Chapter Six

DORIAN

She saw the message.

I knew it before I heard the door.

The second her footsteps went quiet. The second the tension shifted. The second her silence started feeling….quite different.

She didn’t confront me.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t storm out or freeze like people usually do when the past shows up uninvited.

She just disappeared behind the bedroom door.

Didn’t scream or slam anything. Not that she needed to anyways.

I didn’t follow.

I gave her space — or at least, that’s how it looked.

I knew what message she’d seen.

And I knew what kind of spiral it would throw her into.

Not because she told me.

But- because I’ve seen it before.

Same name.

Same look in the eyes.

Same reaction.

Still—nothing prepares you for seeing it twice.

I didn’t sit. Just stood by the counter, half-dressed, going over the same damn files I already knew by heart. Kept my eyes on the paper, but my mind?

It was on the girl who just found out I might’ve known her mother.

Maybe even more than just known.

She came out a while later. No hesitation, no drama. Just walked right past me like I hadn’t watched her unravel from the corner of my eye.

She didn’t look at me, but she was watching.

I could tell.

She noticed the papers in my hand. Probably tried to figure out where I got them. Newsflash: no one gave them to me. I didn’t need anyone to.

This wasn’t her space anymore.

It was ours.

And I never needed permission.

“I’m going out,” she said, voice flat.

I didn’t look up. “Oh? Where?”

“Um… does it matter, sir?”

“No,” I said, calm.

Then — because she clearly needed the reminder —

“Everhart. Husband.”

Finally looked at her.

Made sure to lock eyes.

Slow. Intentionally.

Then said it like I’d said it a hundred times.

“Daddy.”

She stiffened, just a little.

“You’ve got a list of names to call me, Mrs. Everhart.”

“If we’re going to fool people, at least fix your acting skills, okay?”

Her stomach flipped.

I saw it, but I made no comment.

“Wh—who… who do you think you are?” she finally let out, voice catching, gaze bouncing everywhere but me.

“For all I care, this is an act, okay?” she muttered, still avoiding eye contact. “We can attend a few events together — just enough to keep up appearances. Fake smiles. A few I*******m photos for the media. You’ll hold my hand once or twice.

That’s it.”

“Hold hands?” I echoed, not moving.

Voice low. I knew exactly what I was doing.

Then I stepped closer.

And closer.

Until I was in front of her — close enough for her to feel my breath.

I slid my hand into hers, deliberately.

“Like- this?”

Then, slow — too slow to be innocent —

I tilted her chin up with two fingers.

Because yeah, I knew she’d been dodging my gaze.

I didn’t move after that.

Didn’t need to.

I could already tell part of her wanted to see how far this would go.

How far I’d take it.

How far she’d let me.

But I killed it.

“Serafina,” I said quietly, “you can not go out alone.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I said,” I repeated, “you’re not leaving this place unaccompanied. Ever.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

I pulled back slowly. “The media’s watching. And your father’s too quiet.”

“Right,” she said, sharp. “Wouldn’t want to ruin my perfectly curated image.”

“Or mine.”

She scoffed. “You care about your image now?”

“I do,” I said. “But- more about control.”

She didn’t like that.

I didn’t care.

*

Twenty minutes later, she was in the car.

With me.

Of course.

She never said where she was going. That’s because she didn’t know. That little exit stunt? Just an escape plan with no map.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You changed your mind on where you were headed? Good. You can follow me, then.”

“Follow you? Follow you where?”

Didn’t answer right away. Just handed her the card.

Invitation, another one.

This wasn’t for a fundraiser.

This one had teeth.

It was a charity gala. Richard’s media alley. Public, loud, guaranteed cameras.

Perfect.

“I didn’t agree to this,” she said.

“You didn’t disagree when your agent RSVPed.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is when she works for both of us now.”

She turned, slowly. “I don’t remember signing up for a shared team.”

“You didn’t,” I said. “She did.”

The dress was already in the backseat. Black. Expensive. Her size.

I had it pulled from a boutique she used to frequent.

They still had her preferences on file. Dior.

Of course they did.

She looked at me. “What is this? Your controlling era?”

I didn’t answer. I fixed my gaze out the window.

I didn’t miss the way she watched my jaw either.

We didn’t speak for most of the drive.

She was spiraling.

I let her.

There’s something people don’t tell you about betrayal — it doesn’t land in one piece.

It arrives in fragments.

First confusion. Then doubt. Then- rage.

She was in between.

The gala was exactly what I expected.

Big. Loud. Vain.

And when we walked in, and the shift happened. Heads turned. Cameras lifted. Conversations shifted like we were the last topic everyone swore they wouldn’t talk about.

We weren’t late. We were planned.

She clung to a champagne glass like it was armor.

I didn’t say much, I didn’t smile either.

Perfect.

Across the room, I spotted him. Richard.

I didn’t move or react.

And he hell didn’t either.

He kept talking, pretending I didn’t exist.

She was trying to do the same.

But I stayed at her side, silent.

Didn’t speak unless absolutely necessary, I definitely didn’t need to.

I wasn’t here to be liked.

And everyone knew that.

“What are we doing here?” she muttered.

“Shifting the power,” I said.

“So this is you shifting the power?” she shot back.

“Your father thought you’d disappear after the engagement was stolen. Instead, you walked in wearing Dior.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You wore it.”

“What are you getting out of this?”

I looked at her. Really looked.

And she felt it.

“You’re asking the wrong question ma’am.”

“Oh? So what’s the right one then?”

I didn’t answer.

I just reached up.

Fixed a strand of her hair, and stepped back like it meant nothing.

She felt it anyway.

Halfway through, she left for the restroom.

She needed a minute.

I knew she would.

I didn’t follow. Didn’t even glance towards the door.

Let her spiral. Let her fix her lip gloss.

When she came out again, I was mid-conversation. With some clean-cut guy trying to sound important.

I didn’t care. What the hell did I come here for anyways?

Things seemed pretty chill. At least they seemed so. But not until-

Across the room — I spotted her.

Amia.

She looked like a malfunctioning doll. Pretty, sharp edges — but the smile was cracked.

She was staring.

Not at me.

But at the space I took up.

She adjusted her dress. Tensed her shoulders. Looked down, then back up — expecting I’d moved.

I hadn’t.

She spilled her drink. Just enough to notice.

But no one did.

Except Serafina.

I didn’t look at Amia.

Not once, I didn’t have to.

The moment Serafina stepped forward, I looked up.

Locked eyes with her.

Didn’t explain anything.

Just said it.

“Let’s go.”

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

On the drive home, she didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

It wasn’t quite peaceful.

It was the kind of silence that rots under your skin.

I drove the car. Smooth. Controlled.

She glanced at me when she thought I wasn’t looking.

Except — I always was.

We got back.

Neither of us moved.

She stayed in her seat. Hands folded. Still spiraling.

I didn’t look at her.

Then I said it. Simple and measured.

“You shouldn’t let her get under your skin.”