The Ruin of Her Father's Legacy

West Africa, 1752.

A colonial governor, a man of power and order, feels his legacy crumble within his own walls. It is not war, rebellion, or politics that shatters him, but his own daughter and a black man he was taught to see as beneath him. Their story unfolds through forbidden letters and whispered confessions, each word peeling away the illusion of his authority. Night by night, moan by moan, they ruin him--tearing down not just his family, but the very foundations of the world he once believed unshakable.

Gold Coast Colony, May 7, 1752

Most Esteemed and Honoured Mother,

From this wretched colony on the Gold Coast, where the jungle breathes hot and heavy and the very earth hums with voices not our own, I write with hands that tremble--not from fever, nor toil, but from the weight of what I have done. Papa's house stands high above the slave pens, the air thick with spice and sweat, with the scent of molasses and something darker, something forbidden.

I have crossed the line no woman must cross. I have lain where I should not, with one whose very existence makes my sin unthinkable. The weight of it crushes me, yet even now, my heart betrays me, for though I drown in disgrace, I cannot say I regret the drowning.

Papa has always spoken of them in hushed tones, with disdain curling his lip, with warnings that hung heavy in the air like the scent of burning tallow. Beasts, he called them. Savages. Creatures not meant to stand among us, but to serve, to labour, to be driven by command and whip. And yet, Mother--oh, how cruel a jest Heaven plays upon me--I have learned the truth of the beast, and it was not in chains that I found him, but in the shadows of my own desire.

He came in the dead hush of midnight, when virtue sleeps and sin prowls. Papa lay but a wall away, oblivious, safe in his slumber, while the very thing he feared, the very thing he named beast, slipped into my chamber--silent, certain, unstoppable. And, oh, Mother, I let him in. I did not stop him. I did not even breathe a word to send him away.

Was it fear that paralyzed me? Was it wickedness that warmed my skin before he even touched me? I do not know, and I am terrified to ask. When he reached me, I did not resist. My body had already betrayed me before his hands even found their place. They were rough, calloused, shaped by labour unknown to men of our kind. His skin, dark as the midnight sky, burned against mine, and I, in my folly, burned for more. I should have fought. I should have wept. Instead, I opened myself as if I had never known virtue, as if I had been born for this singular moment of wicked rapture.

He took me--took all that was left of my innocence, if innocence was ever truly mine to claim. Not as the fumbling boys of our rank would, with hesitation and apology, but as one who knew his right, who knew his power, who knew that, in that moment, I was his and his alone. There was no gentleness, no soft murmurings of love. Only heat, only hunger, only the breaking of a girl who thought herself untouchable.

Is it not the blackest sin of all, Mother? To find not suffering, not disgrace, but something deeper--something primal, something that trembles even now beneath my very skin? When his weight pressed me down, when his heat consumed me, when his breath--hot and slow--brushed against my ear, I did not think of heaven. I did not think of shame. I thought only of the beast and of the ruin he wrought upon me.

And, God help me, I wanted it.

I should have felt defiled. I should have recoiled, wept, begged for mercy. But I did not. When it was over, when my body lay spent and trembling beneath his, I did not feel broken. I felt alive. As if I had been blind all my life and now, in my disgrace, I could finally see.

But see what, Mother? That I am wicked? That I have fallen so low that no priest's words can cleanse me? That Papa's beast has left his mark upon me, not just upon my body, but upon my very soul?

Do not tell me that I was helpless. For the truest sin is not that he took me. It is that, even now, I wish he would take me again.

Thy most wretched and ruined daughter,

Geneviève

________________________________________________________________

Gold Coast Colony, May 26, 1752

Most Esteemed and Honoured Mother,

I do not know how to write these words, nor do I know if thou canst bear to read them. My hands shake, my breath is shallow, and yet the weight in my belly is heavier than any sin I have ever known. I write not to beg for forgiveness, for what use is pardon when the stain cannot be washed away? I write because I am afraid--afraid of what stirs within me, afraid of what I have become.

