Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
PENELOPE
Dinner isn’t exactly awkward, but there’s a tension under the surface, stretched thin and waiting to break. Abi’s smiling too wide, Dad’s making small talk that doesn’t land, and Talon looks like he’s still trying to figure out what angle he’s gonna play.
I trace the rim of my glass, staring at the faint scuff marks on the table my mom used to polish every Sunday. Her ghost lives in the shine Abi can’t quite replicate.
I watch Talon pick at his salad. He’s got that restless energy, like a runner waiting for the gun to fire.
I keep wondering why he took a gap year if he’s so eager to be home now.
Abi’s always made it sound like she’s comfortably well-off—not rich, but fine.
Financial aid exists. Loans exist. So why wait?
And why not come home to his family for that year instead of wasting it somewhere else?
Something doesn’t line up.
Abi starts in on the story before I can even ask.
“Talon was a bit of a troublemaker,” she says, voice light but pointed, the kind of tone people use when they’re pretending they’ve already forgiven you for something they clearly haven’t.
“So he was told he had to prove that he’d grown up before he could be around his sister again. ”
Talon doesn’t take the bait. Not right away. He just stabs a crouton and rolls it through his dressing, jaw ticking once before he says, “Lotta good that did, since you sent her off to school.”
Abi’s smile freezes midair, her jaw tightening just enough to make the muscles at her temples jump.
Dad cuts in fast. “She’ll be home soon for fall break. It’s not right for her to be away when her family’s here.”
Abi’s voice sharpens, still polite but cold underneath. “We didn’t discuss that, Chad. I sent her there to get an amazing education and learn independence.”
The way she clips the word makes my teeth ache.
Dad looks down at his plate, and it lands like a tiny victory in her column.
She always does this—makes it sound like her decisions are the smart ones and everyone else is just catching up.
It’s subtle. A gentle dig wrapped in grace. Nice, but passively pissy.
I glance at Talon. He’s quiet, but his eyes give him away.
There’s love there—raw, stubborn love—for his little sister, the kind that doesn’t fade just because someone shipped her off.
It’s the same look I used to see in my dad’s eyes after my mom died.
The helpless kind. The kind that says, I’d fix this if I knew how.
He catches me watching and lifts one brow, the corner of his mouth curving slowly—like he’s just found a weakness worth keeping. I drop my gaze to my fork before he can see the heat crawl up my neck.
I try to keep my voice even when I speak. “Where’s Talon staying?”
Abi sets her fork down and folds her napkin neatly. “He’s at the dorms, of course. Your father and I told him there’s no room in this house right now. We just need a bigger space if we’re merging families.”
I blink. “No room?”
There are literally three unused bedrooms upstairs. One’s the guest room, and the other two are filled with boxes and memories. My mom’s things. The smell of her perfume is still faintly in the air if you open the door fast enough. Abi doesn’t go in there. Ever.
“Are you trying to move?” I ask, and I can’t hide the bite in my tone.
“This house is lovely,” Abi says, smiling that pageant smile that could crack under pressure. “But we’d love to get a place that feels like ours—a home where we can be a family.”
Family. The word lands like a pebble in my gut.
I look at my dad, and he gives me a quiet, steady smile that used to calm me when I was little. He mouths, Not going anywhere.
I breathe out slowly, shoulders loosening just a little.
Abi claps her hands together, changing the subject like she’s flipping a page. “Let’s settle in and eat, shall we?” She stands and pulls the silver lid off the entrée dish, releasing a puff of steam that smells suspiciously like the ocean and regret.
“Tonight’s special is monkfish with fennel and saffron rice,” she says proudly.
Talon blinks. “Monkfish?”
“It’s very sophisticated,” she replies. “Michelin chefs swear by it.”
He stares at his plate for a long beat, fork hovering midair, the muscle in his jaw twitching once before he drops it with a quiet clink against the china. Dad’s hand twitches toward his water glass, then stills, a faint, wordless shrug softening his expression, understanding without stepping in.
