Page 10

I stood in front of the full-length mirror, my manicured hands smoothing down the faint wrinkles on my sleek black skirt. The silk fabric clung to me like a second skin, accentuating my figure, while a black pair of heels added to my overall look.

A soft sigh escaped my lips, painted a shade of red, as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My hands darted to my chest, fingers clasping the button on my sage green blouse, the one that sealed my cleavage.

Maeve had hand-picked this outfit, saying I looked “more presentable” this way.

More presentable to whom, though? Nobody had given me any details about what the hell was happening in the O’Hara household today.

All I knew was that there was supposed to be a family dinner. Nothing special. Just the usual.

At least that was what I thought.

But it turned out that I may be wrong—that maybe there was something else going on that I didn’t know about.

Maeve had been so meticulous in choosing my outfit, like she wanted me to look my best. The entire household had been bustling with activity all day long: maids darting through the halls, cleaning, scrubbing every corner of the mansion until even the walls were spotless.

As if that wasn’t strange enough, Mom went ahead and hired more chefs.

More chefs? Seriously?

Now the very air in the house was thick with the aroma of countless delicacies. It was as if the mansion itself were a five-star restaurant.

What was this? The preparation of Christ’s second coming? What the hell was going on here?

“What’s happening today? Are we expecting someone?” I asked Maeve, sitting on the edge of my bed.

“Why do you ask?” Her hands skimmed through the hanging clothes in my closet, her back to me.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Everyone just seems jumpy.”

Maeve laughed lightly and turned to face me, holding up two blouses: one blue, the other sage green. “Blue or sage?” She weighed them in her hands.

“Depends on the occasion,” I said, squinting at her. “What’s really going on?”

“It’s just a family dinner, Ayla—now pick one,” she replied, her tone mild but slightly dismissive. Maybe a little suspicious too.

I tilted my head to the side, my eyes narrowing. “Blue.”

“Good choice,” she declared with a small smile. “But sage is better.” She tossed it to me. “Pair it with a black skirt and some fancy heels; you’ll be irresistible.” Her eyebrows wiggled.

“But I like the blue blouse,” I whispered under my breath, holding up the sage one.

“Trust me, you’ll look more presentable in sage and black,” she replied, already turning back to shut my closet door.

“Are you sure this is just ‘family dinner’?” I cocked my head sideways, suspicion creeping into my tone.

“Of course, silly. What else would it be?”

It could be a lot of things—like the fuckin’ president dropping by. That would explain the whole preparation.

Anyway, once I was done getting dressed, I stepped into the hallway, catching the subtle glances and soft giggles of the maids as I walked past. Something was off. Something was definitely off. I didn’t need to be psychic to realize that the maids knew something that I didn’t.

What in heaven’s name was Ronan O’Hara up to this time?

I held my head up, my posture straight and elegant as I descended the stairs, making my way to the dining room. There, I froze for a moment at the sight before me.

Family dinner, huh?

The polished mahogany table, which stretched almost the length of the room, was dressed with an elegant cream linen runner. Silver candleholders and porcelain dishes filled with steaming food adorned this formal setting. Warm light from the chandelier above bathed the room in a soft, golden glow.

Heads turned in my direction, and I felt my heart sink into my belly. It seemed like everyone had been waiting for me, and that made me friggin’ nervous—especially with the guests.

I knew it. I knew this was no ordinary family dinner. And who the hell were these people?

Voices gradually faded into the background, familiar and unfamiliar faces looking right at me.

Too much attention. Too much attention.

My parents sat at the far end of the table, both dressed more formally than they usually were at family dinners.

Mom wore a soft burgundy gown with a pearl necklace resting just above her collarbone.

Weird. She only wore that on very special occasions.

The last time I saw the pearl around her neck was during a dinner with Maeve’s fiancé’s family.

Her husband, my father, was resplendent in a navy suit, sipping from a crystal glass.

Beside him was my sister, Maeve, dressed in a gorgeous green dress with a diamond jewel glinting around her neck.

Two of my older brothers, who rarely visited home—Nathan and Isaac—flanked my parents, both dressed to impress.

Nathan kept his appearance simple: cream pants and a nice, crisp white shirt.

Isaac, on the other hand, was clad in an impeccably tailored ash-colored suit, his tie a little crooked.

The last time my brothers came around, it was for a dinner just like this, with Maeve’s fiancé’s family.

It felt like déjà vu all over again. Except this time, our visitors weren’t Maeve’s fiancé’s family.

My eyes landed on the guests seated across from me, sophisticated and poised like they had just emerged from a formal painting.

A man and a woman, clearly the parents, looked at me, smiling.

The man, broad-shouldered and sharp-jawed, leaned in to whisper something in my father’s ear.

The woman was gorgeous with a graceful presence and fine auburn hair neatly styled in a bun.

She wouldn’t stop staring, her hands clasped in her lap.

Then I saw him—a very familiar face that took me a moment to recognize.

Lucas.

The guy from the race the other night, the handsome man who looked odd, like he didn’t fit in a place like the lot. It was him. He still had the same corny smile on his lips. Lucas sat there beside the old man, poised and formally dressed in a dark suit with a flashy red tie, knotted to perfection.

Looking closely but more discreetly, my eyes squinted as the old man’s face rang a bell in my head. I knew I recognized him from somewhere; I knew that unmistakable aura of mafia authority was familiar.

It was Giovanni Bianchi of the Italian Mafia.

My stomach sank.

Okay, what the hell is going on here?

“Well, don’t just stand there. Take a seat,” Mom’s graceful voice broke the silence and snapped me back to the present.

It was almost as if her speech had eased the tension. Even though everyone seemed focused on their food, I could still feel Lucas’s gaze trailing me. Mom gestured toward an empty chair beside her, and I sank into it, silent with a blank expression.