Mother, I feel it. I know it. It is inside me. It moves, it works, it grows. I do not know how, but I know. His seed did not simply flood me--it took. It has rooted. My own flesh, my own cursed womb, has betrayed me.

I should not know so soon, and yet--how could I not? My body is not my own. My veins burn with something foreign, something monstrous. I wake in the night slick with sweat, my skin fevered, my limbs trembling, and I know it is not from shame alone. My belly is not yet round, but I feel it. It pulses within me like a second heartbeat, a rhythm that is not mine, that never should have been mine.

Mother, I am unclean. I am ruined. And worse still--I have damned Papa's bloodline. His lineage, his proud, noble name, the years upon years of purity he so jealously guarded--all for nothing. For I have taken his greatest fear into my flesh and made it my own. And should this thing be born--should I bear it forth into the world--then Papa's own grandchild shall be nothing more than the very thing he despises. One of them. A wretched, cursed creature whose very existence is a mockery of everything he holds dear.

What shall I do, Mother? What can I do? I have prayed, but God does not listen. How could he, when I have sunk so low? I have pleaded with the heavens to undo what has been done, to take this horror from my womb before it is too late--but the nights pass, and still, it remains.

I am afraid, Mother. I am afraid of what is to come, afraid of what I will become, afraid of the thing that stirs inside me. But most of all--God have mercy on my soul--I am afraid of how much I want it. How, even now, my body does not fight it. How, deep beneath my terror, there is something else, something darker, something that whispers that this was meant to be, that it is right.

Tell me, Mother, what must I do? Tell me that thou wilt not forsake me, even when I have forsaken myself.

Thy most wretched and trembling daughter,

Geneviève

________________________________________________________________

Paris, the 8th of June, 1752

My Dearest Geneviève,

So the beast has taken you. Has filled you, pumped his seed deep into your belly, left you writhing and trembling with something you dare not name.

Tell me, Geneviève, how many times did he empty himself into you? Did he stop at once? Twice? Or did he not stop at all, using you until you were too weak to resist, too ruined to be anything but his? Did he claim you like an animal--grunting, ruthless, unstoppable? Or did he make you want it, make you need it? Did you hold him to you, legs locked, hips lifting, taking every drop of what he gave?

And Papa. He heard nothing? Not the sound of you gasping, moaning, opening for him? Not the bed creaking, not your breath breaking, not the wet, sinful sounds of your ruin? How deep did he have to be before you lost yourself? Before your voice failed you? Before shame melted into hunger?

God help me, but I need to know. Every detail, every breath, every moment where you knew you had crossed into the abyss and still begged for more.

Write me again, Geneviève. And this time, leave nothing unsaid.

Your impatient and restless mother,

Madame de Verneuil

________________________________________________________________

Gold Coast Colony, June 22, 1752

My Dearest Mother,

I do not know how to begin, nor do I know if these words will even reach you before the weight of what has happened crushes me completely. The beast still comes to me, still fills me, still owns me. But now, there is no pretending, no illusions that we go unseen in the darkness. Papa knows.

He saw.

It was two nights past when it happened. I do not know what stirred him from sleep--perhaps some shift in the air, perhaps the sound of my voice, muffled and broken, or the soft creak of the bed as the beast moved against me, inside me, claiming me as he does nearly every night.

Whatever it was, Papa was there. The door had not been locked, and when he opened it, there was no mistaking what he saw.

I did not even realize at first. I was too lost, too far gone, too consumed by the heat of it all to notice his shadow in the doorway, his breath caught in his throat. And the beast? He did not stop. Did not hesitate. He saw Papa standing there, frozen, helpless, and he kept moving. Kept taking me. Kept pouring himself into me.

I cannot tell you what went through Papa's mind in that moment. Was it rage? Horror? Shame? I do not know, because he did nothing. He stood there, hands trembling at his sides, lips parted as if to speak, yet no words came. And then--he turned away.

He walked away, Mother. He closed the door behind him and let it happen.

