I tried to smile even though I could feel my lips trembling. “I’m… leaving. For the crest appointment.”
Some ridiculous part of me waited for his outrage. For him to slam the bottle down and say,Not my daughter. Not like this.To demand keys. To say he was coming with me. That no one was going to carve another dynasty into my skin while he stayed home.
He set the bottle on the desk.
Relief burst bright and sharp under my ribs. He stood. Walked around the desk.
I took half a step back to give him room in the doorway, already inhaling to saythank youorI was so scared you wouldn’t?—
He reached the threshold.
And slammed the door.
Hard. In my face.
A clean, final thud that echoed down the hallway like a slap.
I flinched.
The silence after rang in my ears.
I stood there for a few seconds—long enough to feel stupid for waiting. Long enough to realize he’d made his choice.
The fear came then for real. This was thicker. Heavier. The particular kind that wrapped around your lungs when you realized not only were you about to be marked for someone else’s crest, you were going to walk into it without a single hand on your back.
Of course I was.
That was the theme lately. I’d be that desperate I even asked my handle if Vincent would be there. I was told very clearly, no. The Lord of Villain had more important things to do. If that didn’t confirm the man he really was.
Slowly, I stepped away from the door. Turned toward the foyer because there was nowhere else to go.
The house looked exactly the same as it had every other morning—vase on the console, framed family photographs along the wall, my mother’s shoes lined up neatly on the mat like she might sweep in at any moment and declare I was late. None of it had shifted to match how wrong everything felt.
My fingers fumbled with the lock on the front door before I got it open.
A car idled at the curb—Crow black, hood ornament, tinted windows, driver standing beside it with his gaze politely averted.
I shut the door behind me.
This was it.
I straightened my shoulders, even though every part of me wanted to curl in on itself, and walked toward the car.
54
Vince
The feed was muted, but I could hear her anyway.
My baby, half-naked under clinic lights, back bare, hair pinned up out of the way. Pale. Too thin.
I’d watched it live, paced the length of the penthouse with my phone in my hand like I could hold her steady across a city. Now the replay ran on the wall screen.
I’d controlled everything but the part that mattered.
Artist vetted twice. Ink batch-logged and sealed. Needles counted in and out. Medical staff on standby who owed me enough favours to keep their mouths shut forever. Private corridor, private room, private security. Temperature regulated so she didn’t get cool.
Every variable locked.
