Chapter 4
Darla
The starched white tablecloth of the country club dining room does nothing to soften the weaponized silence at our table.
My father has just returned from across the room, his movements stiff, his jaw a tight line of controlled fury.
My eyes follow the path of his retreat, and that’s when I see him. Malachi.
For half a second, I almost expect to see East instead.
My heart still trips like it did that night.
The one sound I can’t forget. The one I still hear in my sleep.
He’s a monolith of ink and leather, a storm cloud in a room of pristine pastels, sitting alone at a small table.
He is so utterly out of place, and so completely unbothered by it, that a jolt of something I can’t name—fear?
admiration?—shoots through me. The air from last night still clings to me.
It’s smoke, whiskey, sin. I shouldn’t have brought it here.
He doesn’t belong in this world, and neither do I.
My father sits, the scrape of his chair against the polished floor a sharp, angry sound.
My mother hasn’t said a word. The candle flickers in the center of the table, its flame a nervous, twitching thing that dances with every forced movement and every clink of silverware against porcelain.
She just sits there, her smile frozen, her glass refilling itself as though she doesn’t notice.
Or doesn’t care. The air is thick with the cloying scent of roasted garlic and the dry, papery smell of old money.
My heartbeat is a frantic, trapped bird in my chest, a stark contrast to the measured, almost silent breathing of my father.
Across from me, my father dabs his mouth with his napkin as if he’s on stage. Every gesture is exact. Every word calculated.
“This weekend,” he says, setting his fork down with a deliberate, unnaturally loud clink, “we’ll be having a guest for dinner.”
I look up. His tone commands rather than suggests.
“Trent Moreland. His father and I go way back. He’s in town for a few weeks, and I think it’s time you two got properly acquainted.”
My stomach plummets, a cold, heavy knot tightening in my gut. The bite of salmon on my tongue turns to ash. I push the piece around my plate, the tines of my fork scraping against the china.
“He’ll be joining us Saturday. I expect you to be there.”
“I have plans,” I say quietly, the words tasting like a lie even though they’re true. I know it won’t matter.
“You’ll reschedule,” he replies without looking up from his glass, the dismissal a casual flick of a wrist. He doesn’t raise his voice.
He never has to. Silence is a weapon in my family.
In the club, it’s a wound. Either way, it cuts deep.
His quiet is sharper than anyone else’s anger.
“And you’ll be on your best behavior. This family has enough eyes on it as it is. ”
There it is. Not a request. A command wrapped in the silk of high-society etiquette.
I bite the inside of my cheek, the sharp tang of blood a small, secret anchor.
Trent. Of course. The Morelands are old money and worse politics.
I’ve met him twice. Once when I was fifteen and he winked at me like I was something to collect.
His gaze left a slimy trail on my skin. And again last year at a charity gala where he talked more about himself than the event.
He’s exactly the man my father would want me tied to: clean-cut, a name that keeps mine in line. A lock for my cage.
“Of course,” I say. My voice is clipped; a perfect porcelain doll’s reply.
My mother shifts beside him but doesn’t object.
She never does. I remember a different woman, one who threw her head back when she laughed, the sound filling the whole house.
One who once told a snide neighbor to ‘go to hell’ under her breath for criticizing my chipped nail polish.
That woman is gone now, replaced by this ghost in pearls.
And I miss her so much it feels like a hollow ache in my ribs.
I keep my eyes down, my fingernails digging into my thigh beneath the tablecloth, creating four small, sharp crescents of pain. Trent. Saturday. Smile, nod, perform. Be a good daughter. Be useful.
The air feels tighter now, the scent of garlic turning sour in my nose. The wine in my glass has gone warm, but I sip it anyway just to keep my hands busy. Then, a sound cuts through the oppressive quiet. The soft, measured click of a woman’s heels on the polished floor approaches our table.
A voice, calm and clipped. “Mr. Graves, would you like a refill?”
I look up, and my world stops.
My breath catches in my throat. My blood turns to ice. It’s her. Candace.
The girl from the club. From last night.
She stands at the edge of the table in a black uniform, notepad in hand.
But her eyes lock on mine, and it instantly shows.
Recognition. A connection so sharp and immediate it burns.
The blood rushes from my head so fast I sway.
My skin prickles. My pulse in my throat acts like a physical countdown to disaster.
Panic, hot and blinding, twists in my gut.
She knows. She saw me pressed against Malachi, laughing like I belonged in his world.
Now she is here. Standing at his shoulder.
My father, who has made it his personal mission to destroy the Outsiders.
He calls them dirt—dangerous, lawless, corrupt.
The men he built his entire public image condemning.
If she says something. Just one word. Clubhouse. If she even hints at it… it won’t just be awkward. It’ll be war. He will punish me. He will lock me away. I’ll never get out.
I stare at her, my heart pounding a frantic, desperate rhythm against my ribs. My mouth goes dry, like my tongue has turned to cotton. I can’t breathe.
