Chapter 12 · Red Line Collapse

"Father, are you really playing with my leftovers?"

Caspian said it loud. Loud enough that the waiter pouring the Bordeaux froze mid-pour and the wine ran over the lip of the bottle, spotting the linen one dark coin at a time.

Marcus's hand on my waist closed until I felt knuckle through silk. Not a squeeze. A warning delivered by bone.

Eight people at that table. Three of them sat on somebody's board. Every one of them suddenly fascinated by their forks.

I've stood in courtrooms where a man's whole life hung on my next sentence. This was worse. In court I had a podium. Here I had a bruise coming up under a four-thousand-dollar dress.

"Say it again," I said. "Slower. I want the whole table to hear how small you sound."

Caspian's jaw ticked. He's handsome, my ex. That was always the trap — the smile, the watch, the way he says your name like he's doing you a favor. Thirty-six years old and still waiting for his father to die so he can be a man.

"You don't get to talk to me," he said. "Not after June."

"June's over."

"Helena—"

"Mr. Sterling.