Chapter 7

  “Aristocracy and Power”

  Scotland — January 14, 2024

  The fire crackled softly in the fireplace.

  Snow was falling slowly behind the large manor windows.

  — Oooh… you’ve won again, Zoé, sighed Count Duncan as he leaned his chair back slightly.

  — You’re truly far too intelligent for me.

  Zoé gave a discreet smile.

  She couldn’t see the chessboard.

  She couldn’t even see the table.

  And yet,

  she knew exactly where every piece was.

  — You have this ability… he continued with admiration,

  — to perceive space with incredible precision.

  — Playing chess without seeing the board…

  — it’s just as fascinating every time.

  Zoé lowered her head slightly.

  — You embarrass me, Mr. Duncan, she murmured, shyly twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

  He smiled.

  — It’s been five years now since you’ve been here, he said softly.

  — Your birthday is in two months.

  — But I’ll allow myself to be a little early.

  He reached into the inner pocket of his coat,

  then took out an envelope.

  — Today… I have something to give you.

  — Take it.

  Zoé frowned slightly.

  — A letter?

  — Open it, my child.

  She delicately unfolded the document.

  The paper was thick.

  Official.

  The text was written in Braille.

  Zoé placed her hand on it.

  Her fingers slowly glided over the raised dots.

  One second passed.

  Then two.

  She froze.

  Her lips trembled.

  She folded the letter against her chest…

  and began to sob.

  Count Duncan slowly stood and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  — I had to make it official, Zoé.

  — You deserve a name.

  — A place.

  — A family.

  He paused.

  — From today onward…

  — your name will be Zoé Duncan.

  They were adoption papers.

  Official.

  Zoé Kovàcs,

  an orphan,

  a survivor of two tragedies…

  now had a family.

  She lifted her head, eyes wet.

  — Thank you… she whispered.

  The count smiled, his eyes shining.

  — Consider this an early gift…

  — for your fourteenth birthday.

  A few days later

  Morning slowly settled over the Duncan manor.

  Zoé moved alone through the corridors, pushing her wheelchair with calm ease.

  She knew every turn, every uneven stone, every draft near the tall windows.

  In the kitchen, the scent of hot tea and toasted bread lingered.

  — Good morning, Zoé, said a maid gently.

  — The count is already in the living room.

  — Thank you, she replied with a slight smile.

  She crossed the main lounge.

  Count Duncan was reading the news on a tablet, glasses resting on his nose.

  — Up early again, he said without looking up.

  — You should sleep more.

  — I sleep enough, she replied calmly.

  — And besides… I like the silence of the morning.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  He smiled.

  They often had breakfast together.

  Talked about everything and nothing.

  World news.

  The rain.

  The garden.

  A simple routine.

  Almost ordinary.

  Yet that morning, something hung in the air.

  A distant rumble.

  The first vehicles arrived late in the morning.

  Elegant cars.

  Silent.

  Mostly black.

  The staff immediately sprang into action.

  — They’re punctual, murmured Count Duncan, faintly amused.

  — That’s always a bad sign.

  Zoé tilted her head slightly.

  — Your family?

  — Part of it, he replied.

  — The rest will come later.

  The living room gradually filled.

  Polite laughter.

  Measured embraces.

  Voices far too confident.

  In the grand hall, Count Duncan waited, standing straight despite his age.

  Zoé stood beside him, motionless in her wheelchair.

  — Uncle, called an eager voice.

  A man in his forties stepped forward, controlled smile.

  — Alastair Duncan, he said with a slight bow.

  — Always a pleasure to see you in such good shape.

  — Still alive, replied the count.

  — That’s already a lot.

  Alastair laughed nervously.

  Others followed.

  — Eleanor, said an elegant woman in her thirties, sober suit, sharp gaze.

  — I’m delighted you invited us.

  — You’re always welcome, replied Duncan without particular warmth.

  Then came the younger ones.

  — Marcus, said a man around twenty-five, phone in hand, barely looking up.

  — Hi, uncle.

  — Marcus, replied Duncan.

  — You’ve grown.

  — Yeah… well…

  He shrugged.

  — I now manage the family group’s digital branch.

  — Good, concluded Duncan.

  — Someone has to know how to press buttons.

  Marcus blushed slightly.

  Finally, another man approached more calmly.

  — Andrew, he said respectfully.

  — Thank you for receiving us.

  — Andrew, replied Duncan with a genuine smile this time.

  — Come closer.

  Andrew noticed Zoé.

  — Hello, he said simply.

  — Nice to meet you.

  — Zoé, she replied softly.

  He didn’t ask more.

  Lunch unfolded in a controlled atmosphere.

  Fine dishes.

  Crystal glasses.

  Calculated conversations.

  — The estate is still just as impressive, Eleanor remarked.

  — You should consider… delegating more.

  — I delegate when necessary, replied Duncan.

  — For now, I’m doing very well.

  — Of course, Alastair added quickly.

  — But you know… with time…

  — Time, Duncan repeated, amused.

