“Isn’t it?” I look between them—these men I’ve known my entire life, who I’d die for without hesitation. “Parker came to us. She told us about the boys. She explained why she ran, why she kept them hidden. And she chose to try this thing with the three of us. And now you’re repaying that trust by hacking into her private medical records because Charles thinks Ryan Matthews might be in the picture? You’re doing exactly what we all agreed we wouldn’t do. How am I the only one keeping my word?”
Silence.
“I’m going to dinner,” I say finally. “At Parker’s place. Like she invited us to do. And I’m going to sit with her and those boys and pretend that I don’t know you’re over here betraying her. But when this blows up—and it will blow up, Cal, because this kind of thing always does—I’m going to remember that you chose Charles’s paranoia over Parker’s trust.”
I turn and walk out before either of them can respond, my hands shaking with rage and something that feels dangerously close to heartbreak.
Because they’re right about one thing—we don’t have all the answers. We don’t know if these children are Jace’s or Cal’s. We don’t know if Ryan Matthews has been in Parker’s life all along—though I’m pretty fucking sure he’s spouting bullshit on that one.
But we should trust Parker enough to ask instead of digging through her private records like she’s the enemy.
I cross the yard toward her house, toward the light spilling from the kitchen windows, toward the sound of her laugh and the boys’ excited chatter. Toward the life we’re supposed to be building.
And I wonder how long it’ll take before our doubts destroy everything we’ve barely started to create.
34
PARKER
The bridal boutique smells like champagne and expensive fabric—silk and tulle and whatever magic they weave into dresses that cost more than my first car. I stand on the raised platform in front of three angled mirrors, watching myself multiply into infinity while Madame Laurent, the boutique owner, pins the hem of my gown with the practiced efficiency of someone who’s dressed half the crime families in the city.
“Turn,” she commands in her thick French accent, and I rotate slowly, careful not to step on the midnight blue fabric pooling around my feet.
The gown is gorgeous—I’ll give Charles that. Off-shoulder sleeves that drape elegantly, a fitted bodice that makes my waist look smaller than it actually is, and a skirt that moves like water when I walk. The color is deep and rich, somewhere between navy and black, with silver thread embroidered along the neckline and hem in patterns that catch the light.
“Stunning,” Sienna says from the cream-colored sofa behind me, her own gown—a deep emerald green—already fitted andhanging on a rack nearby. “You look like a vengeful fairy queen about to destroy kingdoms.”
“That’s the aesthetic we’re going for,” I mutter, earning a sharp look from Madame Laurent as she adjusts a pin near my hip.
My mother sits beside Sienna, her champagne flute already half-empty even though we’ve only been here twenty minutes. Of course, Evelyn Carter looks elegant as always—her silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in a chignon, her cashmere wrap draped artfully over her shoulders. She’s watching me with that particular expression mothers get when they’re proud but trying not to show it too obviously.
“You should wear your hair up,” she says thoughtfully. “Show off your shoulders. Maybe some diamonds at your throat.”
“I’m not trying to look like I’m getting married, Mom.”
“No, you’re trying to look stunning on Ryan Matthews’s arm,” she corrects, and there’s something pleased in her voice that makes my chest tighten. “Which means you want to make an impression. Show the old guard that you’re not just Charles’s little sister anymore—you’re a woman worthy of respect in your own right.”
I resist the urge to remind her that I’ve been worthy of respect for years, that I built a life in California without anyone’s help, that I don’t need Ryan Matthews or any man to validate my existence.
The door chimes, and I catch Aria’s reflection in the mirror as she enters. Dominic’s widow moves with the practiced grace of someone who’s learned to perform femininity as survival, her expression somewhere between resentful and resigned. She’s dressed impeccably as always—a cream-colored dress thatprobably costs more than the average monthly rent, her blonde hair falling in perfect waves.
She’s young enough that Charles has been fielding “inquiries” about her availability from various families looking to strengthen alliances. Young enough to be married off again, traded like currency, used to build bridges Dominic’s death might have burned.
Jesus. Listen to me. Even knowing that Charles is fine trading her like property makes me sick.
“Parker. Sienna. Evelyn.” Her greeting is polite but cool. She hasn’t forgiven me for kicking her out of the main house, and I haven’t forgiven her for marrying my father for his money and power.
“Aria,” I acknowledge. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
“Charles suggested I should attend the gala.” Her smile is tight. “Apparently it’s good for family unity. Show the organization that we’re all... together during this transition.”
Translation: Charles wants to parade the young widow around to prove the Carters are stable despite Dominic’s death and maybe find her a new husband in the process. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“Your fitting is in thirty minutes,” Madame Laurent says to Aria without looking up from my hem. “I have your measurements from last season.”
Aria nods and settles into one of the chairs near the window, accepting a champagne flute from the assistant with practiced ease.
“The mask,” Madame Laurent says to her other assistant, who hurries over with a black velvet box.
