“Yes. Thank you for reminding me. Can we get the Bruschetta al Pomodoro, please?” my dad tells him, ordering our favorite appetizer.
“Of course. Coming right up.” The waiter opens his pad, jotting it down quickly as he smiles at us.
As he steps away, Antony leans back in his chair, swirling the ice in his water glass. Smug. Always so smug. I’d like nothing more than to take my knife and stab it right into his heart.
The thought of him, bleeding, begging for help, puts a smile on my face. I should hate myself for thinking such gruesome and horrible thoughts. But I don’t.
"Everything okay, Ginny?" Antony asks, tapping his finger against his chin.
I press my palms to my lap, digging my nails into the soft fabric of my dress. He knows. Maybe not about the plan, but he knows I don’t want him here. He knows his presence is choking the air from my lungs, and yet he’s thriving in it, basking in my discomfort.
I force a smile, all saccharine sweetness and thinly veiled irritation. "Oh, I’m great. Just really, really looking forward to my Coke."
And getting the hell out of here before I stab him.
His question gets my father’s attention, and he clears his throat as he fiddles with the silverware. Fuck me! I know that nervous tell. He had one similar when he gave me the whole birds and bees lecture when I got my first period. This night is getting worse by the minute. The only thing that would make itbetter would be knowing that Carter’s plan went off without a hitch and Blake and Chase are on the path to working out their issues. But I can’t check my phone to see if I have a message or to send Carter one. Not with the way Antony’s watching me like a hawk.
I feel the weight of the moment settle over the table like a thick fog, suffocating any breath of relief I might’ve thought I could take. Dad clears his throat, a soft, deliberate sound that echoes louder than it should. His eyes flick to Antony, then back to me. There’s something in that glance, some silent exchange that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. They both know something—something I don’t, and I don’t like it. My stomach twists into a tight, anxious knot, and my fingers tremble just slightly as I trace the edge of my water glass.
Dad shifts in his seat, fingers still dancing nervously around his silverware before he suddenly raps his knuckles against the table, sharp and firm, demanding attention.
"Geneva," he says, drawing out my name. I glance up, catching the look on Antony’s face. His eyes are trained on me, intense, calculating. I can feel the heat rise in my cheeks as I shift my gaze away, locking it back onto my father. I hope to god he didn’t see the fire that flared up between Antony and me. The tension is thick, suffocating, and it makes the words in my mouth feel trapped.
I force a smile, the sweetness of it as artificial as the syrupy sweetness of a dessert you know is going to be too rich. "Yeah?" I say, my gaze still flicking to Antony, whose smug face makes me want to hurl.
Dad doesn’t seem to notice my gaze or the tension between the three of us. Instead, he presses on, his voice smooth and proud. "Antony told me about your extra early morning training at the rink. I want you to know, I admire this new dedication to perfecting your skill set. I was worried about you for a while,especially with the issues at Christmas, but you seem to be turning a new leaf and I’m proud of you."
My head snaps toward Antony, and without thinking, I let him have it—a look sharp and loaded with the venom I’ve been holding back. His smile falters, inch by inch, as if every second I'm glaring at him is another chip off his mask. Good. Let him feel it. His plan to sabotage me is failing, crumbling right in front of his eyes, and for the first time, I feel like I’ve won something.
But before I can savor the moment, Dad speaks again, his tone shifting, growing more serious. "However, Antony has voiced some concerns, and I have to agree with him."
My stomach drops. The words echo in my mind, and my pulse hammers in my ears as the air grows thick, heavy with what’s to come.
"You’re more fatigued during your practices," he continues, "and it's showing in your routine. I’d love to see you cut down the extra training to a few days a week."
There it is. Antony once again fucking with my life. Controlling it and me like a puppet master.
I feel my smile slip away, a tightness creeping into my chest. My heart races, my thoughts scatter in every direction, but all I can hear is the silence that follows his words.
But then, Dad’s voice pulls me back. He’s not done. "There’s more," he says, his words thick with the weight of whatever he’s about to unload. My stomach twists as I brace myself. "My team uses the rink for extra practice as well," Dad continues, his tone turning even more serious, more unsettling. "And it seems you’ve been there when they’ve been. Both Antony and I worry about you being there alone with them."
My heart lurches. My chest tightens. "What’s to worry about?" I blurt, the words snapping out of me before I can stop them. I’m fighting to hold it together, to keep my voice steady because we’re in a crowded restaurant and I can’t make a scene—nothere, not now. But the tension is boiling inside me, itching at my skin like a rash I can’t scratch.
"Geneva," my dad says, and the way he says it—heavy, slow, like he’s speaking to a child—makes the blood rush to my face. "You’re alone in a rink with men. You’re an attractive girl, and, well... quite frankly, my team, while they are men, they can act like boys and think with the wrong head. I don’t want you in a situation where they could possibly try to take advantage of you."
His words hit me like a slap across my face. My pulse quickens, my vision narrows, and I bite the inside of my cheek hard to keep my anger from spilling over. I can feel my hands trembling slightly, but I don’t let it show. "I can take care of myself, Dad," I snap, the words sharp and bitter on my tongue. "I’m not some damsel in distress. Besides, it’s only happened one time that someone was there, and we didn’t even talk to each other." My eyes flick to Antony then, and I can’t stop the sneer that curls my lips. "Antony can attest to that—he followed me there. Seems like when he left, he couldn’t run fast enough to snitch on me, huh? Like a damn playground tattletale."
I need to keep it together. There’s too much at stake for this weekend, too much I can’t afford to lose.
"Geneva," my dad starts again, but I don’t let him finish. I can’t hear it anymore.
"Seriously, Dad?" I cut him off, my voice harsh, cutting through the space between us like a knife. "We didn’t even skate on the same end of the rink. But it’s okay, I get the memo. If anyone is there, I can’t skate. Got it. Once again, your precious team is put before me, your daughter. Your flesh and blood."
Before he can respond, the waiter arrives at our table with our drinks and the appetizer. His presence breaks the tension like a glass of cold water. But it doesn’t help. It doesn’t cool the heat burning in my chest, the fury swirling in my stomach. Mymind is made up now, clearer than ever. I’m going to see Carter tonight. Hopefully, he still wants to. And I just so happen to have the perfect alibi—thank you, Melly.
But for now, I plaster on the most composed smile I can manage, because that’s the only thing that matters. Get through dinner. Get through this. And then, I’ll take back control.
It’s been torture since we made it home. Hell, even before that. Having to keep a fake smile plastered on my face to appease my father and let Antony think he has the upper hand is exhausting. I’m ready to get the hell out of here. I just had to make sure to put on a show for Dad.
