Chapter Twenty Six #2
“Certainly,” I address Mrs. Kavanagh, sliding an arm around Harper’s back and tugging her so close into my side that her chair squeaks.
“This is my girlfriend, Harper. On her right is Clayton, her other boyfriend, and the little pixie hogging the bread down there is her roommate, Addy.” My gaze lingers on Addy, concern lacing through me at the way her blunt teeth are tearing at the bread rolls as if it’s her last meal.
Then I remember I don’t care whether she chokes or simply gets indigestion, and my attention is back on the Kavanagh's opposite.
“Oh, right then,” Mrs. Kavanagh tries to be polite.
Her hair is the same golden shade as Klara’s, but has been pinned up rather than left loose around her shoulders.
Also like her daughter, she’s opted to wear a sequin cocktail dress that pushes her cleavage unnaturally high, not that I’m looking.
Her husband grumbles beneath his breath, sharing a look with my equally pissed-off father.
Thankfully, my remarks are forgotten as Fiona appears at his side with the same caution as a soldier stepping into a war zone.
“Dinner is about to be served,” she interjects carefully. Her eyes flick to me, then to Harper, something protective passing through them before she inclines her head. My brow twitches, but as soon as Fiona’s hidden message pierces the air, it’s snagged back with her retreat.
Plates are set down, and wine is poured, the conversation turning limp between the pairings.
Mr. Kavanagh talks business with my father, their voices too low to hear, while Mrs. Kavanagh tells Klara to stop slouching and that it's rude to stare.
Glancing across the table, I pick up on that stare, which is pierced with daggers and locked on Harper.
Besides the jealousy oozing across the table as thick as tar, the first course passes by smoothly, and my hackles have just started to lower when Mrs. Kavanagh sticks her nose into the air again.
“Rhys, Klara tells me you haven't been at the academy in some time.” She states, not asking the question that she intended.
Where the fuck have you been? “I do hope you will return soon.
It's not a good look, you know.” I fight against the urge to roll my eyes.
Always with the appearances. Although I had managed to release Harper long enough to eat, my arm slides back around her waist, cementing myself to her.
“I've been dealing with something far more important,” I announce coldly, my voice devoid of the emotion swirling within. Placing his silver cutlery down with a clatter, my father rejoins the conversation laid out before him.
“Hardly. Playing house with your whore is of no importance when your future is on the line.”
“You will not call her that again.” My fingers dig into Harper’s hip bone.
If it bothers her, she doesn’t show it, but I don’t miss how her hand has found Clayton’s thigh beneath the table, also taking strength from where she needs it.
For once, I don’t envy her for that. “Her name is Harper, and you will treat her with respect.” Harper’s knee brushes against mine, her presence a quiet defiance I cling to.
“Is that so?” My father tilts his head, seemingly amused.
“Finally grew a backbone, I see. We will discuss this later.” Later, later, always later.
Later means more bruises, more rules, more nights convincing myself I deserved it.
When that didn’t work, I became numb to it instead.
But the fury is thrumming through my veins now.
The red is curtaining my vision now. Not just for his insults at Harper, but for all of it.
The secrets, the lies, the beatings. I’ve had enough.
Something inside me snaps. It’s not loud or explosive in the way I expected, but more like a cable that’s been pulled too tight and has finally given way.
I’ve spent my whole life shrinking under that tone, quaking at that look, training myself to stay quiet in his presence and take my wrath out on others when he’s not around.
Straightening my spine, I level my father with a glare that shows I’m not his punching bag anymore. I won’t be controlled any longer.
“No,” I state coldly. “We will discuss it right now.” The room goes so quiet, I can hear the blood roaring in my ears as I push my chair back and stand.
The scrape of wood against marble feels criminal, like a gunshot in a chapel, and every head turns toward me.
My father’s brows knit, already preparing whatever cutting remark he thinks will put me back in my place, but for once I don’t give him the space to speak.
I reach down and tug Harper upright by the hand, grounding myself in the warmth of her palm, the steady press of her thumbs against my knuckles.
My father laughs, the sound laced with disbelief.
It’s a ruse to placate Mr. Kavanagh, a weak attempt to cover the fury in his eyes.
Usually, I’d baulk, but not this time. This is a man who confuses silence with obedience.
A man who taught me the only strength to be found is in dominance.
But as Harper’s body presses into my side, as Clayton’s shoulders square in a solidarity I don’t deserve, and as Addy keeps chewing open-mouthed and obvious to the air around the table, I discover the true meaning of strength in numbers. I’m not alone here, not anymore.