Candace doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But something shifts behind her eyes. It’s not surprise or judgment. It’s… something deeper. Heavier. A weary understanding, like she’s seen the worst of him, too. I don’t know how. I don’t know what she knows. But I can tell; she knows.
Her gaze cuts into me for one second longer. An entire silent conversation passes between us in the space of a heartbeat. It’s a choice. I see her make it. Then she nods. A barely perceptible dip of her chin.
The spell breaks. “I think we’re done for the night,” my father says, already rising, completely oblivious to the silent execution he just missed. “Can we get our check?”
Candace finally looks away from me, her expression a blank, professional mask once more. “Of course.”
She doesn’t look back at me. She doesn’t have to. Because in that moment, I understand: she could have ruined me. Exposed me. But she didn’t. Whatever reason she has for keeping quiet, I owe her for it. Even if she never calls it in. Even if she never says a word.
As she walks away, I give her the smallest nod of thanks, a gesture so tiny no one else would see it. For the first time all night, it feels like someone in this room actually saw me and didn’t use it against me.
The door to the ladies’ room swings closed behind Candace. I hesitate. My father is still dealing with the check—making a show of shaking hands with the manager, probably slipping a business card along with his signature. He always draws it out, making sure people remember who he is.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I should stay seated. Keep quiet. Be the obedient daughter in her pretty lace dress and polished lies. But my feet move anyway.
The bathroom is cold and bright, the tile humming faintly under my heels. It smells like lavender soap and air freshener trying too hard to cover up old pipes. I grip the edge of the sink to steady myself, my heart thudding somewhere behind my ribs.
The stall door opens, and Candace steps out. She pauses mid-step when she sees me, her hand still resting on the edge of the door, eyes narrowing just enough to register me.
I straighten. Too fast. My breath sticks.
Gone is the girl I practically snarled at out of jealousy and desperation. This Candace is composed, silent, sharp. She takes in my dress, my posture, my presence. Every inch of who I pretended to be last night curls up and dies under her stare.
“Hi.” My voice is a scratchy whisper. “Thanks for not calling me out in front of my parents.” God, I sound like a child.
She turns to the sink, her expression unreadable. “It’s not my place.” But the way she says it—steady, weighted—tells me she’s been in a place just like mine.
“No matter what Frankie says,” I say, forcing a brittle smile, “I’m really not a bitch.” Why do I care what she thinks? Why am I pleading my case?
Candace studies me for a long, quiet moment, then extends her hand. “Let’s start over. I’m Candace.”
Surprised, I tentatively take her hand. “I’m Darla.”
She holds my gaze, then her expression sharpens. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”
The question is clean cut, no malice behind it. Just fact. I guess that’s why it doesn’t hurt.
“Yeah.” My cheeks heat. “It was months ago. A one-time thing. I think he did it because he hates my father, not because he actually wanted me.” The words are out before I can stop them, ugly and true. Why am I telling her this? This stranger who has every reason to hate me?
“Honestly? I think I did it because I hate my father too. But I’ve been stupidly trying to get his attention ever since.” The confession is a fresh wave of shame. I’m laying all my pathetic cards on the table for her to see.
“Then I saw you blow him off last night, and it kind of woke me up. And now? Seeing him here tonight? It just… solidified everything. I don’t actually like him.
Not really. I sure as hell don’t want to be desperate for someone who doesn’t want me back.
” The words keep tumbling out, a messy, unstoppable cascade.
I’ve just handed her every weapon she could ever need to destroy me, and I can’t seem to stop.
Candace nods slowly, her expression unreadable. “Then go find someone who doesn’t make you feel that way. You’re worth more than that.”
The words are simple, the kind you see on a coffee mug. But no one has ever said them to me. Not like that. Not when I felt this worthless. They land with the force of a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs while leaving something raw and aching in its place.
I haven’t been chasing Malachi. I’ve been chasing a ghost. A boy who used to look at me like I was the only person in the room.
Ever since that night, East won’t even meet my eyes.
Like he can’t stand to look at anyone who was there, who saw what he lost. Like I’m just a reminder of the pieces of himself he had to bury.
And I’ve been twisting myself into knots, hoping for a single glance.
“I guess we both know what it’s like to live in someone else’s shadow,” I say, the realization straightening my spine. My smile, after ages, feels real. “Thanks. I think I will.”
“I’m heading to Frankie’s tattoo shop tonight. Want to come? Once I can escape my dad’s ever-watchful eye,” I add, offering an impulsive, fragile bridge. Frankie doesn’t even need an explanation—she’ll already know why I need the ink, the noise, the distraction. I expect her to laugh. To say no.
Candace considers me. “I’m in. Mind if I bring a friend?”
“Of course! I’ll let Frankie know. See you later.” I give her a wave, then step back into the hallway. My father is still occupied. I keep my head high as I walk past, but something inside me feels different. Unlatched. Not fixed. Just cracked open enough to let a little light in.