Page 7 of Salem’s Rise

Love.

The word sits strangely in my chest.

I’ve seen what love does to people. My mother loved my father so completely that when he died, the woman became a shell of a person. Love hollowed her out and left my brother and me to survive what remained.

“Love ruins you,” I say. “It’s empty and meaningless and it gives someone else the power to wreck your life.”

They go silent.

Grace studies me for a moment before letting out a low whistle. “Jesus. That’s dark.”

An older man in his late fifties approaches the Heirs’ table. He’s impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit and tie, hair neatly combed, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He carries himself with the quiet confidence of someone used to being important.

“Mr. Blackhollow,” he says.

Silas doesn’t acknowledge him right away. Instead, he unfolds his napkin across his lap with unhurried precision. A polished black stone set in a ring on his right hand catches the light. Only when he’s finished does he lift his gaze.

“Dean Whitmore.”

The older man’s smile dims almost imperceptibly.

“I wanted to personally thank your family again for their extraordinary generosity,” the dean says. “The new science center wouldn’t have been possible without the Blackhollow Foundation.”

Silas gives a single nod. “I’m glad the university found the donation useful.”

The dean lets out a polite laugh, as though hoping for something warmer. “I was hoping we’d have the pleasure of seeing you at tomorrow’s trustees’ luncheon. The board would very much like a chance to thank you in person.”

Silas reaches for his water.

“Then they’ll be sorely disappointed.”

The dean blinks. “I… beg your pardon?”

“I won’t be attending.”

“Mr. Blackhollow, if you could please reconsider,” the dean says, his face going pale. “It really is an important event, and I promised several of the trustees who specifically requested your presence⁠—”

“I said no.”

The words aren’t loud, but the dean immediately straightens. “Of course.” A faint flush creeps into his face. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

Silas studies him for another long second but says nothing. The dean forces a strained smile, murmurs more apologies, and then starts to retreat.

“Oh, Dean Whitmore?”

The dean stops immediately and turns back. “Yes, Mr. Blackhollow?”

“The espresso machine in Wintermere Hall has been out of service since yesterday.”

The dean’s expression falters. “I’m… sorry to hear that.”

“I don’t imagine it’ll repair itself.”

“No, of course not.” The dean clears his throat. “I’ll notify Facilities as soon as—” He stops mid-sentence, wilting beneath Silas’s cold, disapproving stare. “Never mind. I’ll stop by myself after dinner and make sure it’s taken care of.”

Another beat passes.

“See that you do,” Silas says and then waves a hand, dismissing the dean, who walks away from the table considerably faster than he’d approached it. By the time he reaches the doors, the back of his neck has gone completely crimson.