The table stretched too long for comfort, a gleaming centerpiece of tension and diplomacy, with white linen, silver cutlery, and wine glasses that caught the candlelight like weapons waiting to be drawn. My father sat at one end, all polished charm and business bravado, his voice dominating the room like he owned the air. His executives flanked him like lapdogs in tailored suits. On the other end sat Vincent D’Arcy, silent, calm, a storm wrapped in a still lake. And next to him—me.My father hadn’t argued when I insisted on attending the dinner. In fact, he seemed pleased, parading me in like some public symbol of trust, of family strength, of legacy. He thought it made him look powerful, progressive. He had no idea I was dripping under the table for the man he loathed most in the world.Vincent hadn’t spoken to me since that day in his office. Hadn’t called. Hadn’t texted. But the second I walked into the restaurant, his eyes had locked on me with that same look. Dark. Dangerous. Wan
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