( davika hoorne / cis female / she/her ) â ANDROMACHE âANDIâ WANEOFT  has been living in Port Leiry for A FEW YEARS (RECENTLY RETURNED). They currently work as a OWNER (ADMIRAL DOWNS) / HEIR TO WANEOFT EMPIRE, and are 35 years old. No one is sure if theyâre actually a HUMAN or if theyâre connected to REARDON. They tend to be quite GUILT-RIDDEN and STUBBORN, but can also be CHARISMATIC and ALTRUISTIC.â
tw: sibling death, murder
tl;dr: woman who is completely in love with her humanity. heir to an amount of wealth that should not exist. grew up in penthouses and private galleries, taught never to raise her voice (brief chapter where her parents try to set her up with silas dellamorte.) older brother vanishes at 13; the tragedy is never spoken of again. parents build the waneoft country club on magic land in port leiry during her teens. educated globally; fluent in five languages, silence being the sixth. has a passion for oil painting and watercolor but life keeps getting in the way. keeps finding excuses to make it back to port leiry - until pressures of marriage becomes too much. leaves port leiry for new york; leaves her heart behind with one colt mercer. marries for power, not loveâfamily-arranged. splits her time between russia and new york. learns her husband is a vampire. stakes him instead of turning. discovers her familyâs wealth is built on sacrificing their firstborns. realizes her brother was the cost of her life. flees back to port leiry. husband was an enemy of the reardons; she buys their protection. now part of the kanemaru/reardon deal - parallel to christy. still owns admiral downs. just trying to lay low - parents definitely still think sheâs with her husband.Â
about under the cut I penned by rey
ORIGINS
name:Â andromache 'andi' waneoft
age:Â thirty-five
alignment:Â lawful good to chaotic good
species:Â human and will die a human
hometown:Â manhattan, new york
sexuality:Â bisexual
affiliation: kanemaru, is paying reardon for protection
creative touchpoints: shiv roy (characters who are proud of and critical of their empire ), serena van der woodsen gilded daughters who ran from the weight of their legacy, only to return haunted by what they didâand what they left behind, alicent hightower (playing a game she didnât ask for), daisy buchanan (ethereal, tragic, adored, carries the myth of being untouchable), evelyn hugo (glamorous widow with a closet full of ghosts), celeste wright (are outwardly graceful, wealthy, composed - real shit going on underneath). tropes include: the gilded cage, the poisoned legacy, the runaway heiress, the femme fatal whoâs tired of it, beauty as a curse
occupation:Â heiress, owner of admiral downs, philanthropist and patron of the arts
family members of note: richass parents, deadass husband who is not actually dead
BACKSTORY.
I.
The marble of New York high rises stand like Greek statues, and itâs under their blind, opalescent eyes that Andromache is born into a sort of wealth that only a few know and even fewer understand. The kind of wealth that doesnât glitter, doesnât boast - it simply is. It lingers like secondhand smoke on cashmere coats and lives in the chilled silence of penthouses, in the deep institutional memory of doormen and family offices. She was born into that hush, into that lineage, and was taught early to speak softly and carry a polished surname. Even her birth was curated: a winter evening, a private wing, orchids flown in for her motherâs bedside. No photos were taken. The moment was too sacred for documentation. Andi would come to learn this was the Waneoft way - history is shaped in whispers, not headlines.
II.
She had a brother once. An older one. Thirteen when he vanishedânot dead, not precisely, just⌠unaccounted for. The word they used was âaccident,â but no body was recovered, and no story held long enough to be believed. The family doesnât speak of it, and in silence, the void became a shrine. Andi, barely out of childhood herself, was reordained as eldest. There were younger siblingsâtwo of themâwho would grow up seeing her not as sister but as example, as extension of expectation. She bore it quietly. She bore it well. The ache was private, but the pressure was public. She learned how to host a dinner party by twelve, how to lie politely by fourteen. She inherited a legacy not of wealth, but of watchfulness. No one told her the crown would weigh so much.
III.
Childhood in the one percent is not childhoodâit is apprenticeship. Andiâs was a curriculum of hushed privilege: private conservatories, tutors with PhDs in obscure French literature, horseback lessons in the Hamptons, Mandarin immersion before sheâd lost her baby teeth. The Waneofts were not just old moneyâthey were empire money by way of Fifth Avenue and scandal-proof trust funds. The family fortune was held in champagne, fragrance, real estate, and tasteâa business model that confused perception with truth and sold both at a markup. She grew up beneath vaulted ceilings and around men who wore watches older than most countries. Andi knew early the difference between Baccarat and Waterford, but also that kindness was a currency her parents rarely traded in. She lived in glass towers and knew the color of every room in the Met, but she also knew which stairwells the staff took and which bathrooms never made it into the design photos. There were floors of her home she was not meant to ask about.
IV.
The future was always pre-written, embossed in the soft leather of planners her mother carried like gospel. One chapter included Silas Dellamorte, heir to an old-world banking dynasty and fluent in five languages he used primarily to gossip with her. Their pairing was less courtship, more merger. It didnât workânot romantically, not practicallyâbut they remained entangled, like old vines grown in opposite directions. Silas became a kind of emotional ballast, the only person who knew how many times Andi had almost walked away from her inheritance. They understood each other. Understood the weight of being wanted not for themselves, but for what they carried. The friendship endured. It was the rare thing in her life not brokered or bought.
V.
What drew the Waneofts to Port Leiry wasnât the charm or the coastline, though they said it was. It was the soilâancient, humming, waitingâand something in the bloodline that recognized the pull. Old families have a way of circling back to old promises, whether they remember making them or not.
