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Cassidy Chevalier treated women like he would his expected wife. He liked to twist their hair into intricate braids, lying them flat against their bone-flared backs. He'd lock hands with them and put them on display on an evening stroll. Show them off. Cast himself to the wayside, so that all eyes were on her.
Maybe it was because it was fair treatment, or maybe he wanted the attention to be cast away from him for a little. He didn't want anyone to look too closely. See him for what he truly was. A Chevalier.
He always left one foot on the middle step when bidding women farewell. A kiss to the cheekbone. Or a kiss to the temple. Maybe even the jaw. Anywhere but the lips. It was too sacred. Too committal. It's why his two feet never crossed the threshold.
He knew what came with commitment. Just ask his parents. Even if they'd never tell, you could just by watching them for a few seconds.
It was all his father's fault. Everything undoubtedly was. But sometimes Cassidy liked to make excuses for him. Maybe it was because they were more alike than Cassidy cared to admit. Unbearably lonely. Legs tied to a chain that neither of them couldn't seem to break, that they couldn't seem to shake.
His father's chain was Cassidy.
Cassidy's was his aching need to be loved properly, blinded by his womanizing persona. Even if he was sweet, he was still a man. Men could be so cruel. He hated having to need someone else. Having to crave a love he'd never found. At least he had his sister for added comfort.
Cassidy swore about his father's kindness, even if he'd just slapped him across the face. The sting of it made his heart swell, because at least his father had been paying him attention.
Unlike Cassidy, his sister was the object of his father's devotion. No matter her grave sadness, a product his father blamed on their mother, (Or women, rather . . .) she was still his perfect little angel. The prettiest of all princesses.
But when do you ever see a princess wielding a knife?
The Chevalier Chasm left no survivors and tainted all who succumbed to the ménage. Blood and genetics meant nothing if the wealth was at stake. Green slips of paper and melted platinum carried more weight than a Son or a Daughter.
The Summer of '54 made that much abundantly clear.
