I have anything left to lose? Joufua’s will was an insult. One dollar. One! After everything I’ve done for this family!”

Venus’s smile sharpened. “Ah, yes. ‘Everything you’ve done.’ Shall we revisit the time you tried to sell off part of the estate’s art collection without permission? Or the incident with the trust fund? Or should I skip ahead to the part where Joufua called you, and I quote, ‘an unrepentant liability’?”

Lucinda gasped. Gerald nodded gravely, as if confirming the truth of Venus’s words.

Marlo’s cane slammed against the floor again. “That house is a family legacy! It belongs to all of us, not just you.”

Venus stepped closer, her heels clicking sharply against the wood. “A legacy,” she said, her voice dripping with mockery. “Interesting. Because it seems to me that the only thing you’ve ever contributed to this family legacy is scandal and debt. If Joufua left Montclair to us, it’s because he knew we’d actually take care of it, not sell it off for casino chips.”

Marlo flinched, but his anger quickly reignited. “You don’t deserve it! You’re an outsider, Venus. You always have been.”

Family Fractures

The word outsider hung in the air like a blade.

Venus’s expression didn’t change, but James, watching from the corner, saw the flicker of something colder and sharper in her eyes.

“Outsider,” she repeated softly. “You’re right, Marlo. I wasn’t born a Blackman. I wasn’t born into this web of greed, incompetence, and entitlement. I married into it. And somehow, I still manage to represent this family better than you ever have.”

Marlo took a step back, his bravado faltering. “You think you’re better than me? Than all of us?”

“I don’t think it,” Venus said, her voice calm and lethal. “I know it.”

Lucinda made a strangled noise of disapproval, clutching her handbag as though it might shield her from Venus’s words. Gerald, as ever, nodded solemnly.

Marlo’s rage boiled over, but his words failed him. With a final, furious thud of his cane, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, his entourage scrambling to keep up. The front doors slammed behind them, the echo reverberating through the mansion.

Aftermath

The silence that followed was as heavy as the confrontation itself. Jeun-Pierre sank into a chair, rubbing his temples. “Well, that went well.”

Venus returned to her coffee, unperturbed. “Marlo’s like a bad soap opera. Overacted, predictable, and ultimately irrelevant. Let him rant. He won’t get far.”

James, still clutching the journal, finally spoke. “Do you think he’ll really try to contest the will?”

“Of course he will,” Venus replied, not looking up from her cup. “But Hackett isn’t stupid, and Marlo doesn’t have the resources for a fight like this. He’ll throw a tantrum, make a mess, and eventually crawl back to whatever rock he came from.”

Jeun-Pierre frowned. “And if he doesn’t?”

Venus smiled, but it was a cold, calculating thing. “Then I suppose we’ll show him what happens when you challenge the wrong Blackman.”

James looked back down at the journal in his lap, the cryptic scrawl in its margins suddenly feeling more significant. As the morning light struggled through the windows, Montclair itself seemed to shift, its groans and whispers forming a faint, mocking symphony.

The house was alive, and now, it had its audience.