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Henry stared at me for a long beat, disbelief warring with suspicion. “You’re serious?”

“Completely.”

He let out a short, ugly laugh. “You come here at midnight, unannounced. And expect me to believe this is some heartfelt plea from a man in love?” His voice rose, sharp with disbelief and growing anger. “Who the hell do you think you are, Richard? You’ve known her for what—weeks? And now you’re standing in my study demanding my blessing like some lovesick fool?”

“I’m not demanding it,” I said quietly. “I’m asking. Because I respect you. Because I know how much she means to you. I want to do this the right way.”

“Respect? You don’t know the meaning of the word. You lost both your parents and barely blinked. You’ve taken over that company like it was always yours. And now you think you can just walk in here and claim my daughter?”

He took a step closer, voice dropping into a venomous hiss. “I see the way you look at her. The way you look at everything. Like you’re calculating what it’s worth. Like you’re deciding how to break it. There is something wrong with you, Richard. And I’ll be damned before I let you anywhere near Samantha with a ring.”

I held his stare, the mask of desperate devotion still fixed in place even as something darker uncoiled behind my eyes.

He stepped closer. “Stay the hell away from her. I mean it. Whatever game you’re playing ends tonight. She deserves better than whatever cold, empty thing you really are.”

I set the whiskey glass down slowly, never breaking eye contact. The mask held, but only barely. “I love her, Henry. More than you know. And I know she feels the same. All I’m asking is for you to give us a chance. To trust that I would never hurt her.”

“Liar.” His hand clenched at his side, as if he were fighting the urge to throw me out physically. “Get out of my house. If I see you near her again without my permission, I’ll make sure every board member, every business associate, every person in this city knows exactly what kind of man you are. Dangerous. Unstable. And completely unfit to touch my daughter.”

I let the silence stretch just long enough for the threat to settle between us. Then I nodded once, the picture of reluctant acceptance.

I smiled thinly and sighed. “You really should’ve stayed out of it.”

Henry slowly reached for the phone. I noticed. I crossed the room before he could lift the receiver. I seized him by the neck and locked my arm around his throat from behind in a tight chokehold. My bicep and forearm compressed both sides of his neck. He stiffened. His hands weakly clawed at my arm for a few seconds. But the chokehold worked fast. His body went limp.

I held the pressure a few moments longer to ensure he was fully unconscious, then lowered him carefully to the floor. His chest still rose and fell.

I ripped the curtain cord free with a sharp yank. The bracket splintered wood and plaster. Working quickly but methodically, I looped the thick rope around his neck while he was still out. I knotted it securely, then tested the knot twice. I hauled his limp body toward the heavy brass chandelier. I tested the cord’s strength by pulling hard on it several times. Satisfied it would hold, I hoisted him up in one smooth motion. I let the noose take his full weight, adjusting the height so his toes barely brushed the rug.

Almost immediately his face began to darken. Veins bulged grotesquely across his forehead and temples as the rope bit deep. His eyelids fluttered. Then his eyes opened in dazed, reflexive terror. His body jerked harder now. His hands rose weakly to claw at the cord digging into his throat. His mouth worked soundlessly. His tongue swelled. His lips turned a deep purple. Wet choking gurgles escaped him as his legs kicked and twitched in a desperate, fading struggle. His heels drummed against the air several times. His chest heaved in short, futile spasms. Finally the movements slowed, then stopped altogether. His body twisted slowly in the dim light.

I stepped back and scanned the room. Almost untouched. Exactly what a suicide should look like. I spent the next few minutes perfecting the scene. I placed the overturned chair under him. I wiped every fingerprint I had left on the desk and whiskey glass. I closed the open drawer. I moved a family photo back into perfect alignment on the shelf. I even nudged one of the scattered papers on the floor closer to the desk to suggest a man who had been pacing and drinking in growing agitation.

My eyes settled on a photograph of Samantha at eight years old. She was missing her front teeth and smiling into the camera while Henry knelt beside her with one arm around her shoulders. I picked it up. I looked at it for a long moment. Then I set the frame back down.

I wiped down anything else I had touched. The study now told a simple, believable story. A powerful man, drinking alone, unraveling over his daughter’s rapidly escalating relationship and the suspicions he could never prove. Choosing the chandelier and cord in a final, ugly act.

I stood back and looked at his slowly twisting form. His face bloated and mottled purple. His chin jutted at an unnatural angle.

“You made her cry, Henry,” I said quietly. “That was your last mistake. She’s mine now.”

I turned off the lights. And I left him hanging in the silent house.

By morning, Samantha would lose her father. By evening, she would be in my arms, broken and distraught.

And soon after that, she would be my wife.

Chapter 18

Samantha

Dad didn’t answer my call yesterday.

It had been a week since our argument at the restaurant, and neither of us had made much of an effort to fix things. I’d almost called him several times before finally giving in on Saturday afternoon, only to get no answer.

Dad and I could argue. We could get angry and say things we didn’t mean. But we didn’t stay angry for long. At least, we never had before.

And Sundays were our lunch days. Unless one of us was out of town or something unavoidable came up, we had lunch together every Sunday. It had been our routine for years.