Page 189 of Arrow

I watched my father from across the room, cataloging the new lines around his mouth, the silver threading through his once-black hair. Giovanni Virelli looked smaller somehow, less mythic than the monster of my childhood memories. He hadn’t approached me yet, choosing instead to work the room with calculated precision, shaking hands with men who’d rather put bullets in him.

“Your father’s avoiding you,” Arrow murmured, appearing at my side with a glass of champagne. His hand settled at the small of my back, warm and possessive.

“Good,” I replied, taking the glass. “The longer he stays away, the longer I can pretend this isn’t happening.”

“What? The wedding or the fact that he sold you to me?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Is there a difference?”

“There’s all the difference in the world.” Arrow’s voice dropped lower, his lips brushing my ear. “Your father thinks he’s punishing you. I think he’s given me the only thing worth having in this city.”

I scanned the room, taking in the uneasy alliances forming in the corners and the whispered conversations behind raised glasses. The Romanov contingent kept to one side, Arrow’s uncles and cousins watching me with predatory curiosity. The Virellis clustered near the bar, their hands never straying far from where I knew they kept their weapons.

“How many people in this room want us dead?” I asked, sipping my champagne.

“At least half.” Arrow’s hand tightened at my waist. “The other half is waiting to see if we kill each other first.”

I laughed, the sound drawing my father’s attention from across the room. Our eyes locked, and for a moment, I was eight years old again, standing in his study with skinned knees and a defiant tilt to my chin. He excused himself from his conversation and began making his way toward us, each step deliberate and measured.

“Showtime,” I murmured, draining my champagne and setting the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray.

Giovanni Virelli stopped before us, his expression unreadable as his gaze flicked between Arrow and me. He was dressed in a black tailored suit, the Virelli crest pin gleaming on his lapel.

“Harlowe,” he said, my name sounding foreign on his tongue. “You look well.”

“Father,” I replied, the word bitter as arsenic. “Surprised to see you here. I thought you’d send a representative.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And miss seeing my only daughter’s rehearsal dinner? What kind of father would that make me?”

“The same kind you’ve always been,” I said, feeling Arrow’s hand tighten at my waist.

My father’s gaze dropped to Arrow’s hand on me, then to the necklace at my throat. Disgust flickered across his face.

“Romanov,” he acknowledged with a slight nod. “I trust you’re treating my investment well. She’s always been difficult,” my father replied, as if I wasn’t standing right there. “But I assume you’ve found ways to manage that particular trait.”

I felt Arrow’s body tense beside me, coiled like a snake ready to strike. Before he could respond, I stepped slightly forward, putting myself between Arrow and my father. “I’m right here, Father. Perhaps you could address me directly instead of talking about me as if I’m livestock you’re selling at auction.”

My father’s eyes narrowed, that familiar flash of cold anger I’d grown up fearing. But I wasn’t a child anymore, cowering in corners while he raged.

“Always so dramatic,” he said, his Italian accent thickening as it did when he was annoyed. “This marriage is business, Harlowe. Nothing personal.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” I tilted my head, studying him. “That selling your daughter to the family responsible for Luca’s death is just business?”

The muscle in his jaw ticked—the same tell Arrow had when he was fighting for control. “Your brother made his choices.”

“And now you’ve made mine.” I felt Arrow's hand at the small of my back, steady and grounding. “Tell me, Father, did you even negotiate a good price? Or was getting rid of me reward enough?”

My father’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You ungrateful⁠—”

“Careful, Giovanni,” Arrow cut in, his voice silky with threat. “That’s my future wife you’re speaking to.”

The tension between them crackled like a live wire. Two apex predators circling, neither willing to show weakness. My father’s gaze slid from Arrow to me, then back again.

“You’ve defiled my daughter,” he said, nodding toward the necklace at my throat. “Branded her like cattle.”

“No,” Arrow replied coolly. “Just making sure everyone knows she belongs to me.”

My father’s laugh was bitter. “That’s what you think this is? Ownership? My daughter belongs to no one. Never has. That’s her problem.”