Chapter 34 Parker
PARKER
The bridal boutique smells like champagne and expensive fabric—silk and tulle and whatever magic they weave into dresses that cost more than my first car.
I stand on the raised platform in front of three angled mirrors, watching myself multiply into infinity while Madame Laurent, the boutique owner, pins the hem of my gown with the practiced efficiency of someone who’s dressed half the crime families in the city.
“Turn,” she commands in her thick French accent, and I rotate slowly, careful not to step on the midnight blue fabric pooling around my feet.
The gown is gorgeous—I’ll give Charles that.
Off-shoulder sleeves that drape elegantly, a fitted bodice that makes my waist look smaller than it actually is, and a skirt that moves like water when I walk.
The color is deep and rich, somewhere between navy and black, with silver thread embroidered along the neckline and hem in patterns that catch the light.
“Stunning,” Sienna says from the cream-colored sofa behind me, her own gown—a deep emerald green—already fitted and hanging on a rack nearby. “You look like a vengeful fairy queen about to destroy kingdoms.”
“That’s the aesthetic we’re going for,” I mutter, earning a sharp look from Madame Laurent as she adjusts a pin near my hip.
My mother sits beside Sienna, her champagne flute already half-empty even though we’ve only been here twenty minutes.
Of course, Evelyn Carter looks elegant as always—her silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in a chignon, her cashmere wrap draped artfully over her shoulders.
She’s watching me with that particular expression mothers get when they’re proud but trying not to show it too obviously.
“You should wear your hair up,” she says thoughtfully. “Show off your shoulders. Maybe some diamonds at your throat.”
“I’m not trying to look like I’m getting married, Mom.”
“No, you’re trying to look stunning on Ryan Matthews’s arm,” she corrects, and there’s something pleased in her voice that makes my chest tighten.
“Which means you want to make an impression. Show the old guard that you’re not just Charles’s little sister anymore—you’re a woman worthy of respect in your own right. ”
I resist the urge to remind her that I’ve been worthy of respect for years, that I built a life in California without anyone’s help, that I don’t need Ryan Matthews or any man to validate my existence.
The door chimes, and I catch Aria’s reflection in the mirror as she enters.
Dominic’s widow moves with the practiced grace of someone who’s learned to perform femininity as survival, her expression somewhere between resentful and resigned.
She’s dressed impeccably as always—a cream-colored dress that probably costs more than the average monthly rent, her blonde hair falling in perfect waves.
She’s young enough that Charles has been fielding “inquiries” about her availability from various families looking to strengthen alliances. Young enough to be married off again, traded like currency, used to build bridges Dominic’s death might have burned.
Jesus. Listen to me. Even knowing that Charles is fine trading her like property makes me sick.
“Parker. Sienna. Evelyn.” Her greeting is polite but cool. She hasn’t forgiven me for kicking her out of the main house, and I haven’t forgiven her for marrying my father for his money and power.
“Aria,” I acknowledge. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
“Charles suggested I should attend the gala.” Her smile is tight. “Apparently it’s good for family unity. Show the organization that we’re all... together during this transition.”
Translation: Charles wants to parade the young widow around to prove the Carters are stable despite Dominic’s death and maybe find her a new husband in the process. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“Your fitting is in thirty minutes,” Madame Laurent says to Aria without looking up from my hem. “I have your measurements from last season.”
Aria nods and settles into one of the chairs near the window, accepting a champagne flute from the assistant with practiced ease.
“The mask,” Madame Laurent says to her other assistant, who hurries over with a black velvet box.
Inside is a mask that matches my gown—silver filigree on midnight blue silk, delicate and ornate, covering the upper half of my face with cutouts for my eyes. It’s beautiful and impractical and exactly the kind of thing Dominic would have loved—all performance, all spectacle, all illusion.
The masquerade gala. Because of course it has to be a masquerade. Can’t just have a normal charity event where everyone writes checks and goes home. No, we need costumes and mystery and the pretense of anonymity while everyone knows exactly who everyone else is anyway.
I take the mask, holding it up to my face. In the mirror, I barely recognize myself—some stranger in expensive fabric and silver thread, playing dress-up in a world I never wanted to be part of.
