Protecting him was my idea. Lying to him was the consequence.
The ride back to the penthouse was a silent, pressurized chamber of fury and fear. Lysander’s grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled, his profile a blade of cold, sharp rage. The image of my father, small and lost in his care home chair, was burned onto the back of my eyelids. Julian Thorne hadn’t just threatened him; he had made him a ghost in our war, a specter of my greatest vulnerability.
The moment the penthouse elevator doors slid shut, sealing us in our gilded fortress, the storm broke.
“We are not discussing this,” Lysander bit out, striding into the living room and shrugging off his tuxedo jacket with violent, jerky movements. He tossed it onto a sofa as if it were contaminated. “He’s testing us. Showing his r
