Remy snorts, loud enough to draw looks from other tables. He drains his glass in a single swallow and gestures for another.
My father shifts his gaze to Amara. “Our families have a history of productive partnerships. The Board wishes to see that tradition continue.”
She nods, mute.
“There’s nothing to fear,” he continues, the words smoothed by practice. “Julian is a capable provider. Loyal. Protective.”
My mother’s eyes flick to me, then away.
The waiter pours wine, and the conversation stalls. For a minute, we eat in silence, the only sound the clink of utensils on porcelain.
Amara’s hand trembles when she brings her glass to her lips. I touch her knee under the table, steadying her. She doesn’t flinch, but she doesn’t relax, either.
My father leans back, considering. “You remind me of your mother,” he says to Amara. “She had the same discipline. The same restraint. It’s a rare quality in women these days.”
Amara’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Thank you, sir.”
He laughs, sharp. “Please. Tonight is about celebration. Not protocol. Drink. Enjoy yourself.”
She sips her wine, then sets the glass down. The stem is wet where her fingers held it.
My mother tries to revive the conversation. “Did you know Julian paints?” she says, turning to Amara. “He has a studio at the house. Some of his work has been shown in galleries.”
Amara looks at me, surprise breaking through the mask. “I didn’t. What do you paint?”
“People,” I say. “Mostly faces.”
“That’s… interesting.”
My father chuckles. “He’s always been a student of human nature.”
Remington glances at me, a smirk. He’s bored, but amused by the tension.
I lean toward Amara and in an effort to be polite, I extend an olive branch. “Would you like to see my studio sometime?”
She hesitates, then nods. “I’d like that.”
My mother looks relieved, as if this is all the proof she needs that we are compatible.
The rest of the meal passes in a blur of forced laughter and polished lies. The food is excellent, but no one tastes it. Bydessert, Amara’s posture is still perfect, but her hands are beginning to twitch.
She stands, smoothing her skirt. “Excuse me,” she says. “Restroom.”
She leaves the table with the grace of a dancer, never looking back.
I wait exactly thirty seconds before rising.
Remy’s voice is low. “You need to go, too, huh? Don’t defile her too much, Dad will have your head for bringing shame to the family name.”
I smile, slow. “That’s the point.”
I follow her through the maze of mirrored corridors to the back of the restaurant. Without hesitation, I enter the women’s bathroom.
She stands at the marble counter, hands braced on the edge, breathing hard.
I close the door behind us and twist the lock.
Her reflection meets mine in the glass. There is no fear in her eyes now, only the anticipation of violence.
