Chapter 11: Cathedral Saints and Broken Chains

Sabine, meanwhile, was ordered to stay with Genevieve—to ensure she received only the best treatment. Yet every night, Sabine quietly returned, and Viktor exited Genevieve’s room with a sigh of exhaustion.

One night, Sabine muttered, “Where is Baba when we need her to deal with that girl?”

Viktor rubbed his temple. “She sent a note. Said she couldn’t step foot in this place. Some old grudge. A swamp witch who wouldn’t pay for one of her flowers.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The air already held that old magic—rooted deep, blooming quiet, and watching everything.

Genevieve’s cruelty wasn’t overt. It was worse—refined, deliberate. She never raised her voice or threw fits. She didn’t have to. Ayoka knew that even the slightest protest or misstep on her part could bring punishment—not just for her, but for others. She had to act like she didn’t see the insults, like she didn’t hear the barbed words. Because in that house, power didn't belong to the sharpest mind or the truest heart—it belonged to whoever had the luxury of pretending they were above cruelty.

“So clean,” she’d murmur. “So polished. So quiet. Like she was made for a shelf.”

It wasn’t just Ayoka who endured these comments—Genevieve had a gift for cutting down everyone around her with a smile. She told one servant he was “so well-behaved, he could be sold with a ribbon.” Another girl had “posture so perfect, she should thank the rod that trained her.” The cruel praise was always loud enough to be overheard but soft enough to seem harmless. Genevieve didn’t whip people; she polished them until they cracked.

One evening, at a salon-style gathering, Ayoka refilled wine. She wore powder-blue silk with a black ribbon. Sabine had cinched her corset until breathing became ritual.

Genevieve sat among champagne-sipping women, gleaming like something taxidermied. With every laugh and flourish of her hand, she claimed the space as hers. She basked in the attention, letting it fold around her like a second gown.

“I’m sure Viktor will make it official soon,” she cooed to the room. “It’s only a matter of time before we make the announcement.”

The women around her gasped and swooned with exaggerated delight, casting glances toward Ayoka, who kept her head down, steady-handed.

Genevieve smirked and gestured toward Ayoka with lazy pride. “Of course, he keeps the help in excellent condition. Look at her—symmetrical, isn’t she? Those hips... my lord. Sculpted from a fever dream. She could birth a whole estate’s worth of future servants. And if times ever turned rough—well, let’s just say they'd sell for a fine price.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

One guest fanned herself dramatically. “Vampires who hoard like that? Always old. Always sentimental. Always dangerous.”

Genevieve laughed louder, basking in the spotlight as though it were poured just for her. She paraded Viktor’s household with the arrogance of a queen inspecting her court—every servant a prize, every glance a conquest. And Ayoka? She was the centerpiece, displayed not as a woman but as a curated artifact: elegant, composed, and claimed.

“They both look like cathedral icons brought to life,” someone quipped, eyes dancing between the two women.s

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A sharper voice cut through with a smirk, “You nervous, Genevieve? Both of you got that hourglass. Hers carved in blood and bone. Yours bought off a Parisian mannequin. Guess some masters just prefer a woman carved from storm and soil rather than silk and lace. Dirt might cling, but it roots deeper than perfume ever could.”

Genevieve’s smile twitched—just enough to fracture, like glass under pressure.

Before she could carry on, the doors opened with quiet weight. Viktor stepped into the room, his presence commanding, shadow stretching before him. The room hushed. He walked up to Genevieve, leaned close, and whispered something in her ear.

She flinched.

Her face twisted—just for a second.

Viktor pulled away, his tone still low but cool as snowmelt. “Your father sent word. Your grandmother has arrived. You know what that means.”

Genevieve blinked rapidly, adjusting her posture as if nothing had passed between them.

Viktor turned to his staff—his voice louder now. “Pack things up lightly. We’ll be relocating some guests.”

Guests began to murmur their dismay, sad the party was ending early. The laughter turned restless, champagne flutes lowered with lingering sighs. Just then, one guest chuckled with lingering boldness, eyes flicking from Ayoka to Genevieve. “Lord, they both built like stained-glass saints.”

The joke landed like velvet laced with barbs—meant to amuse, but sharp enough to draw blood if touched the wrong way.

Genevieve tried to laugh, but the sound rang hollow. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she knocked Ayoka’s pitcher to the ground.

The crash silenced the room.

She didn’t apologize. She didn’t even look back.

Because in that moment, Genevieve didn’t see Ayoka as a person. She saw property—Viktor’s property—and she was daring the room, and Viktor himself, to challenge that.

Ayoka didn’t sleep that night. Not from fear. Not from rage. But from a gnawing storm that sat behind her ribs like a clenched fist. She sat on the floor beside the cradle, one hand resting on Malik’s tiny chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath—like waves she vowed never to let drown.

She whispered prayers without language, without hope—casting them to gods and goddesses who never listened. Once, she'd believed they might answer. Now, the silence felt deliberate. Mocking. Like praying into the ocean, hoping for a whisper back and only hearing your own breath.

In that moment, Ayoka exhaled and muttered under her breath, "Fuck prayer."

It wasn’t rage. It was release. A line drawn in the dirt with a shaking hand.

If the gods wouldn’t rise for her, she would rise for herself. And when she did, she’d bring fire in her shadow and knives behind her smile.

She would not be a stage prop. She would not be Viktor’s doll. She would not let Genevieve pull her strings with painted nails and empty compliments.

But even as Ayoka bristled with defiance, she knew the weight of history sat on her skin. Skin that had been appraised, traded, marked. Skin that spoke before she ever opened her mouth. There was a time—still alive in whispers and glances—when being too dark meant being invisible or worse: desirable in silence, dismissed in public.

Genevieve and she were both women, yes—but that didn’t make them equals. This wasn’t about men. This was womanhood weighed on two different scales. Genevieve, pale as lace, was considered something to be paraded. Ayoka? Something to be possessed, quietly.

If she were lighter. If she bore a gentler name. If her lineage had allowed her to smile without consequence... Maybe.

But this story wasn’t built on maybe.

So she moved in silence. She studied the halls like a scholar. Counted doors like they were verses. Timed the guards like drumbeats. Memorized every bell—every clang, every whisper of metal on stone.

Sabine didn’t ask questions, but her eyes lingered when Ayoka passed. There was quiet awe there—and fear. As if Sabine sensed something had shifted in the house, something deep and irreversible.

When Genevieve swept past her in the corridor—skirts whispering like silk dipped in venom—Ayoka did not flinch. Her gaze followed the woman with a chill steadiness, calm and cold, like frost rimmed in steel. She wasn’t hoping for rescue, not anymore. That illusion had slipped away, quiet and unceremonious, sometime between a shattered prayer and a sleepless night.

She played her part with grace. But beneath that stillness, behind the mask carved to please, a storm gathered—tight and trembling in her ribs.

She was not helpless. She was not harmless.

She was waiting—coiled, deliberate, and venomous. The snake she’d always been taught to fear had become her mirror.

And now, that power lived in her bones.