My father is shaking, a fine, rhythmic tremor of pure, unadulterated rage that makes the silverware on the table shake.
“If you walk out that door,” he says, his voice a low, jagged rasp, “you are no longer a Collier. Do you understand? You’re out. Permanently.”
My mother cuts him a sharp look. “Graham, you don’t mean that.”
“I mean every goddamn word!” He slams his palm down again, and this time a bread plate clatters to the floor. He points a trembling finger at my chest. “If you’d rather stay here in this fucking shithole than fix the mess you’ve made when it comes to this family, then as far as I’m concerned, you are no longer in this family. I’ll have you removed from every will, every trust, every legal document with the Collier name on it.”
Daniel shifts, looking genuinely unsettled. “Graham, let’s just take a breather. We can work something out that doesn’t involve—”
“No!” my father barks. “It’s California or it’s nothing. Make your choice, Annemarie.”
I stand there, feeling the air in the room grow thin. I turn to my mother. She’s staring down at her plate, her face a mask of practiced neutrality, her hands folded in her lap. “Mom?”
“Elaine,” my father warns, his eyes boring into the side of her head. “If you disagree, you’re more than welcome to go with her.”
My mother’s eyes widen. She looks up at me, and for a split second, I see the girl she used to be—the one who might have run, too. But then the light goes out. She looks at my father, then back to me, her voice a fragile whisper. “He’s my husband, Annie…I…”
She sounds helpless. She looks it.
“And I’m your daughter,” I say, but I can tell she’s made her choice. Again. It isn’t me. It was never going to be me. A hot, stinging prickle of tears hits my eyes, and I hate myself for it. I hate that it still hurts.
“Annie?”
I’d know that voice anywhere—the low, gravelly timbre, the way it says my name like it’s something precious. I turn, and my breath just…stops.
Leo is standing there, looking like he walked straight out of a dream I didn’t know I was having. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that fits him like it was molded to his skin, his dark hair slicked back with the exception of the stubborn, beautiful curls at the nape of his neck that refuse to be tamed. He looks polished, powerful, and devastatingly handsome. His eyes do a quick, assessing sweep of the room, trailing over my lavender dress, but when they finally meet mine—glistening with unshed tears—his face goes hard. All the softness I know evaporates, replaced by a simmering, protective anger. He looks dangerous.
“What’s going on here?” he asks, his voice low. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s at my side in two strides, his hand finding mine. His grip is warm and sure and he smells like hiswoodsy soap. “Who did this to you, Annie?” His eyes sweep the table again, his jaw set.
Daniel, who had been watching with a detached pity, now straightens. He uncrosses his arms, his gaze narrowing on our joined hands. I can feel his mood shift—from resigned spectator to something pricklier.
“Who the hell is this?” my father barks, his voice dripping with contempt.
“Leo,” I whisper, the tears finally breaking free and trailing down my cheeks. “I told you not to come.”
He doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out and brushes a tear away with his thumb, his gaze never leaving mine.
My father lets out a dry, ugly laugh. “Oh, I see. That’s what this is about.” He leans back, a cruel smirk on his face. “Sothisis what you’ve really been doing. Not finding yourself, but running around the streets of Manhattan like some kind of modern day Jezebel.”
“Graham!” Mom snaps, her voice sharp.
I go still. My heart isn’t just pounding; it’s echoing in my ears.
“I’ll give it to you, Annemarie,” he says, raising his wine glass in a mocking toast. “I knew you were a disappointment. I didn’t take you for a whore.”
The word hangs in the air, vile and shocking.
Mom shoots up from her chair. “Graham, that is fucking enough!”
But before my father can draw another breath, Leo moves. I’ve never seen him move that fast. He’s a blur of charcoal wool. One second he’s beside me, and the next, he has my father by the collar, hoisting him up and pinning him against the ornate wallpaper with a sickening thud. The wine glass falls from my father’s hand, shattering on the floor in a burst of crimson and crystal.
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. My father is sputtering, his face turning different shades of purple, his eyes bulging as Leo’s hand wraps almost entirely around his throat. He may be in good shape for his age, but Leo has at least three inches on him and twice the muscle, and right now, he looks like he could snap my father in two.
“You will never,” Leo says, his voice a low, terrifying snarl, “use that word in her presence again. Not while I’m breathing.”
I’ve never seen Leo like this. The quiet professor is gone. In his place is a man filled with a primal, terrifying rage.
“Fuck…you,” my father wheezes, his hands clawing at Leo’s wrists.