I should have wept. I should have screamed for him to stop it, to save me. But I did not. I could not. Because in that moment, as the beast's weight crushed me deeper into the mattress, as his breath scorched my skin, as he emptied himself into me yet again, I realized the truth. There is no saving me. There never was.

Papa may still sit at his place at the table, pretending not to know, pretending not to see--but he saw, and now he knows. He knows the beast has claimed me. And worst of all--he knows that he will not stop it. Nor will I.

Your forsaken daughter,

Geneviève

________________________________________________________________

Gold Coast Colony, July 6, 1752

My Dearest Mother,

I have not yet found the courage to look Papa in the eyes. Not since that night. Not since he stood there, framed in the doorway, watching--watching as the beast took me, filled me, owned me, and did nothing but stand in silence.

I wonder, Mother--do you think he is angry? Do you think he seethes with quiet rage, disgusted at the ruin of his own flesh and blood? Or was it something else I saw in his face, something even darker, even weaker? He did not look like the master of this house, nor the stern father who once ruled over me with a voice that commanded respect. No, Mother. He looked small. Helpless. Afraid.

His hands shook, his lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. I could barely see him beyond the beast's broad back, but what I did see will never leave me. His eyes--they were wide, startled, filled with something I did not expect. Not wrath. Not disgust. But fear.

And tell me, Mother--what is it that he feared? Was it the sight of his daughter, naked, writhing, drowning beneath the weight of the beast? Or was it him? The raw, untamed force of the man who had taken me, the sheer power of him, the overwhelming masculinity that made Papa look like nothing more than a frightened schoolboy, caught in something he could never hope to control?

I wonder if Papa noticed the difference--if his eyes fell, just for a moment, to where the beast's body met mine. If he saw the size of him, the thickness, the sheer dominance of what was claiming me. If he compared it to himself. If, in that moment, the truth settled in his bones--that he is nothing beside the man who now fills his daughter night after night.

And then he left. He turned, shut the door, and walked away. Not as a father in fury. Not as a man in command. But as something less. Something weak. Something beaten.

Tell me, Mother--what kind of man turns away? What kind of father lets this happen and does not lift a hand to stop it?

Your bewildered daughter,

Geneviève

________________________________________________________________

Paris, July 17, 1752

My Husband,

Do not pretend that you do not know why I write. Do not sit there, stiff-backed at your desk, pretending that this household is still yours to rule, that the walls do not whisper of your failure. I know, and you know. Our daughter has written to me, and her words have stripped you bare.

You saw it, did you not? You stood there, watching--watching as our daughter was taken, as she was filled, as she was ruined--and yet you did nothing. You did not raise a hand, did not call out, did not even flinch. You simply stood, frozen, and when the moment came to act, to be what a father should be, you turned away.

Why?

Was it fear? Did the sight of him--the raw, untamed strength, the sheer size of him--make you realize the truth? That you are no man at all, merely a trembling boy masquerading as one? Did you look at him and feel your own weakness, your own inadequacy, your own pathetic place in this house?

Tell me, did your eyes wander, even for a moment? Did you see the difference--the stark, undeniable proof of why our daughter yields to him? Did you see what he has, what you lack? And did you understand, truly, in that moment, why she cannot say no?

I wonder if you hear her at night, muffled through the walls--the gasps, the moans, the surrender. I wonder if you lie there, fists clenched, knowing you have already lost. Not just her. Not just your authority. But the last shred of your manhood. Because there is no man in this house. Only a beast who takes what he wants, and a boy who watches, too weak to stop it.

You have shamed yourself, husband. You have shamed me. And worst of all--you have shamed her.

Your wife, who has lost all respect for you,

Madame de Verneuil

________________________________________________________________

Gold Coast Colony, July 25, 1752

Geneviève stands in the doorway of her father's study, her presence an unspoken accusation. The dim candlelight flickers against the dark wood, casting long shadows that stretch between them like an uncrossable chasm. Her father sits in his grand chair, the very symbol of authority, yet he looks smaller than ever before, shrunken by the weight of his own inaction.

Her voice is cold, sharp as a blade. "You saw me, didn't you, Papa?"

