Page 230 of Arrow

“I’m thorough,” my father corrected. “I’ve spent my entire life preparing for this moment. The end of the Romanov line. The restoration of Virelli honor.” He looked down at Arrow with cold satisfaction. “And you, the last Romanov son, will die knowing you failed to protect what was yours.”

The knife pressed harder against Arrow’s throat, a thin trickle of blood running down his neck. I watched in horror as my father prepared to end my husband’s life, to frame me for his murder, to destroy everything we had built.

I heard Arrow’s voice, low and steady despite the blade at his throat. “Kill me if you must, Giovanni. But you’ll never have her. Harlowe is stronger than you know.”

My father laughed, the sound echoing off the marble floors. “Strong? She’s weeping like a child.”

The knife pressed harder against Arrow’s throat. I watched in horror as the blade bit deeper, blood welling up around the steel.

“No!” I screamed, finding strength I didn’t know I possessed. I drove my elbow back into the gut of the man holding me, twisted free, and lunged forward.

My father turned at my movement, his eyes widening as I threw myself at him. The knife sliced through the air as we collided, missing Arrow’s throat by inches. We crashed to the floor together, my father’s surprise giving me the momentary advantage.

“You ungrateful—” he snarled, regaining his footing.

I scrambled back, adrenaline surging through my veins. The room seemed to move in slow motion as I assessed my options. Arrow was still restrained, but his eyes blazed with a fierce pride as he watched me.

My father lunged for me, but I rolled away, grabbing a decorative candlestick from a nearby table. I swung it with all my strength, connecting with his temple. He staggered back, blood streaming down his face, his expression one of pure shock.

“You will pay for that, daughter,” he hissed, wiping blood from his eye.

“Bring her to me,” he ordered his men, who were now moving toward me with renewed determination.

I backed away, keeping the candlestick raised like a weapon. “Stay back,” I warned, my voice steadier than I felt.

One of the men laughed, advancing with his hands outstretched. “Come on now, Principessa.⁠* Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

I swung the candlestick again, catching him across the cheekbone. He howled in pain, but the other two grabbed me from behind, wrenching the makeshift weapon from my grip.

“You’ve always been too emotional,” my father said, approaching me now with the knife still in his hand. “Like your mother.”

“She wasn’t emotional,” I spat, struggling against the men holding me. “She was terrified of you.”

His face contorted with rage. “I loved her! I gave her everything!”

“You gave her nothing but pain!” I shouted, twisting in their grip. “You broke her, and now you’re trying to break me.”

“Not break. Remake. You’ll thank me one day, Harlowe. When you’re safely married to the Albanian, when you’ve forgotten this Romanov filth, you’ll understand that I did this for you. Put the knife in her hand!”

One of the men forced my hand open, and I watched in horror as my father wiped the handle clean, and then pressed the knife’s handle into my palm. His fingers closed around mine, making my grip tight around the weapon.

“What are you doing?” I gasped, trying to pull away.

“Setting the scene,” my father said calmly. “Your fingerprints on the murder weapon. The first piece of evidence.”

He dragged me toward Arrow, who watched with burning eyes as my father positioned me beside my kneeling husband. With his hand still wrapped around mine, he raised the knife toward Arrow’s chest.

“Stop!” I screamed, fighting against his grip with everything I had.

My father’s strength was overwhelming, his determination absolute. The knife inched closer to Arrow’s heart as I struggled, tears streaming down my face.

“I will kill you for this,” Arrow growled, his voice raw with pain and rage. “Even if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Empty threats from a dead man,” my father replied, tightening his grip on my hand. “Harlowe, watch closely.”

The knife descended toward Arrow’s chest. I saw the resignation in his eyes, the acceptance of his fate. But I refused to accept it.

With a surge of strength born from pure desperation, I twisted my body, driving my elbow into my father’s ribs. He grunted, his grip loosening for just a moment—but that moment was enough.