His phone rings, and he answers it rather than answering me. He’s on the call for the next twenty minutes and only disconnects when we get to a neighborhood I’m not familiar with, one where the houses are about twice as big as ours and a guard asks your business before he opens the gate.

“Where are we?” I ask him anxiously, my stomach growing tense when we pull up in front of a large mansion where another Rolls is parked on the driveway.

We’re here on Society business. I know it.

Abel parks the car behind the matching one and kills the engine.

“We’re here at your fiancé’s request.”

“What?”

“Well, request isn’t quite how I’d put it honestly. De La Rosa doesn’t make requests. Even now, with his fucked-up face.”

That last part he mutters, but I can hear the hate in his words. He’s still jealous of Santiago De La Rosa? Even after what happened to him, to his family? I knew he was jealous before back when Dad couldn’t say enough about the child prodigy. Dad had been mentoring Santiago for years at The Society's request and teaching him what he knew. At one point, he’d mentioned how Santiago had surpassed him in knowledge, and he went on and on about Santiago’s mind, how it was like a computer, how clever he was, and so on and so forth. In a way, I get how Abel felt. I felt it too. But Abel’s jealousy is accompanied by something else. Hate.

“Have you seen him? Since the explosion,” I can’t help but ask. I want to know if it’s true. If the reason he’s become a recluse is his face.

He turns to look at me fully. “Would you, Ivy Moreno,” he starts, taking my jaw in his hand and turning it, pushing the hair that hides my eye away before continuing. “With your own deformity, judge another on his outward appearance? That’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it?”

“I wasn’t judging...I just—”

“Sometimes, Ivy, I don’t know what kind of person you are. The nuns would be so disappointed in you. I know dad was.” He jerks his hand away roughly.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” I say quietly. His comment about my father cut, just as I’m sure he wanted it to.

“It doesn’t matter.”

He exhales, presses his lips together, and turns to look out at the house. He shakes his head like he wants to be sure I know exactly how disappointed he is, too. I don’t care what he thinks, though. And the only hypocrite here is him.

I keep my thoughts to myself, though.

“I have a question for you.” He turns to me again.

“What?”

“Do you want to see Father?”