He does not look at her. His eyes remain fixed on the desk before him, his hands gripping the edge as though the wood might anchor him against the storm of her words. His voice, when it finally comes, is weak. "Go to bed, Geneviève."

She steps closer, arms crossed, her gaze unyielding. "Is that all you have to say?" Her voice is steady, but there is something deeper beneath it, something simmering. "You stood there. You watched him take me. You watched him fill me. And you did nothing. You turned away like a frightened child."

A muscle in his jaw tenses, but he still does not look up. His voice is strained, barely audible. "I... I didn't know what to do."

She tilts her head, mockery dripping from every syllable. "You didn't know what to do?" A laugh, hollow and cold, escapes her lips. "Oh, Papa, how pathetic. A father. A man of this house. And you stood there like a schoolboy caught in something too big for him. Did you freeze because you were angry? Or was it because you felt something else?"

Finally, his eyes lift to meet hers, his gaze hollow, his voice shaking. "That's enough."

But she only shakes her head, her smirk deepening. "Enough? No, Papa. 'Enough' was when you had the chance to stop him. 'Enough' was when you could have saved your daughter. But you didn't. You walked away. Or..." she leans in slightly, eyes glinting with cruel amusement, "was it because you finally saw the truth? That next to him, you are nothing?"

His lips part as if to speak, but no words come. His shame fills the silence between them.

Her voice softens, turning almost sweet, almost curious. "Tell me, Papa. When you stood there, did you look at me?" Her head tilts slightly, gaze unwavering. "Did you see how I wasn't fighting? How I wasn't struggling? Did you see how I took him? Did you hear me? Did you hear how much I wanted it?"

His eyes squeeze shut, his hands tightening into fists. "Stop this."

But she only steps closer. "Why?" she whispers. "Does it hurt? Does it shame you to know that I've been taken by something so much stronger than you? Does it break you to know that every night, he comes to me again? That he fills me, owns me, and you--you just listen."

Her smile widens as she watches his breath hitch, the horror settling deeper into his features. "You know, Papa, there is something else you should understand. Something you cannot ignore, no matter how tightly you shut your eyes. No matter how often you pretend not to hear, not to see." A pause, deliberate. A dagger poised before the plunge. "I will bear his child."

The sharp intake of breath is almost satisfying. His eyes snap up, wide, horrified. A whisper, barely more than air. "No..."

But she only nods. "Oh yes, Papa. It has already begun." A hand drifts to her stomach, almost tender. "His seed has taken root inside me, deep, unstoppable. You can feel it too, can't you? The truth pressing down on you like a weight you cannot lift." She watches him, watches the way his knuckles turn white against the arms of his chair. "The beast's blood will run through my veins. Through the veins of your grandchild. This house, your house, will never be the same."

He shakes his head, his voice barely more than a whisper. "You cannot... It cannot..."

But she only smiles. "It already has, Papa." Another step forward, her presence suffocating. "His blood will stain this family forever. The child I will bring into this world will not bear your frailty. Not your weakness. But his strength. His darkness. His power. And you?" She leans in, close enough that he can feel the warmth of her breath. "You will have to live with it.

You will look into my eyes and know that your bloodline has been swallowed whole by something you could never control."

His breathing is shallow, his grip on the chair unsteady. His voice cracks under the weight of what she is telling him. "Geneviève... stop."

But she doesn't. She will not. "No, Papa. I will not stop. Just as he never stopped. Just as you never stopped him." She straightens, her expression unreadable. "You watched him take me. You did nothing. And now, you will watch this child grow. You will watch my belly swell with proof of what has been done to me--what I have allowed to be done to me. And you will know, every time you look at me, that I was his. That I will always be his. That his blood now runs through your lineage."

His lips tremble, his voice raw with despair. "You are lost..."

She leans in, her voice a whisper, laced with finality. "No, Papa. I have simply found what I was always meant to be." A beat of silence, heavy as a coffin lid. Then, the final cut. "And you? You will sit there, night after night, hearing me moan his name, hearing me carry what he has given me, knowing that you could do nothing to stop it."

