Page 52 of Arrow

“Not yet.”

He moved to the window and watched a ghostly war play out on the manicured lawn. For a moment, he said nothing, and that was far, far worse than rage.

“When I was young,” my father began, his back still turned, “I believed an empire was built on men. Loyalty. Guns. Brotherhood.” He paused, letting the words curdle. “It isn’t. It’s built on what you can endure.” He faced me; his eyes were stone-cold. “Your mother, she knew this. That’s why she isn’t here now.”

Rage caught fire in my chest. “She’s not here now because you killed her.” The words flew out, a sickle meant to wound, and it landed. He flinched, ever so slightly. “She’s dead because her husband is a coward.”

He came across the room in two steps, and the second slap landed harder. My knees hit the Persian rug, hands braced against the floor. Crimson dripped from my lip onto the intricate pattern.

“Get up.”

I didn’t move.

Then, slowly, I moved. Knees first. Then feet. Swaying. My father’s face was a mask of controlled fury, the kind that sent men to early graves.

“She killed herself,” he hissed. “She chose it. She was the one who abandoned her family.”

“Maybe she was the bravest one in this family. Maybe she’s the only one you couldn’t break.” I spat the line, too fast and too sharply, and for a second, the mask flickered.

In that flash, I saw a man who’d mourned her so hard he tried to become the marble he buried her under.

His mouth, always a straight, unsmiling line, became a notch crueler.

“You think you’re safe because you wear my name, daughter? That you can play these games with men like Arrow Romanov, and what, he’ll bend under your little tricks? The tricks of a whore?”

He cocked his head to the side, the way he once did when I was seven and stole persimmons from the neighbor’s tree, only to puke them back onto his Italian loafers. I was sure he’d lunge again and show me what happened to daughters who couldn’t be caged, but instead, he pressed both palms to the edge of the window.

“With men like Arrow, there is nothing but hunger and leverage.” He watched me with that hopeless, parental disgust men like him reserved for women who couldn’t be shamed. “You want to know what happens to girls who can’t be tamed, Harlowe? They become cautionary tales.”

Standing my ground, I didn’t dare flinch.

“Like mother, like daughter, I guess.”

“You are nothing like your mother,” he said with quiet venom. “She had grace. Dignity. She knew when to surrender.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” I wiped blood from my lip. “That she surrendered?”

He looked away.

I refused to blink, refused to leave until he told me I could, because that was the only rebellion left in me. I’d drag the moment out until it hurt us both.

Eventually, he glanced at Frank, who hovered at the door, invisible as always. His grip found my arm—bruising—and he dragged me toward the door.

Frank stood in the hallway, face blank, hand hovering near his weapon.

“Take her to her room. Make sure she stays there,” my father said, his voice already fading back into business. “Arrow will be waiting for her at eight sharp. Lock the doors from the outside if you have to.”

My father turned his back to me, just like he always did when I found the nerve to hurt him back. Frank gave me a once-over and fixed me with a look that said, “There’s nothing left inside you to ruin, is there?”

He was right.

Frank met my eyes, and in the set of his jaw, the way his bald skull shone under the foyer’s crystal lamp, I saw how little even he could do now. He ushered me into the corridor with a gentle hand at my elbow. I let him guide me through the maze of hallways, past oil paintings of ancestors that looked like prizefighters caught mid-execution.

Once we were out of earshot, he said. “Why do you rile him up, Principessa?”

I watched the patterns in Frank’s tattoos shift as he squeezed my arm.

“Because it’s the only thing I have left to take from him,” I said, surprised by the honesty that came out of my mouth.