However, fate has always had a sick sense of humor. Just as I pivot away from my father’s murderous glare, Harper appears. Out of the cellar door. A wine bottle in each hand. Addy is right behind, a slanted grin on her face as she shoulders the door jamb. Every drop of blood in my body turns to ice.
Upon seeing the color drain from my face, Harper freezes, her smile faltering and her gaze jumping between the unfamiliar faces and the storm brewing in my father’s eyes.
“Rhys.” His voice cuts the air with the sharpness of a blade. “Is that my Château Cheval Blanc?” I’ve already clocked the label on the bottle, but before I have a chance to respond, to somehow take the blame on their behalf, Addy giggles. Tripping over her own foot, she slides an arm around Harper’s shoulders.
“Well, duh. You’re out of whiskey.”
My father’s head snaps toward Addy, the fury that blooms across his face is instant and volcanic. Then his eyes slide to Harper, the girl he blames for everything. The girl he absolutely does not want under his roof. The girl who, unfortunately for him, I’m in love with, even if her timing is impeccable.
Bringing up the rear, Clayton’s head of blond hair appears, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he hits me with a guilty look. I can only imagine he tried to talk the girls out of day drinking, but they are a force to be reckoned with. For a heartbeat, no one moves. The foyer shrinks around us all, the air becoming tight without anyone wanting to break the silence first. However, my father being the man he is, always needing to take control, takes one measured step towards me. It takes everything I have not to flinch.
“First, we dine with our guests. Then, I’ll deal with you.” There’s hardly enough time for my father’s gaze to drag over Harper with open disdain before Addy shoots upright, her brown eyes brightening.
“Oh, perfect! I could eat,” she says brightly, already turning on her heel. We all watch her practically skip towards the largest dining room, two butlers carrying trays of champagne, managing to successfully serve before she bulldozes through them. Her neon hair disappears from view, but there’s no mystery as to her whereabouts. “Holy crap! It smells delicious in here!”
Fiona appears in the archway of the kitchen, her eyes shifting between us with uncertainty. She’s not the only one.
“Should I…prepare more supper, Mr. Waversea?” she asks nervously. To my surprise, he gives her an irritable grunt and nod. At the sharp jerk of his chin, my feet shift of their own accord. Holding my arm out, I scoop Harper up and take her with me. Clayton exhales sharply behind me, also falling into step and not looking back as the Kavanagh’s whisper amongst themselves. Hopefully, they’re deciding they can’t mix with the commoners - Clayton and Addy, I mean - and they’re making their excuses to leave.
Stepping into the dining room, I manage to shoo Addy out of my father’s seat at the head of the table just before he appears with the Kavanagh’s in tow. Goddamn, I can’t catch a break tonight. Harper’s fingers curl around my arm, keeping me close at all times. I can’t decide whether that’s for my benefit or hers, but we take a seat side by side regardless, waiting for the serving staff to rush in and set up the table for four extra guests. The entire time they’re placing cutlery and wine glasses, my father’s jaw flexes, a vein pulsing at his temple.
“Not her,” he growls, using two fingers to dismiss the butler about to put a wine glass in front of Addy. She doesn’t seem to notice, her hand already reaching for a breadbasket that’s just been placed in the middle of the polished mahogany table. Klara positions herself across from me, folding her napkin with deliberate precision and trying to catch my eye. I ignore her,laser-focused on my father taking his seat like a king surveying his court.
“Well,” Mrs. Kavanagh perks up, clasping her hands together on the table even though her voice is strained. “This certainly is… lively. You’ll have to introduce us to your friends, Rhys.”
Klara snorts, fixing Harper with a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. The kind that says have your temporary fun, I’m the one who’s here to stay. It’s that confident pinch of her features that boosts my irritation to a new level.
“Certainly,” I address Mrs. Kavanagh, sliding an arm around Harper’s back and tugging her so close into my side that her chair squeaks. “This is my girlfriend, Harper. On her right is Clayton, her other boyfriend, and the little pixie hogging the bread down there is her roommate, Addy.” My gaze lingers on Addy, concern lacing through me at the way her blunt teeth are tearing at the bread rolls as if it’s her last meal. Then I remember I don’t care whether she chokes or simply gets indigestion, and my attention is back on the Kavanagh's opposite.
“Oh, right then,” Mrs. Kavanagh tries to be polite. Her hair is the same golden shade as Klara’s, but has been pinned up rather than left loose around her shoulders. Also like her daughter, she’s opted to wear a sequin cocktail dress that pushes her cleavage unnaturally high, not that I’m looking. Her husband grumbles beneath his breath, sharing a look with my equally pissed-off father. Thankfully, my remarks are forgotten as Fiona appears at his side with the same caution as a soldier stepping into a war zone.
