Page 86 of The Bratva Betrayal

I'll pull it out when I need it.

"That's enough.” My father stands. "Both of you—out. I'll deal with you separately."

"Da—" Killian starts.

"Out of my sight. Now."

Rian stands first. Killian watches him do it, then pushes back from the table with everything he didn't get to say still sitting behind his eyes. He looks at me before he goes. One long, unhappy look that finishes the sentence that the room wouldn't allow him to.

Then they're both gone.

My father straightens his cufflinks, looks at Sophie at the end of the table, then at me.

"Cady," he says. "Go with Sophie into the parlor."

I look at him for a moment, letting him know I’m not going about this willingly, but I will for now.

Then I stand, smile at Sophie with everything I can muster, and say, "Shall we?"

—

Sophie Marks, it turns out, has good instincts.

She doesn't say anything for the first minute in the parlor, just sets her things out on the low table between the two cream sofas, letting the air in the room settle.

She's thorough and organized, and everything comes out in the same order. It’s the practiced routine of someone who does this enough that it's muscle memory.

"You don't have to pretend," she says without looking up. “I know the difference between a woman who's excited and a woman who's doing her best." A pause. "I'll make it as painless as I can."

I study her for a second.

Then I sit, reach forward, and pick up the book of color swatches.

Sophie opens her mouth, probably to guide me toward something tasteful, something that will photograph beautifully and make my father's associates nod approvingly.

I flip to a burnt orange.

Then a mustard yellow that has no business existing.

Then something the book optimistically calls terracotta dusk, which looks like a decision made in bad lighting and never revisited.

Sophie stares at the swatches.

I look up pleasantly. "I like this one." I tap the terracotta. "And this." The mustard. "Very warm."

"It's a spring wedding," Sophie says carefully.

"Bold choice, then."

She looks at the swatches.

Then at me.

Then back at the swatches, and I watch the moment she understands.

Her expression moves from professional uncertainty into something that feels a lot like solidarity.

She reaches forward and points to an aggressive olive green.