Adrian’s POV
When the invitation arrived, hand-delivered, the next morning, by one of my father’s long-time staff, a subtle power play all its own, I nearly tossed it in the trash unopened, but Elena caught my wrist. “Read it,” she said gently, her hand warm on my skin.
I exhaled, slit the thick envelope open, and skimmed the formal lines. A family dinner. An attempt at ‘making peace.’ Or so it was framed.
Her brow creased. “You think it’s a trap.”
“It’s always a trap, little flame,” I muttered. “With him, there’s no such thing as a harmless meal.”
Still, something in her expression urged me to reconsider. Maybe it was the hope that we could, even for a moment, mend fences, or at least stop giving the tabloids fresh ammunition.
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll go, but we stay an hour, no more.
