Page 36 of Watch Me Burn

CATERINA

E verything gleams brightly across the mahogany dining table—crystal, silver, knives sheathed in smiles. But the brightest thing in this room is the lie I’m about to tell.

I take my seat knowing my father wants me dead. Knowing the men flanking this table would help him do it if it meant preserving their power. And still, I sit like the perfect daughter he raised me to be.

I have to forget. For the next hour, I have to become someone else entirely.

Let the show begin.

My father commands one end of the table. Callum Doyle, the Irish kingpin hosting tonight’s farce, sits at the other. A perfect stage for the theater of civility we’re about to perform.

I hope Aaron’s ready for what’s coming.

Maybe I should have warned him about the unspoken rules. The way power hums beneath every pour of wine. The glances that bite harder than bullets. But I was a little distracted, with learning my father put a target on my back and all.

This isn’t politics anymore.

It’s life or death.

My father barely acknowledges me, his smile never reaching his eyes as I take my seat on his right. The dutiful daughter. With Aaron beside me, his presence is like a live wire against my skin.

Across from us are Sean Doyle and his nephew Connor, representing the Irish faction, their strained smiles matching the false warmth in the room.

Lorenzo sits two seats down, watching me with the quiet calculation of a man who helped raise me—and now wants me in the ground.

The conversation moves in circles around business, territory, and superficial pleasantries, the undercurrents of threat and suspicion nearly tangible.

I maintain my practiced smile, calculating every word, every glance, acutely aware of Aaron’s rigid posture beside me.

As if he’s one insult away from starting a war.

“Aaron,” my father says, swirling his wine with deliberate ease, “remind me how you justified the Harrison Street acquisition to your investors. It struck me as unconventional, given the property’s history.”

The trap snaps into focus.

Harrison Street was a Mortelle laundering operation before Aaron and Tristan’s company acquired it—a fact that would raise serious questions if his legitimate investors discovered it.

“The location offered exceptional growth potential. The previous management’s difficulties presented an opportunity for those with a more strategic vision.” Aaron answers smoothly, his voice betraying none of the tension I sense in him.

My father’s smile thins. “Strategic indeed. Perhaps you’ll share those strategies with me sometime. I find myself curious about your methods.”

Aaron doesn’t blink. “My methods are transparent to those who matter.”

That hits the target, the comment slicing through my father’s facade, and for a split second, I feel a flicker of pride.

Then quickly replaced by concern. Aaron shouldn’t be doing this, not tonight.

“Transparency,” my father muses, “is often confused with exposure, wouldn’t you agree? One must be careful what one reveals.”

The table stills. Heads turn. Conversations falter.

I take a sip of my wine. It tastes like metal.

“Tell me, Mr. Jackson, how are you finding married life? Quite the adjustment I’d imagine, for a man with your reputation.” Lorenzo cuts in, changing the subject.

A man with your reputation. What the fuck does that mean?

They’re trying to get a reaction out of me.

Aaron’s hand finds mine beneath the table. Grounding. “Marriage suits me better than most expected.”

Lorenzo’s gaze sharpens, turning to me. “And you, Caterina? Has domesticity tempered your more adventurous tendencies?”

My spine stiffens, the implication clear.

“It’s wonderful.” I smile up at Aaron sweetly. “Being married to the love of my life has made me very happy.”

“Interesting,” Lorenzo continues, leaning forward slightly. “Though some might wonder where your true loyalties lie these days. Your father’s interests? Your husband’s? Or something entirely your own?”

His words linger like smoke from a still-burning fire. I can feel every gaze on me, especially my father’s. They’re testing me. Poking the wound. Waiting to see if I bleed.

It’s now or never.

“I’ve always believed family comes first,” I say, letting my brow furrow slightly. Feigning confusion, innocence. Playing the part I was raised for.

“Family,” Connor Doyle interjects, his Irish accent thickening with disdain, “is a matter of blood, not paperwork. Loyalty isn’t something you buy through marriage.”

Aaron tenses beside me. Getting ready.

But before I can answer, before I can spin the narrative back in my favor, Lorenzo decides to twist the knife.

“Perhaps that explains certain activities that have come to our attention.” His eyes meet mine in direct challenge. “Late-night excursions. Unusual associates. Incidents that seem to follow in your wake, Caterina. What does your husband think about these private pursuits?”

My mouth goes dry. The dagger strapped to my thigh feels heavier now, as if it senses blood on the horizon. Are they going to do this here? In front of everyone?

I need to warn Aaron. Get him out of here before…

“Watch your mouth, Lorenzo.”

Aaron doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. It’s the silence that follows that does the damage. The silence that follows lands like a bomb. Every fork stills. Every head turns. The temperature in the room feels like it dropped by ten degrees.

“Pardon?”

“Caterina carries my name now. That makes her untouchable. You question her, you question me. And I don’t take kindly to people coming for what is mine.”

What the hell is he doing?

Lorenzo blinks once, momentarily speechless.

We’re all a little shocked right now.

I’m well aware Aaron didn’t speak up out of devotion. He did it because this game demands strategy. I remind myself of that, trying not to rage over the way he dominated me or made this uncontrollable heat bloom in my chest.

“Mr. Jackson,” Lorenzo says, recovering with a tight smile, “I meant no?—”

“You did,” Aaron cuts in, leaning forward. His voice dips, quiet and venomous. “Disrespect my wife again, and you’ll be explaining it with your teeth scattered across the carpet.”