  Zoé perceived everything.

  Breaths that were too quick.

  Voices striving to sound natural.

  Expectations hidden behind smiles.

  — And Zoé, Eleanor said gently.

  — Do you like it here?

  — Yes, she replied simply.

  — It’s… generous of you, Alastair added, looking at Duncan.

  — To take care of her.

  — I’m not taking care of her, replied Duncan.

  — She’s part of the house.

  A heavier silence.

  Marcus checked his phone.

  — Anyway, he said with a shrug.

  — To each their own choices.

  Andrew set down his fork.

  — It’s not a choice, he said calmly.

  — It’s a decision.

  Marcus looked up.

  — What’s the difference?

  Later, in the living room, conversations fragmented.

  The younger ones scrolled absentmindedly.

  The ambitious talked investments.

  Some assessed Zoé with their gaze.

  — Does she even understand what we’re saying? Eleanor murmured to Alastair.

  Count Duncan observed.

  His family was waiting.

  Calculating.

  Hoping.

  But he knew.

  In a world where everything is passed down,

  where everything is inherited…

  He gently tapped his glass with a spoon.

  Clink.

  The conversations gradually died down.

  All eyes turned to him.

  — I won’t beat around the bush, he said calmly.

  — I know why you’re all here.

  Polite smiles.

  Postures straightening.

  — Yes.

  — For my will.

  A faint murmur spread.

  — You’re right.

  — I’m getting old.

  He inhaled slowly.

  — And given the industrial, economic, and symbolic weight of our family in Scotland…

  — if I don’t decide clearly, you’ll end up fighting among yourselves.

  An awkward silence.

  — I have no desire to witness that.

  He set down his spoon.

  — So I’ve made my decision.

  Secondary inheritances were announced first.

  Shares.

  Companies.

  Properties.

  Everything each of them hoped to hear.

  Then came the final sentence.

  — The main estate…

  — and everything that comes with it…

  He paused.

  — go to my daughter.

  A heartbeat.

  — Zoé Duncan.

  Silence exploded.

  — Excuse me?

  — Is this a joke?

  — An adopted child?

  Someone scoffed.

  — With all due respect, said a man at the end of the table,

  — she is…

  He stopped.

  — Disabled, finished a woman, falsely compassionate.

  — How could she run anything in that state?

  Zoé remained still.

  She felt the stares.

  The judgments.

  The murmurs.

  Her heart pounded.

  Hard.

  Very hard.

  She took a deep breath.

  Then she moved her wheelchair forward.

  The simple sound of the wheels on the floor silenced several voices.

  She stopped.

  — Good evening, she said.

  Her voice barely trembled.

  But it held.

  — I understand your doubts.

  She lightly gripped the armrests.

  — In your place, I would have them too.

  A surprised silence.

  — Yes, she continued.

  — I am young.

  — Yes, I am disabled.

  She raised her chin slightly.

  — And yet… I am here.

  — I didn’t grow up in comfort.

  — I wasn’t allowed mistakes.

  — Every day, I had to learn how to stand… without being able to stand up.

  The laughter had vanished.

  — You judge me by what I cannot do.

  — I built myself on what I could still achieve.

  She paused, throat tight.

  — I do not ask for your approval.

  — Nor your pity.

  Her closed eyes faced the assembly.

  — I only ask to be judged by my actions.

  A breath swept through the room.

  — If I fail, she concluded calmly,

  — you will have been right.

  — But if I succeed…

  She let the sentence hang.

  Then she slightly bowed her head.

  — Then it will be despite you.

  Total silence.

  Count Duncan placed a firm hand on Zoé’s shoulder.

  — The decision is made, he said simply.

  — And it will not be discussed.

  No one replied.

  The room gradually emptied.

  Servants cleared in silence.

  Soft footsteps echoed through the stone corridors.

  But elsewhere,

  tongues loosened.

  The smoking room

  Alastair Duncan slammed the door behind him in irritation.

  — This is madness, he snapped, loosening his tie.

  — A child. Disabled. Adopted.

  — You’re exaggerating, replied his sister Eleanor, lighting an e-cigarette.

  — It’s not foolish. It’s calculated.

  — Calculated?

  — She has no legitimacy.

  Eleanor exhaled slowly.

  — Exactly.

  — She isn’t tied to our old quarrels.

  A silence.

  — And she’s protected, she added.

  — Duncan won’t let anyone attack her directly.

  Alastair clenched his teeth.

  — Not directly, no.

  The secondary lounge

  Two younger cousins laughed quietly, phones in hand.

  — Did you see her face when she spoke?

  — Yeah… kind of creepy.

  — She plays the brave victim card well.

  — It works.

  — You think she’ll last?

  A brief hesitation.

  — Honestly?

  — If she lasts six months, that’ll already be impressive.

  The terrace

  An older man, a former industrial partner of Duncan, spoke in a low voice.

  — He’s preparing his exit.

  — He wants a clean figure. No scandals.