The Waneoft Country Club was a way to be in Port Leiry without being in Port Leiry. Her parents say itâs for golf and legacy events. Andi suspects otherwise. The land has been theirs for generations, long before zoning maps or the idea of tennis whites. They built it as an ivory tower and populated it with social climbers who knew how to wear secrets like scarves. But Andi, always too curious, too unsatisfied, found herself climbing down instead of up. Sheâd slip away in the early hours, down the long drives and into the mist-wet streets of the port. At dawn, the world changed: the magic hour between ambition and memory. She was a liminal creature thenâbarefoot on the dirt, wind in her lungs, alive in a way the Club never allowed. Thatâs when she found Admiral Downs. The old man who ran it called her âTrouble,â and the horses liked her better than people did. She met a boy thereâColt. And for a little while, she loved like someone who wasnât being watched.
VI.
She was raised to take the reins, literally and otherwise. Her education was scattered across the globe: St. Paulâs in London, Sorbonne summers, a year at Yale before transferring to somewhere more discreet. Her degree reads economics, but her upbringing was boardrooms and brand summits, trade routes and acquisition cycles.
Yet between quarterly reports and currency hedges, she hoarded a second syllabus: charcoal-smudged sketchbooks, clandestine studio hours spent learning how linseed oil slows a drying sky and how ultramarine bleeds into a coastline. She tells accountants she mastered color theory the way some children master piano scalesâafter supper, doors closedâbecause someone had to mind the ledgers. In truth, the easel was where gravity let go.
She can coax velvet shadows out of oil paint and lace morning mist with watercolor wash, and the pulse that drives her margin forecasts is the same one that hungers for blank canvas. Still, Port Leiry pulled at her. It wasnât just the memory of first love or the mornings at Admiral Downsâit was the soil. The scent of something older than lineage. So when the time came, she bought the racetrack. Kept the horses. Kept the old man on as staff. Told the press it was a philanthropic gesture. Told herself it was something else entirely.
VII. The pressure to marry became an ache, then a directive. The family name needed shoring up. Colt had her heart, but not her last name, and in the end, he had too much of a spine to let her buy his way out. She asked him to leave with her once, barefoot in the stables, laughter still caught in her throat. He told her he couldnât leave the town, and she couldnât leave the weight. That was that. They broke apart like ice in warm waterâno great rupture, just a quiet dissolution. He stayed. She left.
VIII. The man she married wore secrets like bespoke suits. He was from old Russian money or new oil techâno one could quite say. His hands were too cold. His smile too controlled. But the merger made sense. The Waneoft name grew sharper. He made inroads into industries her father had once called âuntouchable,â and their wedding photo landed in a Paris Match feature on dynasties to watch. She kept her eyes open. So did he. He was charming, terrifying, and when he held her, it felt like drowning under still water. She didnât learn what he was until too late. Or maybe she always knew.
IX.
He was a vampire. Not the romantic kind. The kind that makes war a business and blood a currency. Between a glass-walled penthouse in New York and a frost-slick palace outside St. Petersburg, she split her life in two time zones for him, trailing silk gowns through private jets at midnight. He was dark and broodingâa thunderhead in bespoke woolâslowly breeding an army beneath chandeliers, hand-picking fledglings who swore fealty in iron-salt rites.
He wanted her to turn. Said it like a gift. Said it like love. He pictured them side by side, sovereigns of the hush, ruling a legion already fifty strong and growing with every new moon.
Andi drove the stake herselfâclean through his ribs. She didnât scream. Didnât weep. She bled, though, a little. The cleanup was clinical. After, she stood barefoot in the parlor and listened to the silence as if it might give her an answer. It didnât. She made enemies that night, old ones. Vampires in custom suits whoâd come to her wedding and toasted her future. She lost some friends. Lost her innocence, too, but only what was left of it. Her parents still think her husband is alive.
X. Death doesnât end things. It unveils them. The supernatural world peeled open like a book she was always meant to read. She discovered that in the 1800s, a Waneoft patriarch traded their firstborn to a witch for unshakable fortune. Not just one firstbornâevery one. Andi, born under marble eyes and velvet skies, had been promised before she ever drew breath. She clings to her humanity now like a hymn.
XI. She came back to Port Leiry with her hands not clean, but steady. Paid the Reardon clan in full. Told them she needed safety, not favor. When Reardon took a deal with Kanemaru and brought in Christy, Andi became part of the ledgerâcollateral on a deal she never signed. She joined Kanemaru. Admiral Downs got a betting pool. The horses didnât seem to mind. Andi made her office in the stables. She keeps her boots by the door and a knife in her desk drawer. She's not running anymore. But sheâs not standing still.
NOW. These days, Andi moves through Port Leiry like smokeâvisible only when she wants to be. She manages Admiral Downs with tenderness, makes appearances at the Country Club with just enough regularity to keep the vultures calm, and, because the Kanemaru ledger still bears her family crest, she dutifully signs each quarterly tribute that keeps Reardonâs shadows patrolling her gates. Once a month she sits across from something older than a lawyer to renegotiate the family curse, calculating interest in blood and acreage.
But a different arithmetic tugs at her sleeves: canvases stacked in the tack room, a newly reclaimed studio above the stables, invitations to fund gallery shows in the harbor district. She wants Port Leiry to paint itself awake againâand she means to underwrite every brushstroke. Sheâs learning the terrain, learning the rules of a game she never asked to play, even as she drafts another set entirely: patron saint of horses by day, patron of starving artists by night.
WANTED CONNECTIONS.
friends, people she knew from high society, people who knew her ex-husband (did business with him, maybe even tried to warn her), reardon connects, kanemaru connects, admiral downs regulars. husband who's not actually dead. people she can pay patron too or causes she can be a patron of.
