I take the next curve a little faster. “To see how we match.”
She laughs, a real sound this time. “What if we don’t?”
I glance at her, letting the silence answer for me.
We drive on, the city giving way to a stretch of country road, the restaurant a few miles ahead.
I watch her in my peripherals. Her jaw unclenches. Her hands relax. She’s trying to present the perfect image, when deep down I know she’s a mess. I’d like to see that mess dripping down her legs instead of jumbled in her head.
The rest of the ride is silent, but not empty.
When we pull up to the restaurant, a shrine to French cuisine, all white stone and glass, I get out, circle the car, and open her door. She steps out, unsteady for a fraction of a second, then composes herself.
I offer my arm. She takes it.
Inside, the maître d’ bows and let’s me know my family is already here.
They seat us in the private dining salon, the kind of room engineered for the exchange of secrets and the laundering of reputations. Crystal hangs from the ceiling in tiers, the light refracted into cold, colorful splinters. The table is set with white linen so thick it could double as a wedding dress, and the cutlery is heavy enough to serve as a weapon.
My father rises when we enter. He’s tall, still athletic at sixty, his face sharp lines and unfinished malice. His suit is a shade darker than mine, and the platinum signet on his finger glints when he extends his hand to Amara.
“Miss Marcus,” he says, folding her fingers into his and raising them toward his mouth. He doesn’t kiss her hand, but the implication is there—a parody of chivalry that leaves a touch of threat.
Amara’s pulse jumps at her throat, a detail I note and store away.
My mother stands, too. She is smaller than I remember, shrinking each year into her Botox armor. Her smile is perfect, but the muscles around her mouth never move. “So lovely to finally meet you,” she says.
My cousin is there, Remington. He’s some high-powered defense attorney and is last to acknowledge us. He remains slouched in his chair, the upholstery strained by his bulk. His suit fits like a straitjacket. He nods, eyes flicking from me to Amara with the unblinking chill of a trained attack dog.
“Amara. Cousin.”
He’s in a mood, probably because his latest fling wasn’t invited, but that’s life and he has a part to play.
I guide Amara to her seat and take the one at her right, so close our arms nearly brush. The waiter hovers, reciting specials none of us care about. My father orders a bottle of Bordeaux before the menu is even open.
We play at small talk. My mother asks about Amara’s classes, her adjustment to the Academy, her preferences in art and music. Amara’s answers are flawless—polite, measured, revealing nothing. She sits with her back straight and her ankles crossed, hands folded atop the table.
My father watches all of it. He doesn’t bother to mask his assessment; every blink is a measurement of her worth.
“Your achievements are impressive, Marcus has done well,” he says, eyes on me.
“I’m not sure how much credit is mine,” Amara deflects, eyes down.
My father smiles. “Modesty is rare in your generation. It’s refreshing.”
I sense the shift, the air thickening. This is what he wants—compliance, deference, a trace of fear.
He turns to me. “Julian, have you explained the terms of your relationship to Miss Marcus?”
My fingers tighten on the stem of my wine glass. “We haven’t discussed it formally.”
“Perhaps you should,” his voice is full of reproach. “She deserves to know what’s expected.”
My mother’s hand finds his wrist. She squeezes, gentle but urgent.
Amara’s lips part, but no sound comes out. I can see her mind fracturing behind her eyes, the arithmetic of survival.
I clear my throat. “We’re still getting to know each other.”