“Remember the last masquerade gala?” Sienna asks suddenly, a smile playing at her lips. “The one where I met Charles?”
My mother laughs—actually laughs, the sound surprising and genuine. “Oh God, that disaster. When was that? Ten years ago?”
“Fifteen,” Sienna corrects. “My family dragged me there thinking I’d meet some ‘suitable young man’ to marry.” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “Instead, I met Charles Carter doing the most ridiculous peacocking display I’d ever witnessed.”
Despite myself, I smile. I remember that night.
I was nineteen, freshly returned from my first year of college, still naive enough to think I could escape this life if I just tried hard enough.
Still naive enough to think that when Dominic said he was “introducing me to the organization,” he meant as a person with value beyond my marriageability.
I’d learned differently that night. Learned that to men like my father, women existed to be wed, bred, traded off for alliances and territory. That my education, my intelligence, my wants—none of it mattered compared to my potential as a bargaining chip.
“He wore that absurd burgundy suit,” Sienna continues, her voice warm with affection despite the words. “And he kept positioning himself so the light would catch his profile just right. Like he was posing for invisible cameras.”
“He was trying to impress you,” Mom says gently.
“He was trying to impress everyone,” Sienna corrects.
“But yes, mostly me. And I thought he was the most ridiculous man I’d ever met.
” She pauses. “Then he opened his mouth and said something actually intelligent about reforming the justice system, and I realized the peacocking was all performance. That underneath it was someone who actually gave a shit about things beyond money and power.”
I remember that night differently.
I remember Jace in a black tux that fit him like sin, his blue eyes tracking every man who came near me, his hand constantly at the small of my back even though we were supposed to be nothing more than family friends.
I remember Cal in navy blue, charming and devastating, making three different women blush before he pulled me onto the dance floor and held me too close while telling me I looked beautiful.
I remember Silas arriving late, blood on his collar that he hadn’t quite managed to hide, violence still riding his shoulders like a second skin as he moved through the crowd to find me.
I remember the three of them forming a wall around me when some business associate of Dominic’s got too handsy, suggesting to my father that I’d make an excellent wife for his son.
Remember Cal’s smooth redirection, Jace’s cold stare, Silas’s hand dropping to his knife in a way that was impossible to miss.
Remember feeling suffocated and protected and wanted all at once.
They’d been working with Charles for years by then—came up through the ranks together, the four of them an inseparable unit that Dominic both valued and resented. The golden boy heir and his three enforcers, handling the dirty work, building the empire while Dominic took credit.
“Parker went through three dress fittings for that gala,” Evelyn says, pulling me back to the present. “Changed her mind twice about the color.”
“We were nineteen,” I defend. “I was allowed to be indecisive. Nineteen was peak peacocking for Charles, too.”
“You were terrified,” my mother corrects gently.
“Dominic had just announced you’d be formally introduced to the organization’s leadership.
You knew what that meant—that you were being positioned as marriage material, that men would start seeing you as a potential alliance opportunity rather than just Charles’s little sister. ”
The words land heavier than they should. Because that’s exactly what’s happening now, isn’t it? Fifteen years later and I’m right back in the same position—being dressed up and paraded around, my value measured in alliances and optics rather than the actual work I’m doing as Charles’s strategist.
“So, Ryan Matthews,” Mom says, her tone carefully casual in that way mothers have when they’re fishing for information. “Charles speaks very highly of him. Says he’s been invaluable during the transition.”
I focus on my reflection, on the way the silver thread catches the light. “He’s competent. Professional.”
“And handsome,” my mother adds. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that.”
“Mom—”
“I’m just saying, it’s nice to see you with someone age-appropriate. Someone stable, from a good family.” She takes a sip of her champagne. “Someone who could be a real partner, not just—”
“Not just what?” I turn to face her, careful not to disturb Madame Laurent’s pinning. “Not just someone I actually want?”
Her expression softens. “I want you to be happy, sweetheart. And I know the past six years have been... difficult. Raising the boys alone, building a life separate from all this. But you’re home now. And Ryan seems like he could be good for you.”