The door closes behind her.
“So,” Charles says cheerfully, completely oblivious to the tension. “Want to tell me what that was about?”
“Training,” I say, my voice rough.
“Right.” Charles doesn’t believe it for a second, but he doesn’t push. Instead he turns to the boys. “Okay, who wants to learn how to throw a proper punch?”
The boys cheer, and Silas moves to help Charles position them correctly.
And Cal and I stay on the mat, bruised and exhausted and forced to confront the fact that we almost lost everything because we chose doubt over trust.
“We really fucked up,” Cal says quietly.
“Yeah,” I agree, watching Liam try to mimic Silas’s stance while Noah demands to know why his feet have to be “so far apart.” “We really did.”
The gala is in two days. Parker will be on Ryan Matthews’s arm, wearing a gown we haven’t seen, playing the role Charles needs her to play.
And somewhere, those three sample tubes will be processed. Results will come back. And Parker will decide—on her timeline, in her way—when and how to share them with us.
If she shares them at all.
She’s taken control of the one thing we were investigating behind her back. Made it hers. And we have no choice but to wait and trust that she’ll tell us when she’s ready.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
“We do better,” I say finally. “Starting now. No more investigations. No more doubt. We ask her. Directly. Every time.”
“Agreed,” Cal says.
From across the gym, Silas looks over at us, his expression saying everything he doesn’t need to put into words:I fucking told you so.
He did. And we should have listened.
Noah lands a punch on the bag that makes it swing slightly, and his face lights up with pride. “Did you see that, Mom—” He stops, realizing Parker’s gone. His face falls slightly.
“She’ll be back,” Charles assures him. “Your mom just had some things to take care of.”
Like getting our DNA processed. Like taking control of information we tried to get behind her back. Like proving she doesn’t need our permission to get the answers we all want.
I touch my ribs where I know bruises are already forming, testament to how thoroughly she just demolished us.
And I think about those sample tubes tucked against her skin, warm from her body heat, labeled in her handwriting.
J. C. S.
Our fate, literally held close to her heart.
Now we just have to prove we deserve to stay there.
36
PARKER
Sienna’s walk-in closet is bigger than my first apartment in California—floor-to-ceiling mirrors, custom lighting that makes everyone look like they just stepped off a runway, and enough space that Madame Laurent and her two assistants can work without bumping into each other.
I stand on the small platform in front of the three-way mirror while they make final adjustments to the gown. Storm-grey silk flows around me like liquid shadow, steel-blue accents catching the light with every breath I take, amber beads glinting at my neckline and hem like captured firelight.
“Perfection,” Madame Laurent declares, stepping back to admire her work. “Absolute perfection. You will be unforgettable tonight, mademoiselle.”
