The pause before that final word stretches between us, heavy with unspoken meaning. He holds my gaze a beat too long, searching for cracks, for weakness, for any sign that I might crumble under the weight of whatever he's planning. At least, that is what it feels like. I never really know what he’s thinking at any given time.
I keep my spine straight and my expression neutral, even as my nails dig crescents into my palms behind my back.
The way he says ‘important’ makes my skin crawl. In my father's vocabulary, that means profitable. Advantageous. A move on the chessboard of his endless games.
And I’m not a fool. I'm the pawn. I just don’t know what game we’re playing yet.
A few hours later, the dining room of my childhood home glitters with crystal and candlelight, a stage set for whatever performance my father has planned. The scent of roasted lamb and rosemary hangs heavy in the air, mingling with my mother's cloying perfume and the woody notes of the fire crackling in the massive hearth. I sit at the long mahogany table in a burgundy dress that my mother selected, my hair pinned up in an elegant twist that hides my blue tips, my smile fixed in place like a mask.
Eight people occupy the table. My father at the head, his posture rigid with authority, his fingers wrapped around a crystal glass of scotch that catches the candlelight like liquid amber. My mother at the foot, her vacant expression suggesting she's already three glasses of wine into forgetting she exists, her fork pushing food around her plate without ever lifting it to her lips. Governor Harrison and his wife sit to my father's right, politicians' smiles plastered on their faces, their laughter too loud and too practiced. Their son, Bradley, occupies the seat beside me, his cologne too strong and his hand drifting too close to my thigh under the table.
And Gino. Ever present, asshole extraordinaire Gino. He stands against the wall with two other guards. Their beefy arms hang at their sides and I swear I’ve seen more life in a stagnant puddle of water than what lives in their eyes.
But they are watching. Always fucking watching.
"Do you follow racing, Ilona?" Bradley asks for the third time tonight, apparently having forgotten he already asked. Or perhaps not caring about the answer. His breath carries the sour tang of red wine, and when he smiles, it doesn't reach his watery blue eyes. "My father bought me a stake in a Formula One team last year. We came in fourth at Monaco."
Kill me now.
"How exciting." I take a sip of water, wishing it were something stronger. Wishing I could drink at all. "I'm afraid I don't know much about cars."
"What about horses? We have a stable in Kentucky. Finest thoroughbreds money can buy."
I want to tell him I don't care about his cars or his horses or his family's money. I want to tell him that his hand is creeping toward my knee and if he touches me, I'll stab him with my dessert fork. I want to scream that I'm pregnant with another man's baby and I'd rather die than sit in this chair another minute pretending we are hitting it off.
Instead, I smile and nod and pray for this dinner to end.
Dessert arrives, some sort of chocolate mousse that turns my already churning stomach. The rich, bittersweet scent makes bile rise in my throat, and I press my napkin to my lips until the nausea passes. I push the mousse around my plate, hyper-aware of the glances passing between my father and the governor. There's a second conversation happening, one conducted in raised eyebrows and subtle nods and the quiet clink of whiskey glasses, and I'm clearly the subject.
My father sets down his spoon and clears his throat. The table falls silent, even the fire seeming to quiet its crackling.
"Ilona." His voice carries the weight of command, the tone that has ruled my entire life. "I've been thinking about your future. Your education, while admirable, seems to be leading nowhere productive."
My spine stiffens. Here it comes.
"I've found a use for you in the family business."
I arrange my features into pleasant interest, playing the dutiful daughter one last time. "Oh? What did you have in mind, Father?"
"You will quit your studies and marry Bradley." He gestures toward the governor's son with a casual wave, as if he's offeringme a business opportunity rather than selling me like livestock. "It's only right that you bring an heir into this household and unite our two families. The wedding will take place within the month."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Chills erupt over my skin, racing down my spine and spreading across my arms like frost creeping over glass. An heir. Right. Because that's all I've ever been to him. A womb with legs and a convenient last name. How silly of me to think I might have any other value.
Around the table, everyone watches for my reaction.
My mother's eyes are glassy and distant, her fingers trembling slightly around the stem of her wine glass. Bradley looks smug, his thin lips curving into a satisfied smile as he leans back in his chair, already calculating what he'll do with his new acquisition. The governor and his wife exchange satisfied glances, their work here clearly done.
I think of the life growing inside me. The baby I never planned for, never expected, but already love with a ferocity that terrifies me. My baby. The one thing in this world that belongs entirely to me.
I swallow the bitter anger and slide an iron rod into my backbone. This is no longer just about me.
I lift my chin and utter one word I have never told my father.
"No."
My father's expression freezes, the color draining from his face before flooding back in an angry flush splotching his cheeks red. "I'm sorry?"
"No." I push back my chair and stand, my legs trembling but my voice steady. "I won't marry him. I won't quit my studies. And I won't be sold off like property to secure your political alliances."
