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My fingers tighten slowly around my fork.

Voices start up again around the table—congratulations, pleased murmurs, talk of growth and maturity, and how lovely it is to see young people reconcile.

My mother says something warm to Jake. Something approving. I don’t hear the words. All I hear is blood rushing in my ears.

The Glock rests against my hip, tucked into my waistband.

For a split second, I imagine pulling it out. I picture the room falling quiet before anyone even registers what’s happening.

I imagine aiming it directly at Jake’s face.

Would his smile drop first?

Or his eyes?

The shot would echo violently under the chandelier.

Will his head snap back, and will blood spray across his mother’s glowing, carefully moisturized face? Or maybe his head might fall forward, maybe he’d collapse into his plate, cheek landing in sauce and rosemary, blood spilling across the dining table.

It would pool like paint.

Dark. Glossy. Reflecting the chandelier light.

The most honest piece of art I’d ever create.

I imagine Tristan seeing it, seeing the masterpiece I made for him.

The thought makes something inside me tilt sideways, and a laugh escapes my throat before I can stop it.

Too loud.

The table falls silent immediately, but I don’t look at anyone except Jake. His brows dip, confusion etching across his face.

Then something else.

Unease.

And that cracks something open in me.

I laugh again, louder this time.

It spills out of me, wrong and unhinged, a manic edge curling through it until I’m almost doubling over in my chair.

It’s not funny. None of this is. But if I don’t laugh, I might actually reach for the gun.

“Maksim.” My father’s voice cuts through the room. It’s low, a warning wrapped in silk, but I don’t look at him.

I push my chair back slowly instead. The legs scrape against marble, the sound shrill and ugly in the heavy silence.

I rise to my feet, smooth down my jacket as if I’m not seconds away from detonating, then I walk out of the dining hall before I give them a real spectacle.

Chapter 7

TRISTAN

I check the time as I step into the law firm’s building.

9:17 p.m.