“Dinner is about to be served,” she interjects carefully. Her eyes flick to me, then to Harper, something protective passing through them before she inclines her head. My brow twitches, but as soon as Fiona’s hidden message pierces the air, it’s snagged back with her retreat.
Plates are set down, and wine is poured, the conversation turning limp between the pairings. Mr. Kavanagh talks business with my father, their voices too low to hear, while Mrs. Kavanagh tells Klara to stop slouching and that it's rude to stare. Glancing across the table, I pick up on that stare, which is pierced with daggers and locked on Harper. Besides the jealousy oozing across the table as thick as tar, the first course passes by smoothly, and my hackles have just started to lower when Mrs. Kavanagh sticks her nose into the air again.
“Rhys, Klara tells me you haven't been at the academy in some time.” She states, not asking the question that she intended.Where the fuck have you been?“I do hope you will return soon. It's not a good look, you know.” I fight against the urge to roll my eyes. Always with the appearances. Although I had managed to release Harper long enough to eat, my arm slides back around her waist, cementing myself to her.
“I've been dealing with something far more important,” I announce coldly, my voice devoid of the emotion swirling within. Placing his silver cutlery down with a clatter, my father rejoins the conversation laid out before him.
“Hardly. Playing house with your whore is of no importance when your future is on the line.”
“You will not call her that again.” My fingers dig into Harper’s hip bone. If it bothers her, she doesn’t show it, but I don’t miss how her hand has found Clayton’s thigh beneath the table, also taking strength from where she needs it. For once, I don’t envy her for that. “Her name is Harper, and you will treat her with respect.” Harper’s knee brushes against mine, her presence a quiet defiance I cling to.
“Is that so?” My father tilts his head, seemingly amused. “Finally grew a backbone, I see. We will discuss this later.” Later, later, always later. Later means more bruises, more rules, more nights convincing myself I deserved it. When that didn’t work, Ibecame numb to it instead. But the fury is thrumming through my veins now. The red is curtaining my vision now. Not just for his insults at Harper, but for all of it. The secrets, the lies, the beatings. I’ve had enough.
Something inside me snaps. It’s not loud or explosive in the way I expected, but more like a cable that’s been pulled too tight and has finally given way. I’ve spent my whole life shrinking under that tone, quaking at that look, training myself to stay quiet in his presence and take my wrath out on others when he’s not around. Straightening my spine, I level my father with a glare that shows I’m not his punching bag anymore. I won’t be controlled any longer.
“No,” I state coldly. “We will discuss it right now.” The room goes so quiet, I can hear the blood roaring in my ears as I push my chair back and stand. The scrape of wood against marble feels criminal, like a gunshot in a chapel, and every head turns toward me. My father’s brows knit, already preparing whatever cutting remark he thinks will put me back in my place, but for once I don’t give him the space to speak. I reach down and tug Harper upright by the hand, grounding myself in the warmth of her palm, the steady press of her thumbs against my knuckles.
My father laughs, the sound laced with disbelief. It’s a ruse to placate Mr. Kavanagh, a weak attempt to cover the fury in his eyes. Usually, I’d baulk, but not this time. This is a man who confuses silence with obedience. A man who taught me the only strength to be found is in dominance. But as Harper’s body presses into my side, as Clayton’s shoulders square in a solidarity I don’t deserve, and as Addy keeps chewing open-mouthed and obvious to the air around the table, I discover the true meaning of strength in numbers. I’m not alone here, not anymore.
“Sit down, Rhys,” he orders, clicking his fingers as if I’m a hound on his leash. “You’re making a scene. Send your littletramp and her friends away so we can have a sophisticated dinner, as I promised the Kavanagh’s it would be. There are matters that need to be taken care of.” As he says this, my father’s eyes sweep across the table to settle on Klara, the corners crinkling in his attempt to be courteous.
The pulse in my jaw twitches. It’s all so clear now. This dinner was supposed to be about my engagement to Klara, the one my father insisted on as mandatory when Harper didn’t choose me. But he doesn’t understand that I don’t need to be Harper’s exclusive choice. I just need to be an option.
“I’m in love with Harper. She isn’t temporary or inconvenient, or something you can ignore because she wasn’t part of your carefully constructed plans. She’s part of mine. The people on this side of the table are more like family to me than you ever will be.”
I hear her inhale sharply beside me, notice Clayton still, and sense Addy’s fork pause halfway to her mouth. The look on my father’s face is murderous, the one he usually gets before he reaches for his belt buckle. I know he won’t lash me in front of my audience, but a sliver of my courage retreats as he continues to glare.