“Smile, Ayla. Smile,” she whispered through gritted teeth while maintaining a grin on her face.

I didn’t see any reason to, but she left me with no choice. So, I managed to squeeze one out. Plastic.

Lucas, seated poised across from me, wouldn’t stop staring, and honestly, his gaze was starting to make me uncomfortable.

I straightened, napkin folded neatly on my lap—just like I’d been taught.

The last thing I wanted was to embarrass the O’Hara family in front of these formal people.

I picked up my cutlery, my eyes dropping to my plate as the rich aroma of roasted meats, herbed vegetables, and freshly baked bread wafted into my nostrils.

Still, his gaze lingered.

Didn’t your mother ever teach you that it’s rude to stare?

I wished I didn’t have to worry about ruining tonight for my family. I would have asked him that out loud. Lucas was handsome and charming, too. But that lingering gaze was way too creepy.

Dad and Giovanni were already talking and laughing. Mom and Lucas’s mother were whispering something and giggling while my brothers just ate in silence.

My gaze flickered to Maeve, and she just curled her lips into a radiant smile.

The soft hum of conversations floated gently over the table, and everyone just acted normal, like there wasn’t an elephant in the room that needed to be addressed.

The small talk was polite, practiced—weather, travels, shared memories from distant family events—but it barely masked the tension running beneath the surface like a taut wire.

Something was off. I could feel it in my bones.

“Hey,” Lucas called to me, his husky voice low and even.

I raised my eyes in his direction. “Hey.”

“Small world, eh?” His lips twisted into a faint grin.

My eyes narrowed by a fraction, my thoughts far from the food in front of me. It didn’t take long for suspicion to stir.

This looked so, so familiar.

Two powerful families having dinner, both sets of parents laughing and sipping champagne like they were on the verge of sealing a deal. I’d seen this before with my sister and her fiancé.

My God, this better not be what I’m thinking.

“Ayla’s always been a very focused girl,” I heard my father say, as though he was addressing everyone at the table and not just Giovanni. “She’s a handful—very stubborn sometimes,” he teased.

A faint chuckle rose from the audience.

What the hell is he doing?

“But she’s also very brilliant. Top of her class in law school,” he added, his voice dripping with pride.

Top of my class? That’s a bit of an exaggeration, Dad.

Sure, I wasn’t failing, but I also wasn’t top of my class. He knew that, but it was almost like he was trying to impress them. Fuck, he was selling me like a friggin’ prize horse.

“She’s graceful, too—and quite resourceful. Takes after her mother on that one,” he added, raising a glass to his wife.

“I can see steadfast loyalty runs in the family,” Giovanni said, his grin widening.

The man smiled too much. To a fault, even. Not the warm, genuine kind of smile. No. Rather, it seemed rehearsed, business-deal kind.

“She’s perfect,” he added.

And that was when my fork paused mid-air.

Giovanni’s wife offered faint nods at all the right times, her gaze flicking between me and Lucas with quiet appraisal.

What did Giovanni mean by she’s perfect ? Perfect for what, exactly?

In all honesty, I was already putting the pieces together. But I thought it was better to remain in denial. It couldn’t be true. It was just my mind playing tricks on me.

Then came the glances.

Subtle at first—between fathers, then mothers. Strategic. Knowing.

Fuck.

The realization hit me like cold water.

This was no family dinner. It was a setup—a proposition dressed up with wine and etiquette. Both families wanted to form an alliance, old family values, old family power. Dad wasn’t just selling me like a prize horse; he was literally selling me to the Bianchis.

I was the fuckin’ offering—the sacrificial lamb, the bridge, the symbol of unity.

Me.

My grip tightened around my fork, my jaw clenching in fury.

How could they set this up without my permission?

I shot a glare at my sister, and her throat wobbled as she swallowed, seeing the displeasure etched on my face. Subtly, she shook her head, as if pleading that I shouldn’t do anything stupid.

Too late.

I pushed back my chair with a sharp scrape and stood up, the legs dragging loudly against the polished floor.

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” Mom raised her head, her voice tinged with concern, until she saw the frown on my face.

Maeve lowered her head in, what? Embarrassment or guilt? Didn’t know. Didn’t care. I was so pissed.

I met my father’s gaze and watched his smile gradually disappear.

“Ayla?” Mom discreetly pinched my thigh, her eyes narrowing in displeasure, and her voice laced with warning.

“You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not feeling well,” I said, addressing the Bianchis.

Ignoring the shock on everyone’s faces and the sound of my dad’s voice calling behind me, I left the dining room, heels clicking against the floor. I didn’t stop until I was completely out of the building, bathed in the moon’s soft glow.

The cold air outside hit my face like a slap as I rushed toward the gates. I wasn’t sure where I was going or what I’d do now that I’d left the house—I didn’t care about that at the moment. I just wanted to be as far away from here as possible.

The farther I walked from the estate, the tighter my jaw clenched and the more fury coursed through my veins. My father was trying to control my life again, just like he did Maeve’s—as if I were some piece to be traded.

And what was worse, Lucas had known. He’d known all along; that was why he’d sought me out at the lot before the race.

My fingers trembled slightly as I unlocked my phone.

The disappointment mixed with a hint of rebellion made me scroll through my contacts, contemplating who I should call. My heart skipped a beat as my thumb hovered over a particular contact saved under a name I hadn’t dared to dial before.

“Sergei.”

My pulse quickened, my chest heaving slowly. Every part of me screamed that this was reckless. Dangerous. Possibly stupid.

But for once, I didn’t want to be the good daughter. I didn’t want to be political.

I just wanted to feel free.

“Screw it!” I murmured.

And with one reckless move, my thumb hit the dial button.