Palistone Manor was a sprawling monstrosity of a castle, built for a man with more money than God himself – but far less taste. Or at least that's what Frank Palistone's critics had said, both in their gossip rags and to his face, shielded behind a tight typeface or a forced smile and levity. Frank would always grit his teeth, shake their hands regardless, and keep a note of the individual's name. After such an encounter – be it at the breakfast table or out in public – Frank would demonstrate how correct they were. Sometimes, he would simply buy the newspaper through one of his shell companies, or he'd bribe the Editor in Chief to retire on a handsome sum of money, to be replaced by someone loyal to the Palistone family. If he was feeling particularly vexed, he would simply buy the individual's life. This might be symbolic, purchasing the ground beneath their house, bribing their friends to abandon the wrongdoer, or buying whatever it was they cared about (a football team, a favourite bar, a band; he had people who could figure out what would be most impactful). However, more often than he'd admit, Frank took the literal route. He could pay dangerous people and protect those dangerous people from ever being caught. And those dangerous people would collect whoever it was that had wronged him, throw them to their knees at his feet, and their life would be his. His wealth was vast, immeasurable, and unlimited. If God was real, Frank reasoned, he would certainly be indebted to the Palistones – or on the payroll.

The critics were also correct about Palistone Manor. It had been built to be something somewhat modest at first, only for Frank to push the limitations of what was possible with money. Construction sped up, more rooms and corridors were added, more turrets, more windows, more gardens. More of everything. Eventually, it protruded from the landscape like a fairy tale fortress. Still, with his eldest children living their own lives, writing their own stories, and helping him to spend his never-ending wealth, many of the rooms within the labyrinthian manor were sealed up.

The one room that would never happen to, however, was the drawing room. It sat near the atrium of the house, branching off a corridor that wound to the east. The room was inexplicable hexagonal, a shape that had no place existing within the context of the rest of the house. Many had shared their theories (in whispers) that the shape was satanic in nature, feeding the Palistone fortune through sacrifice, ley lines, and arcane magic. The truth was far less scandalous: Frank simply wanted to know if it was possible. It was. While the shape wasn't the only reason the drawing room was Frank's favourite part of the house, its unusual dimensions contributed to the other reasons on his list. For example, the void spaces between the walls of the drawing room and the rest of the house allowed for secretive bookcase doors to be installed. They were also able to arrange the furniture in the centre of the room so that the family could face one another in an open space, unable to hide themselves from an uncomfortable confrontation.

As he led his children into the room, Frank made an immediate beeline for his usual seat - a winged Chesterfield that faced into the hexagonal arrangement of sofas in the room's centre. Mr Saunders brought him a fresh scotch, wordlessly.

Denise and Deacon congregated by the bar, fixing their own drinks, while Jamie and Paisley played rock-paper-scissors in the opposite corner, and their father waited patiently for his progeny to take a seat. He wouldn't wait forever, but he still enjoyed knowing that no amount of money or power could ever get his children to cower to him as the rest of the world did. A wry smile stretched across his thin lips. Having too much control had grown dull a long time ago; their will was refreshing.

"I bet it's inheritance," Denise whispered conspiratorially, glancing back at her father as Deacon dropped another ice cube into his cut crystal glass. "Daddy doesn't look well, does he? Don't you think? Not well at all."

Denise raised her own glass in her father's direction when she thought she'd caught him looking over. She smiled, her eyes wrinkling at the sides with the effort.

"You're a ruthless bitch, sis. You haven't called him daddy in..." Deacon paused what he was doing to consider it, looking skywards as if calculating the exact figure. He laughed and looked towards Denise. "You know, I don't think you've ever called him that."

"You're laughing now, but you better turn the sugar up too. Otherwise, he'll get it all."

Deacon followed Denise's gaze, whisky bottle in hand. He blind poured as he considered his sister's theory.

"Jamie? I doubt that. He and dad will never see eye-to-eye on the eco crusade." Whisky ran down the side of Deacon's hand as he realised he'd missed the glass. "Shit."

The eldest Palistone son called for Mr Saunders, remembering just as the tall bald man standing beside his father turned towards him that he was their father's servant – the rest of them had a household staff of thirty to call upon.

"Would you like a drink, Mr Saunders?" Deacon asked, earning him a scowl from Denise, who shook her head at his sycophant nature. Mr Saunders didn't reply, but Frank spoke for him.

"Stop your tomfoolery, Deacon. Now hurry up, my patience has reached its end."

"What about him?" Deacon asked, turning back to his and Denise's hushed conversation. She didn't need any indication of who the 'him' was. They had long been suspicious of Paisley. His skin was warm caramel, his hair black, though they had been present at his birth – or at least, on the other side of the door as their mother screamed in labour.

"The little bastard isn't getting a red cent. Aren't you going to wipe that up?" Denise asked, pointing at the sticky whisky spillage with her eyes.

"Nah, one of the staff will get it," he replied, carelessly throwing back a whisky before pouring a fresh one onto the cracked ice cubes. He headed over to the sofas, leaving Denise alone at the bar to wonder where Matilda was with a cloth. In fact, where were any of the staff?

"Daddy? Where is everybody?" she asked, taking her own seat beside Deacon, smoothing out her tight dress as she placed knee to knee and slanted her legs to one side.

"For Christ's sake, Denise, you're nearly forty years old. Don't start calling me daddy now," Frank snapped, much to Deacon's audible amusement – and Denise's embarrassment. "And I let them all go with a handsome settlement. Before any of you take issue with that, remember that some of them have served this family longer than you lot have been alive. And it's my money."

"Definitely inheritance," Deacon whispered into Denise's ear. She felt even more rueful of her misstep then, and so said nothing.

"Mr Saunders," Frank said, looking up at his manservant. "Please leave us – and take Paisley with you. I'll call for you both shortly."

Mr Saunders bowed his head and held out a hand to the boy, who thought to argue. But he saw a precious warmth on Frank's face – an admiration – that his siblings did not enjoy, and so he went without trouble, slouching from the sofa and placing his hand into Mr Saunders' own. His digits were dwarfed in the man's grasp, but the pressure was gentle, and the manservant led the boy from the hexagonal room with care, only letting go of his hands to pull the drawing room's double doors shut.

"You're probably wondering why I summoned you here."

"Inheritance?" Deacon asked, half to his father, half into his glass of whisky. Frank heard him, though didn't seem particularly angered at the boldness with which his son had spoken.

"Straight to the point, Deacon. Direct. Just as I like it." Deacon looked smug in response, and Jamie rolled his eyes. "But today I want to take my time. I have a story to tell you first. You're old enough to know now. This, children, is how I secured my fortune."