“Sit down, Rhys,” he orders, clicking his fingers as if I’m a hound on his leash.
“You’re making a scene. Send your little tramp and her friends away so we can have a sophisticated dinner, as I promised the Kavanagh’s it would be.
There are matters that need to be taken care of.
” As he says this, my father’s eyes sweep across the table to settle on Klara, the corners crinkling in his attempt to be courteous.
The pulse in my jaw twitches. It’s all so clear now. This dinner was supposed to be about my engagement to Klara, the one my father insisted on as mandatory when Harper didn’t choose me. But he doesn’t understand that I don’t need to be Harper’s exclusive choice. I just need to be an option.
“I’m in love with Harper. She isn’t temporary or inconvenient, or something you can ignore because she wasn’t part of your carefully constructed plans. She’s part of mine. The people on this side of the table are more like family to me than you ever will be.”
I hear her inhale sharply beside me, notice Clayton still, and sense Addy’s fork pause halfway to her mouth.
The look on my father’s face is murderous, the one he usually gets before he reaches for his belt buckle.
I know he won’t lash me in front of my audience, but a sliver of my courage retreats as he continues to glare.
“You’re going to pin your chances on a woman that won’t even choose you over some lowlife scum?
” Out of the corner of my eye, Clayton visibly flinches, and my reaction is barely concealed.
That word is like a cleaver to my chest, slamming harder than expected.
I’ve called Clayton it ever since I met him, but no man who can love and protect my girl as fiercely as him can be scum.
For the first time, I see Clayton not as a rival to be beaten, but as an equal match.
Tightening my fingers around Harper’s hand, I shift my head to speak directly into her receiver.
“I’m pinning my future on a woman who is too incredible for just one man to worship.
” Shoving her chair out, Klara runs from the room with her head in her hands, hysterically blubbering.
I roll my eyes before Harper turns to face me, those huge green orbs consuming my vision and blocking out the rest of the room.
They’re glassy with unshed tears, a wobbly smile on her mouth.
Finding a smirk just for her, I plant a kiss on her cheek before facing my father again. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
His eyes narrow, the pinched expression upon his face beginning to turn an aggravated shade of red. “Meaning, what?” Before I have a chance to respond, Addy tosses her fork across the table and cackles so loud and suddenly, I think everyone in the room flinches.
“That you killed your wife and stuffed her into the walls!” She laughs like a hyena, rocking back on her chair.
Clayton spots that she’s going to fall before anyone else, dashing out of his seat to catch her before she hits the ground.
The rest of us remain frozen, the words spilling across the room like ink seeping through the cracks of my father’s lies.
I can’t take my eyes off him, watching the ticks, twitches and contortions of his features before he shuts off his expression.
“Out. All of them, out,” he growls, the sound barely audible over Addy’s hysterics.
Clayton is already escorting her to the doorway, sensing she’s had enough of this party.
Along the way, Addy talks to the oil-paint portraits, asking if they know where my mother is hiding.
I turn to Harper, lifting her hand to my mouth and pressing a kiss into her knuckles, my voice softening only for her.
“Go get your things. Whatever you can carry. We’re leaving tonight.” Her eyes shine, wide and stunned, and she nods once before stepping away from my side. My father, however, has other plans.
“Not you, Rhys. You are staying right here, as agreed.”
Pausing mid-step, Harper swings back to me, worry etched into her beautiful face. I shake my head and mouth for her to go, before turning back to my father. This entire time, the Kavanagh’s are watching our family drama unfold in stilted silence.
“You don’t get to summon me anymore. You don’t get to decide when I stay or leave.” I wrap my fingers into fists, my intention clear. He can try to stop me, but I won’t go down without putting up a fight. Not this time. He has no power over me now.
“You walk out that door,” my father snarls, rising to his feet now, fury bleeding through the instinct to be polite, “and you can forget the academy. Forget your inheritance. Forget the name. I will cut you off completely.”
The old fear within me flickers, a reflex I’ve yet to tamper down, but it dies before it can take root. Seeing Harper is safely out of range, a shudder of bravery ripples through my spine and settles into my bones.
“Good,” I say, meaning it with every fractured piece of myself he never managed to break. “I’m tired of being owned by a name that only ever cost me blood. Keep it. Keep the money, the legacy, the house. I’d rather be nothing without you than everything you tried to make me.”
Turning on my heel, I don’t wait for his response, and I don’t look back. Crossing the dining room, I slow, my foot stalling before it passes over the threshold, a wave of relief sweeping through me as it does. For the first time in my life, I don’t need permission to leave.