  — And if he dies? asked the other.

  — Then it’ll be chaos.

  A glance toward the lit windows.

  — And she’ll be at the center.

  In her room

  Zoé was alone, having discreetly withdrawn.

  Calm after the storm.

  The door closed softly behind her.

  Silence.

  At last.

  Zoé remained still for a few seconds, hands resting on her wheelchair’s armrests.

  Her body suddenly felt heavier, as if all the tension she had held finally collapsed at once.

  She breathed in slowly.

  She knew.

  Everything.

  The murmurs in the smoking room.

  The exchanged glances on the terrace.

  The fake smiles, the cold calculations.

  She had heard nothing.

  But she had felt everything.

  Lips twisting when they thought they weren’t observed.

  Breathing patterns shifting.

  The space between bodies, heavy with intention.

  Even here, in her room, she still perceived distant silhouettes, moving shapes around her.

  Like an echo.

  Zoé clenched her fists.

  — They judge me… she whispered.

  Her voice trembled slightly.

  She also knew something else.

  That it would only take one gesture.

  Just one.

  An imperceptible movement.

  To silence them.

  To crush them.

  To brutally remind them who held the real power.

  She closed her eyes.

  An image crossed her mind.

  Men dressed in black.

  Automatic weapons.

  The deafening roar of gunfire.

  She saw herself again as a child, thrown to the ground.

  The searing pain.

  The light going out.

  The dry, mechanical sound of that weapon she had seen aimed at her…

  Just before the world tipped into darkness.

  She brought a trembling hand to her chest.

  — No… she breathed.

  That wasn’t power.

  She had seen it.

  She had suffered it.

  Imposed force.

  Fear.

  Domination.

  She was better than that.

  She slowly raised her head.

  — I will not be like them.

  A heavy but soothing silence followed.

  Zoé straightened slightly in her wheelchair, gathered what courage she had left, and murmured, almost like a promise:

  — I’ll succeed, Mr. Duncan.

  Not to prove anything to others.

  Not for the inheritance.

  But because she had survived everything that should have broken her.

  She fell asleep from exhaustion.

  The evening had been too long, too heavy, too full of stares.

  On the balcony, Count Duncan thanked his guests.

  They turned to him one by one, thanking him with that polite, almost mechanical gratitude typical of families who know how to smile while counting.

  — Thank you again, uncle.

  — A remarkable evening.

  — We are honored.

  Duncan replied with the same elegance, without unnecessary warmth, master of the estate to the very end.

  Then—

  A gunshot rang out.

  Sharp.

  Violent.

  Like lightning in the night.

  Everyone jumped.

  A sharp intake of breath.

  Eyes searching.

  Hands freezing.

  And then…

  Nothing.

  No impact.

  No shattered glass.

  No pain.

  Count Duncan remained motionless, the first not to understand.

  The guards moved. Guests murmured.

  The world searched for meaning.

  But there was none.

  In her room, Zoé was still asleep.

  Yes.

  She slept peacefully, without even knowing she had just saved Count Duncan’s life.

  Some time earlier — years before — after facing the nameless man, Zoé had developed a habit.

  A precaution.

  Nothing spectacular.

  Just… an adjustment.

  She had used her ability to very slightly modify the effective density of space around the estate, across a wide perimeter.

  Like an invisible lid.

  A thin boundary, barely perceptible.

  Those who crossed it could sometimes feel a slight change.

  A strange sensation, like a temperature shift…

  Not strong enough to worry, not clear enough to understand.

  And once past it, nothing.

  Everything returned to normal.

  The crossing was so simple that no one noticed.

  A car could pass.

  An insect.

  A man.

  Even the wind.

  But if an object entered the perimeter with too much speed — the speed of a bullet, for example — then space no longer allowed that energy to propagate normally.

  The object was slowed.

  Not by impact.

  But by its own kinetic energy, as if it dispersed itself, constrained by that infinitesimal change of regime.

  The shot had been fired.

  But the bullet had never been able to keep its speed.

  It lost its momentum, then fell somewhere, harmless…

  like a simple piece of metal.

  Count Duncan could congratulate himself for having allowed Zoé to go to school.

  Because she knew more about physics than most people present that evening.

  And that decision

  had saved his life.

  That night, two people were even more surprised than Count Duncan.

  The first was the shooter.

  Positioned at a distance, he had calculated everything.

  The wind.

  The angle.

  The distance.

  The shot was perfect.

  And yet…

  The bullet had never reached its target.

  No impact.

  No visible deviation.

  Just… nothing.

  He fled, heart pounding, unable to explain what he had just witnessed.

  In his entire career, he had never known such a failure.

  The second person was still within the estate, among the guests.

  He had observed the scene with a calm fa?ade, holding his breath at the moment of the shot, certain everything would be over.

  Then… nothing.

  No fall.

  No panic.

  No death.

  Something in this estate completely eluded him.

  And if his order had not been enough this time…

  he would have to be far more careful in the future.