She straightens, turns toward the door. But before stepping through, she pauses, looking over her shoulder one last time, taking in the broken man before her.

A smirk. A whisper, soft as silk, cruel as a blade.

"And the best part, Papa? You'll never even have the courage to say his name."

And with that, she is gone. The silence left behind is deafening.

________________________________________________________________

Gold Coast Colony, July 28, 1752

The house is drowning in silence. Geneviève moves through the dimly lit halls with slow, deliberate steps, the scent of stale rum thick in the air, clinging to the old wood, to the very fabric of the place. The house of Governor Bouchard is no longer a house of power. It is the house of a man stripped of everything. She finds him where she knew he would be. Slumped in his chair, an untouched glass beside him, the bottle half-drained at his side. His coat is discarded, his shirt open at the throat, his wig askew--his pride abandoned like the empire he thought he built.

He doesn't look up. Geneviève steps closer, leaning against the edge of the table, watching him with lazy amusement.

"What are you thinking about, Papa?"

The words are soft, almost affectionate. A ghost of something that once was. He stirs slightly, but still, he does not meet her gaze. Geneviève hums, tilting her head. "Not about the plantation, surely. Not about your title, or your reputation."

She watches him, drinking in the slow, miserable way he swallows, the faint tremor in his hands. "No, I think I know." She smiles, slow and sharp."You're thinking about how you never stopped me."

His fingers twitch. She leans in just slightly, letting her voice drop into something silkier, something more intimate. "That's what haunts you, isn't it? Not that it happened. Not that I did it. But that you stood there, helpless, watching as everything you were crumbled around you."

A sharp inhale. A flinch, barely there. But she sees it. She moves closer, just enough that the scent of her skin--milk, warmth, something maternal--mixes with the sour reek of his liquor-soaked breath. "I wonder, Papa," she murmurs, "when you lie alone at night, staring at the ceiling, does your hand slip beneath the sheets? Does your body betray you the way it betrayed your name?"

His entire frame stiffens, a violent jolt as though struck. She smiles wider. "I think it does." A slow, lazy sigh escapes her lips, and she drags a single finger along the polished wood of the table. "I think you spill your seed into your own hands, night after night, choking on the thought of what you let happen. Of what you allowed to take root."

Her voice dips lower, just a whisper now. "I think you clench your teeth, trembling, hating every second of it. Hating yourself. Hating me. But you can't stop."

The breath that leaves him is ragged, fractured. Geneviève watches, savoring the moment, the way his entire body tenses, locked in something far worse than fury--something closer to ruin. Geneviève leans against the doorway, arms folded, watching. She knows what is happening inside him. She knows what men do when stripped of everything, when left alone with their humiliation, with the slow, creeping sickness of shame and desire twisted into one.

"You've been drinking all night, Papa," she murmurs, voice soft, silk-smooth. And yet, you don't seem at all numb. No, I think you feel everything. I think you feel it far too much."

His fingers twitch. His jaw clenches. She smirks, stepping closer. "You sit there like a man lost, staring at nothing, but I see you."

Her eyes flick down, noting the way his hands tremble, the way his thighs tense beneath the fabric of his breeches. "I know you."

A slow, mocking sigh leaves her lips. "You never stopped me, Papa. Isn't that the worst part?"

She takes another step, the heat between them thick, suffocating. The room is too small now. He is too small now.

"You stood there. You watched it happen." Her voice drops to a whisper, low and intimate. "And now, all you can do is sit here, night after night, replaying it in your head. My skin against his. My lips on his throat. My legs parting--"

A sharp, shuddering inhale. There. Geneviève's smirk widens.

"Oh, Papa," she coos, stepping behind him, letting her fingers ghost over the back of his chair. "What is it like, I wonder? Sitting here, knowing that your bloodline is finished, that I've given this house--this family--to him."

He exhales sharply, his body stiff, shaking, his hands curling into fists. She leans closer, just enough for the warmth of her breath to touch his ear. "It makes you ache, doesn't it?"

