Page 55 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

"I won't do it," I said, my voice stronger now, fueled by the horror of what my father was proposing. "I won't marry a stranger, a criminal, a man who sees me as nothing but a transaction, a means to an end. I won't be used that way."

My father's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes—a coldness, a finality, a dismissal of my objections as irrelevant, inconsequential, not even worth addressing.

"You will do as you're told," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

"You will marry Alejandro Vega. You will be a dutiful wife.

You will secure this alliance for the family.

And you will do it without complaint, without resistance, without the dramatics you've always been prone to when asked to put family interests above your own selfish desires. "

"Selfish?" I repeated, incredulous. "It's selfish to not want to be sold to a cartel leader? To not want to be used as a bargaining chip in your business dealings? To want some say in my own life, my own future, my own body?"

"Yes," he said simply. "When you are an O'Sullivan, when you have benefited from the privileges and protections that name provides, when you have lived in luxury and safety because of the empire I have built—yes, it is selfish to refuse to contribute to the maintenance and expansion of that empire when called upon to do so. "

The cold logic of it, the complete dismissal of my personhood, my autonomy, my right to self-determination, left me momentarily speechless. This wasn't a father speaking to a daughter. This was a businessman addressing an asset, a resource, a means to an end.

"I left," I said when I found my voice again. "I walked away from this family, from this name, from this legacy of violence and control. I built my own life, on my own terms, without your money, without your influence, without the 'privileges and protections' you claim I've benefited from."

"And look where that got you," he countered, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

"Kidnapped by the Contis. Held captive for months.

Used as leverage in their games of power and control.

Your independence was an illusion, Grace.

A fantasy you indulged in while the real world—my world—continued to determine your fate regardless of your childish attempts to escape it. "

The assessment was so accurate, so precisely targeted, that it left me momentarily stunned.

He was right. My attempts at independence had been futile, had ended with me as a pawn in games played by men who saw me as property rather than person.

Had my father orchestrated that, somehow?

Had he allowed the Contis to take me, to hold me, knowing that eventually I would end up back under his control, more malleable, more compliant after months of captivity?

"You knew," I said, the realization dawning with sickening clarity.

"You knew the Contis had taken me from the beginning.

You let them keep me, let them use me, let them break me down so that when you finally decided to bring me back, I would be easier to control.

To manipulate. To force into whatever role you had planned for me. "

Something flickered in his eyes—not guilt, not remorse, but a recognition that I had seen through his strategy, had understood the calculation behind his apparent abandonment.

"The Contis did me a favor," he acknowledged, confirming my worst suspicions.

"They took a rebellious, ungrateful daughter and returned a woman who understands her place in the world.

Who recognizes the futility of fighting against forces larger than herself.

Who knows, now, that independence is an illusion, that we all serve someone, that the only choice is who we serve and what we gain from that service. "

The casual admission, the cold assessment of my captivity as a useful breaking of my spirit, sent rage coursing through me—hot and fierce and clarifying after days of numbness, of uncertainty, of the fog of betrayal and disillusionment.

"You're wrong," I said, my voice steady despite the fury burning in my veins.

"The Contis didn't break me. They didn't make me more compliant, more malleable, more willing to accept whatever fate you've decided for me.

They showed me exactly what you are—what you've always been.

Not a father. Not a protector. Not someone who sees me as a daughter to be loved and cherished.

But a man who sees me as property, as a resource, as something to be used for his own purposes without regard for my wishes, my dreams, my humanity. "

Anger flashed across his features—there and gone in an instant, but unmistakable.

"Enough," he said, rising from his chair, his height and bulk suddenly intimidating as he loomed over the desk that separated us.

"I've indulged your tantrum long enough.

The arrangements have been made. The agreement is in place.

You will marry Alejandro Vega in three weeks.

You will be a dutiful wife. You will secure this alliance for the family. And that is the end of the discussion."

"No," I said again, standing my ground despite the fear that curled in my stomach at his anger, at the potential consequences of defying him so directly.

"It's not the end of the discussion. It's not a discussion at all when you're dictating terms, when you're treating me like property to be traded, when you're?—"

The blow came without warning—an open-handed slap that snapped my head to the side, that sent pain blooming across my cheek, that left me stunned and breathless with the shock of it, the unexpectedness, the sheer physical force behind what had seemed like a controlled, if angry, conversation.

My father had never hit me before. Had never needed to. His disapproval, his cold dismissal, his emotional manipulation had always been enough to bend me to his will, to make me comply with his expectations, to keep me in line without the need for physical discipline.

But now he had crossed that line. Had shown me exactly what he was capable of when defied, when challenged, when faced with resistance to his plans, his control, his vision of how the world should be.

I straightened slowly, my hand coming up to touch my cheek, feeling the heat of what would surely become a bruise, a visible mark of his violence, his true nature revealed in a moment of uncontrolled rage.

"There," he said, his voice cold again, controlled, as if the outburst had never happened.

"Now that we understand each other, you may go.

Mrs. Reynolds will provide you with details about the wedding preparations, about what is expected of you in the coming weeks.

I suggest you use this time to adjust your attitude, to accept your role, to prepare yourself to be the kind of wife Alejandro Vega expects and deserves. "

I stared at him, seeing him clearly for perhaps the first time in my life.

Not as my father—the complex, contradictory figure I'd both feared and sought approval from throughout my childhood.

Not as Patrick O'Sullivan—the powerful businessman, the respected community leader, the man whose name opened doors and commanded respect wherever it was spoken.

But as what he truly was: a monster in an expensive suit.

A man who saw people as tools, as resources, as means to ends.

A creature of calculation and control who had never loved me, had never seen me as anything but an extension of himself, a piece in the game he played, a resource to be deployed when useful and ignored when not.

"I understand perfectly," I said, my voice steady despite the pain in my cheek, the shock still reverberating through my system. "I understand exactly who you are now. What you are. What you've always been."

Something flickered in his eyes—not guilt, not remorse, but a recognition that something had changed between us, that a line had been crossed that could never be uncrossed, that a truth had been revealed that could never be hidden again.

"Good," he said simply. "Then we have nothing more to discuss. You may go."

I turned and walked to the door, my movements measured, controlled, betraying none of the turmoil inside me, the rage and fear and dawning resolve that churned beneath the surface of apparent compliance.

As I reached for the handle, his voice stopped me—not harsh now, but almost gentle, almost concerned, a parody of paternal care that might have fooled me once but now only revealed the depth of his manipulation, his ability to shift personas to achieve whatever outcome he desired.

"Grace," he said, "this is for the best. For the family. For your future. You'll see that, in time. You'll understand that I've only ever wanted what's best for you."

I didn't turn, didn't acknowledge the lie, the manipulation, the attempt to reframe his violence and control as concern, as care, as something other than what it was.

Just opened the door and stepped through, closing it softly behind me, a final act of restraint in a moment when I wanted nothing more than to scream, to rage, to tear down the walls of this prison with my bare hands.

Mrs. Reynolds waited in the hallway, her expression carefully neutral despite what must have been visible evidence of my father's violence on my face.

"If you'll come with me, Ms. O'Sullivan," she said, as if nothing had happened, as if this were a normal day, a normal conversation, a normal situation rather than the aftermath of a revelation that had shattered what remained of my world.

"I have materials for you to review regarding the wedding preparations. "

I followed her in silence, my mind racing, my cheek throbbing, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and fury and something else?—

Vengeance.