“If we what?” I interrupt. “If we lose our shit watching another man touch her while she’s wearing our colors like a brand? While she’s sending a message we can’t acknowledge in public?”
“Yes.” Jace’s jaw is clenched so tight I’m surprised his teeth don’t crack. “Exactly that.”
Ryan introduces Parker to someone—an older woman in diamonds, probably one of the old guard families. Parker smiles, extends her hand, plays the role perfectly. The woman says something that makes Parker laugh, a sound I can hear even from this distance because I’m that attuned to her.
Ryan’s hand hasn’t left her back.
“Two days,” Silas says quietly. “We haven’t spoken to her in two days except for logistics about tonight. She’s been avoiding us.”
“Can you blame her?” The words taste bitter. “We doubted her. Investigated her. Let Charles manipulate us into thinking Ryan fucking Matthews might be the father of her children.”
“We apologized,” Jace points out.
“Did we?” I turn to look at him. “Or did we just say we fucked up and hope that would be enough?”
Jace doesn’t answer. Because we both know I’m right. We acknowledged the mistake, but we haven’t actually fixed anything. Haven’t proven we learned from it. Haven’t shown her we can be what she needs.
And now she’s down there, on another man’s arm, wearing our colors like armor, and we can’t do a fucking thing about it.
Parker moves through the crowd with Ryan at her side, making connections, charming donors, playing her role as Charles’s sister and the Carter family’s new strategist. She’s good at this—better than she probably wants to be. Reading people, knowing exactly what to say, when to laugh, when to look interested.
I catalogue it all. Every conversation. Every person she meets. The way Ryan positions himself as her date, introducing her as “my date for the evening” instead of just by name. The way older men look at her with interest that’s a little too sharp. The way their wives assess her like competition.
Parker handles it all with grace and steel in equal measure.
But every few minutes, her eyes find us. Just for a second. Just long enough to remind us that the message is deliberate. That she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Senator Morrison is approaching them,” Jace observes, his tactical mind still tracking threats even while the rest of him is focused on Parker.
I watch as the senator—mid-sixties, silver hair, expensive suit—intercepts Parker and Ryan near the champagne fountain. Ryan makes introductions. The senator takes Parker’s hand, holds it a beat too long.
Parker’s smile doesn’t waver, but I see the subtle shift in her posture. The slight withdrawal that’s so small only someone who knows her would notice.
The senator says something. Parker responds with something that makes him laugh. Ryan’s hand tightens on her back.
“He’s getting too comfortable,” Silas mutters.
“Who, the senator or Ryan?”
“Both.”
We watch as Parker extracts herself from the conversation with practiced ease, murmuring something about needing to find her brother. Ryan follows, still touching her, still positioning himself as her escort.
They move toward where Charles and Sienna are holding court near one of the art installations—a massive sculpture of twisted metal that probably cost more than a house. Charles sees them coming, his expression brightening as he waves them over.
Parker says something to Ryan. He nods, his hand finally—finally—leaving her back as he steps aside to let her approach her brother alone.
She hugs Charles, kisses Sienna’s cheek, and for just a moment she looks relaxed. Real. Not performing for donors or tolerating Ryan’s presence.
Then Charles gestures to someone in the crowd—another family head, probably, someone he wants Parker to meet—and she’s back on. Smile in place, shoulders straight, every inch the Carter princess she was raised to be.
“This is torture,” I say quietly.
“Yes,” Jace agrees.
“We deserve it,” Silas adds.
Also true.