His breath hitches. His hands twitch. But he does not stop her. She straightens, circling back to face him, letting her gaze flick deliberately down. His fingers flex against his lap, the fabric of his breeches tented, strained.

Geneviève smirks. "Poor Papa," she murmurs, her voice thick with amusement.

"You used to be such a proud man. And now look at you. A drunken ruin, hard at the thought of your own disgrace."

His whole body jerks, his chest rising and falling too fast, his breath coming in ragged gasps. She sees it in his face, the war inside him--the need to resist, the need to succumb.

Geneviève tilts her head, mocking, indulgent. "Go on," she breathes, voice like warm honey. "If you must."

A shudder rips through him. His hands move, hesitant, then desperate, slipping beneath his waistband, his breath breaking, choking.

She watches him unravel. Watches the last thread of his dignity snap. The chair creaks beneath him, his hips barely lifting, his hand moving with miserable, frantic need, his knuckles white as he fists himself like a man possessed. Like a man who has already lost.

Geneviève exhales, slow and pleased, running a single finger down the front of her gown, watching the way his eyes flicker, glazed and ruined. "Does it feel good?" she taunts,

A whimper escapes him, barely there, barely human. Her smirk deepens. "Do you hate me for it?" A pause. A whisper. "Or do you hate yourself more?"

His hips twitching, his breath breaking into a strangled, guttural sound as he spills, violently, helplessly, his seed hitting the wooden floor in thick, wasted spurts.

Geneviève wrinkles her nose, stepping back, eyes flicking down to the mess pooling between his feet.

"Pathetic," she purrs, shaking her head. "Spilling yourself on the floor like a common wretch. As if it could undo what I've done."

He slumps back in the chair, chest heaving, his entire body wrecked, humiliated, filthy. His seed glistens in the flickering candlelight, a wasted mess pooling between his feet--sticky, useless, like the man who made it.

Geneviève exhales, slow and thoughtful, then, without hesitation, she lifts her bare foot, pressing it into the warm, wet filth, feeling it squish against her sole. A soft hum escapes her lips as she grinds her foot against the floorboards, smearing his disgrace further, letting it cling to her skin like the shame he will never wash away.

Then, she lifts her foot, tilting her head slightly as she watches the strands stretch and break, sticky and glistening, before dropping back in lazy streaks onto the floor. She takes a slow, deliberate step forward, placing her slick, glistening foot on his knee. He flinches. Oh, how he flinches. But he does not move. He wouldn't dare. Geneviève smirks, dragging her foot upward, slow and cruel, painting his breeches with his own filth."Look at you, Papa," she murmurs, mocking, indulgent. "The great Governor Bouchard, reduced to nothing but a drunken mess, jerking himself to his own shame. And now? Wearing it like a fool."

Her foot slides higher, pressing into his thigh, leaving a sticky, wet trail behind. She watches his throat bob, watches his fingers twitch against the arms of the chair--but he does not stop her. And then, she lifts her foot further, pressing it against his chest. His breath stutters, his whole body locked, frozen, completely at her mercy. She presses down, just a little, just enough to feel his pathetic, rapid heartbeat beneath her sole, just enough to smear the mess further, marking his fine linen shirt with the filth of his own seed.

"Oh, Papa," she sighs, shaking her head, dragging her foot side to side, spreading it, forcing it deeper into the fabric, staining it. "What would the men back in Paris think? To see you like this? Your own daughter grinding your disgrace into your chest, into the very place where all your so-called honor used to be?"

A sharp inhale. His hands clench, but he still does not move. Geneviève lets out a soft, amused hum, tilting her head. "Maybe you should thank me," she muses. "At least now, you've finally made your mark on something." She presses harder, just for a moment, enough to make him feel it, enough to make him know that she owns him now.

"No heirs. No sons. No daughters. No name to pass on," she continues, her voice dripping with mockery. "Nothing left to plant. Nothing left to grow. Nothing but... this."

She lifts her foot slightly, then lets it slap back against his chest, smearing the wet, sticky filth even further.

"After all your power, after all your warnings, all your rules... this is what remains of you."

