Dom doesn’t reply, just holds his father’s gaze with that coiled, silent fury I’ve come to recognize.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Kian muses, swirling his wine. “Trouble in paradise?”
My foot nudges Dom beneath the table in warning and Kian catches it instantly.
“Don’t mind me,” he says, teeth flashing. “I just worry. Family dinners lose their charm without a little blood in the air. Right, Margaux?”
She lifts her glass, eyes glittering. “It’s not a Blackwood gathering until someone cries or bleeds. Personally, I’m hoping for both.”
“That’s my girl. Always aiming for spectacle.” Kian chuckles low. “Don’t let anyone tell you subtlety wins wars.”
I give her a polite smile. “Still chasing validation at the bottom of a wine glass, Margaux?”
“Oh, I’ve missed you.” She grins, delighted.
The first dish arrives in synchronized grace, spheres of bluefin tuna suspended in shimmering soy essence. The servers move with quiet efficiency, trained to precision, their eyes never quite meeting ours. I track the tension in their shoulders and know what it means. Dom told me once: twelve seconds. If plating takes longer, Kian’s staff are “retrained.” And by that, he means dragged to the Underground.
I’ve never seen it myself, only heard the rumors. They say it stretches beneath the Blackwood estate, a buried empire where Kian breaks things—enemies, allies, expectations—down to bone, blood, and obedience. The floors there are spelled to wipe clean, and men who enter as threats emerge as whispers.
“To new beginnings,” Kian raises his glass toward me. “Or second chances, depending on which version of the story you prefer.”
I meet his eyes, smile cool. “I don’t believe in second chances. Just cleaner executions.”
Margaux chokes on a laugh, spraying wine into her napkin, while Dom’s tense hand finds mine again under the table.
Kian’s gaze carves the space between us. “We’ll see about that.”
“Divine,” Octavia pronounces, dabbing delicately at her lips with a linen napkin. Even that simple motion is laced with decades of etiquette training. “Though we really must discuss the wedding arrangements. I’ve already reached out to several venues that would suit a Blackwood–Ellis union.”
The entire room seems to still, conversations dropping to whispers as other diners pretend not to eavesdrop. I’ve seen this before—how the Blackwoods can turn any space into their personal theater, the rest of us merely players in their latest drama.
“Wedding arrangements?” I keep my voice steady even as my heart hammers against my ribs, and Dom’s hand hardens to stone against my thigh. When I glance at him and find he won’t meet my eyes, ice laces through my veins.
“Oh dear,” Kian drawls, gaze alight with malice. “Don’t tell me Dom hasn’t proposed yet? And here I was, certain that’s what tonight was for.” He turns to his son, mock concern curling his lips. “Have I ruined the surprise, darling boy?”
“Father.” Dom’s warning hits with authority, though his hand betrays him when it closes around his glass. The same involuntary flicker I’ve seen in countless others after Kian decides they need a personal tour of his subterranean playground.
“You haven’t agreed to marry him?” Margaux lets out a soft laugh as she lounges back, every inch the bored princess except for the predatory gleam lurking behind her lashes. “Oh, this is absolutely delicious. Mother’s been in an absolute tizzy for weeks. You should see her binder.” She leans forward. “Tell me, Aria—does it feel strange knowing your future mother-in-law started planning your wedding before you even knew about it? Or is that just standard procedure in our gloriously fucked-up family?”
“Margaux,” Dom growls, but she only gives him a bored glance.
“What, brother dearest? Someone had to name the elephant. Or should I say . . .” she lifts her glass, “. . . the engagement ring thatdoesn’t exist? Don’t act surprised, Aria. You’re practically family already. Might as well make it legally binding.”
“Nothing has been agreed,” I say tightly. “Whatever this is, it isn’t settled.”
“But it should be, shouldn’t it?” Kian puts his elbows on the table, fingers steepling. “After all, weren’t you and your heartthrob working toward that before your little tragedy derailed everything? The perfect union. The perfect future.” He gestures lazily between us. “Power marries pedigree.”
“That’s not what this is.” I swallow with a stiff spine.
His smile turns mocking. “No? Then tell me, Aria, was Dominic just your little rebellion back then? A thrill to piss off your parents?” His voice lowers to poisonous undertone. “And now that they’re gone, he’s lost his appeal?”
“Of course not,” I snap, just as Dom’s fingers tighten around my knee in warning.
“Ah,” Kian says, all faux sympathy. “The novelty hasn’t worn off. That’s good. Love’s so rare in our world, wouldn’t you say? So delicate. So easily twisted into leverage.”
“Careful,” Dom grits out. “You’re treading into shit I won’t stay polite about.”
Kian’s grin stretches. “There he is. My boy, with fire in his blood.” He turns to me. “He’s always been a protective little thing. Told him once it’d be his downfall, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe love makes men useful, not weak. What do you think, Aria?”