Oh. My. God.

Lorenzo’s eyes widen.

Aaron leans back, his composure sharp as a blade. “Besides, questioning Caterina’s loyalty is questioning mine. And that’s a dangerous fucking line to walk—especially in front of my father-in-law.”

“Are you threatening my advisor, Aaron?” My father looks genuinely amused.

“Not at all. I’m drawing a line. Caterina is my wife. Her priorities are mine and hers. Anyone implying otherwise isn’t just out of line, they’re inviting a response.” His hand tightens around mine, but I feel it everywhere.

Aaron—who’s spent months resenting me, resisting this marriage—is staking a claim in front of men who would burn me alive if it suited their agenda. And yet here he is. Laying down a shield like it’s second nature.

“How touching,” my father says, leaning in extra close. “Such conviction…from a marriage of convenience.”

Aaron doesn’t flinch. “Convenience might have started it. But the partnerships that last? The ones that matter? They’re forged in fire. Wouldn’t you agree, Mortelle?”

The words ignite something dangerous within me, a sharp hunger that wants.

My father studies him for a long beat, then laughs, cutting through the tension. “I like you, Aaron Jackson. You have unexpected depth.”

He raises his glass. “To the ones who keep us guessing.”

The toast ripples through the room, a practiced chorus of false cheer. Laughter resumes. Knives sheathed for now.

But I stay frozen, hyperaware of Aaron’s hand still gripping mine beneath the table. His thumb strokes slow, steady circles across my wrist. The contact is maddening—subtle, possessive, impossibly intimate.

“Breathe, Cat. Your father is watching,” Aaron murmurs, lips barely moving. Eyes fixed down on his plate.

“Why did you do that?” I whisper back.

“We’re in this together, remember?”

The dinner continues—plates change, wine flows, conversation blurs—but I taste none of it. My mind sticks on his voice. The way he stood up for me. The way he claimed me. The way he made me feel seen and shielded and scorched all at once.

He shouldn’t have interfered. Shouldn’t have asserted control in front of my father. Shouldn’t have said a damn thing.

But his words sink beneath my skin like a fever I can’t sweat out.

I should be furious. Instead, I’m burning for all the wrong reasons.

As dessert is served, I catch Lorenzo watching us, his expression unreadable. I wonder if he feels bad for what he’s about to do to me. Will he hesitate before pulling the trigger?

I doubt it.

I remember being thirteen, crouched in a dust-choked field, Lorenzo’s voice cold in my ear.

“Breathe slower. Kill cleaner. Emotions come later, if at all.”

Back then, I thought he was protecting me.

Now I know better.

He wasn’t raising me.

He was forging a weapon.

Sharpening the blade he always meant to discard.

He was the one who whispered praise after my first clean hit.

He was the one who taught me to mask pain with poise.

He built me for this.

And now he plans to end me.

“We should leave soon,” I murmur to Aaron.

He nods slightly, palm sliding to the small of my back as he leans in. Perfectly intimate and staged. “Is there another way out? Away from the main doors?”

“The service corridor. Through the kitchen. But if we leave too early, it’ll draw suspicion.”

“Then we give them a reason. Follow my lead.”

Before I can respond, he turns fully toward me and lifts his hand to my cheek.

“You look tired, my love,” he says, loud enough for the nearest guests to hear. “We should call it a night.”

He’s never called me anything but Caterina. Or Cat. Usually like a curse.

My father’s brow arches. “Leaving so soon?”

Aaron gives a polite smile. “My wife’s had a long day. I’m sure you understand.”

My wife .

Just performance. That’s all it is.

Then why am I getting all hot and bothered?

“Of course. She comes first, after all.”

Sitting here, watching my father’s lazy smile as he says those words makes me fucking sick. I smile so tightly it feels like something will split.

As we make our excuses, accepting handshakes and false pleasantries, Aaron’s hand remains at the small of my back. The constant contact burns through my gown.

Behind us, glasses clink. Laughter rises too quickly. And yet, I feel the heavy weight of eyes on our backs.

Once we’re clear of the dining hall, I turn to him, heart hammering, questions snapping through my bloodstream.

But before I can speak, his expression changes.

The warm mask melts. The strategist takes its place.

Aaron scans the corridor. “We leave separately. Just in case. I already texted Tristan—drop point’s live.”

Always tactical. Always five steps ahead.

As he turns to go, I catch his arm. “Why did you defend me back there?”

“I told you already, little nightmare,” he says, bending to meet my eyes. “I don’t run. And I protect what’s mine.”

Then he’s gone.

Swallowed by the corridor. Leaving only silence, and the phantom heat of his touch branding the length of my spine.

I lean back against the wall, closing my eyes and focusing on my breaths. I need to center. To feel something other than the chaos twisting through me like wire.

Need to feel something other than the chaos twisting through me like wire.

Ten seconds.

That’s what I give myself to lock it all away. But as I count, I keep thinking of the way Aaron looked at me before he disappeared. Not like an enemy or an obligation, but like something he couldn't bear to lose.

I tell myself the flutter in my chest is adrenaline, that the ache in my throat is survival instinct. But I know the truth, it’s not fear I feel. It’s hope.

And in my world, hope is a fucking liability. It softens your grip, blurs your judgment, and makes you weak. I can’t afford weakness, not now, not ever. But still, the wanting is relentless, and I clutch it like the last dying light in a world gone pitch black.