A ruined man. A wasted legacy. A name that dies with him. She steps back, placing her foot firmly on the floor, leaving him slumped, covered in the proof of his failure. His chest rises and falls in quick, broken breaths. His eyes are empty, hollow. He does not move. Geneviève smiles.

"Goodnight, Papa," she purrs, smirking as she turns away. "Try not to waste too much of yourself. Though, I suppose... that's all you're good for now."

________________________________________________________________

Gold Coast Colony, March 16, 1753

The veranda is bathed in silver moonlight, the air thick with the damp heat of the jungle, heavy with the scent of salt and spice. Geneviève moves with slow, feline grace, lowering herself onto the cushioned bench, her nightgown slipping from her shoulders with ease, pooling around her elbows. She does not hesitate. She bares herself without shame, without modesty.

The baby stirs in her arms, restless, seeking, his small, dark fingers curling against the pale swell of her breast. She guides him with practiced ease, pressing him to her skin, sighing softly as he latches. His lips, dark against her white flesh, pull deep, claiming her, taking what he needs as though he were born to do so.

She strokes the soft curls on his head, lets her fingers trail over the curve of his tiny back, watching his lashes flutter as he suckles greedily. He is hers. He feeds from her, grows from her.

Footsteps hesitate at the threshold. The weight of a presence, stiff and uncertain. She does not turn. Geneviève's father stands there, rigid, unbreathing. Governor Bouchard, ruler of this house, master of this colony. Once a man of power. She knows what he sees. His daughter, his only child, sitting bare-breasted in the moonlight, nursing a child who carries none of his blood.

His breath comes ragged, uneven, a strangled sound caught between rage and something weaker. "You--" The word barely forms.

Geneviève lifts her gaze, her lips curling into something slow, something cruel.

"What is it, Papa?" she purrs, her voice dripping with mockery. "Have you lost your words?"

His eyes flicker, darting from her exposed breast to the baby latched to it, to the small, dark fingers pressing against skin that should never have been touched by his kind.

"You sit there--" His voice cracks, his hands shaking. "Nursing it, like some common--"

Geneviève laughs, a soft, lilting sound. "Like a mother?" She glances down at the child, stroking his cheek, feeling the pull of his mouth against her. "Yes, Papa. Like a mother."

The governor sways slightly, a man unmoored, a man drowning in the wreckage of what she has done. Geneviève smirks, shifting the baby in her arms, arching her back slightly, letting the candlelight catch the fullness of her bare breast, letting him see the way his own flesh and blood has become sustenance for the child that will erase him.

"My God," he breathes, barely more than a whisper. She tilts her head, feigning curiosity. "Is He watching, do you think? Your God? The one who made you master of all this?"

She gestures lazily with one hand, her fingers brushing against her baby's tiny, grasping hand. "And yet here you stand, Papa. Master of nothing."

Governor Bouchard's face twists, but the fury is hollow, brittle. He is not the man who once ruled this house, who once commanded men with a glance. "You've ruined yourself," he croaks, though there is no power behind the words.

She hums, shifting the baby in her arms, feeling the warmth of his small body pressed against hers. "Have I?" She tilts her head slightly. "Or have I ruined you?"

Her father stiffens, breath caught, face pale beneath the flickering light. "Look at him, Papa," she murmurs, tracing her fingers along the baby's tiny hand. "Look at his skin. Look at what I have made." She lets the silence stretch, watching the way her father flinches, the way his throat bobs as he struggles to swallow the truth.

"The great Bouchard name," she muses, voice thick with amusement. "Your legacy. Your bloodline." She lifts her gaze, locking eyes with him. "It ends here. With me. With him."

The words hit their mark. She sees it in the way his fingers twitch, in the way his breath catches, in the way his entire body sags beneath the weight of what he cannot undo.

Geneviève presses a kiss to her son's forehead, then leans back against the cushions, reclining into the night like a queen upon her throne. "This house belongs to him now," she murmurs.

She does not look at her father again. There is no need.

The End.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on my story and any feedback you have!

Shay