Abi spoons portions onto our plates, careful, deliberate, like the act of serving makes her the kind of person who belongs in glossy magazines.
Talon leans back in his chair, one brow lifting as he studies the plate.
His lips press into a half-smirk, half-grimace, like he’s trying to decide whether the dish is edible or a test. His eyes narrow, then flick to Abi, searching her face for a clue, suspicion shadowing the hint of a grin that says he might try it, anyway.
He catches me smiling and smirks back.
Abi clears her throat. “You’ll love it. It’s light but rich.”
Sure. Light like an oil spill.
I take a bite because that’s what polite daughters do, and immediately regret every decision that led me here. It’s rubbery and perfumed, like someone cooked the fish in a bottle of fancy lotion. My stomach tightens, but I smile anyway.
“Mmm. Delicious.”
Abi beams. “Isn’t it?”
“Delightful,” I lie, chasing it with a big sip of wine.
Dad politely pokes at his plate, then redirects the conversation to work. Talon just grins, watching me over the rim of his glass. His eyes say everything he can’t in front of our parents. You hate it. I know you hate it.
I glare at him, a quiet warning that better translate to don’t start with me.
He winks.
Abi starts talking about house listings, and my dad humors her, nodding while his fingers tap against his glass, slow and uneven.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and there’s a faint pull between his brows, the kind that only shows up when he’s trying to be agreeable but already counting the seconds until the conversation ends.
I stab another piece of lettuce, jaw tight enough to make the fork squeak against the plate. This house might not be perfect anymore, but it’s the last piece of what my family used to be. I’m not letting her paint over that.
Abi raises her glass. “To new beginnings.”
I clink mine out of habit and think, God help us if she’s right.
The monkfish sits heavy in my stomach, but the wine helps. And as I smile through another bite, one thought sticks like a thorn at the back of my mind—
If this is what family dinner looks like now, I might need stronger liquor next time.
TALON
No way in hell did I expect this.
When my mom said I had to come to dinner to meet her fiancé, I thought I was in for another one of her “be polite and make a good impression” nights. I didn’t think I’d be staring across the table at her.
Penelope.
The new stepsister—or I guess almost stepsister.
It should feel wrong. Probably does to any man with decent morals.
But watching her now, knowing what I know—what I’ve seen—sets my pulse climbing fast. She’s got this calm, composed thing going on, like she belongs in some picture-perfect family dinner scene, except I know exactly what she looks like when she’s not calm.
When she’s holding a crop, voice low and shaking, eyes glossy through a half-mask while she barks orders at me like I’m her goddamn toy.
The memory hits like a punch, and yeah, I feel myself getting hard right here at the table, in the dress slacks I wore to make my mom happy. Fucking great.
I knew Chad had a daughter, but I figured she’d be Minxy’s age.
Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Not this. Not a blonde bombshell with tan skin, hair that looks like spun gold, and eyes that could make a man confess to sins he hasn’t even committed yet.
Her mouth’s all pink gloss and trouble, her outfit hugging curves I can recall from memory alone.
She smiles politely, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and I swear my chest tightens.
Mom’s talking about how “family dinners” are so important—but her words fade into background noise. My attention’s across the table, watching Penelope swirl her fork through her salad like she’s somewhere else entirely.
I clear my throat before I can stop myself. “So, Penelope,” I say, trying to sound casual. “What are you majoring in? I know you’re a TA in Sociology, but what’s your focus?”
Her head lifts, eyes catching mine. The corner of her mouth curves just enough to soften her face, not wide enough to show teeth—just a quiet flicker of warmth that feels more honest than anything else at this table. “I’m studying to be a social worker.”
My mom clears her throat. “It’s such a low-paying and thankless job,” she says with that tight voice she uses when she’s pretending to be supportive.
“I do wish you’d consider something else, something more worthy of yourself.
Like Talon. He’s studying computer science. He’s going to be a software architect.”
I drop my fork a little too loudly, but Mom doesn’t notice. She keeps going, voice syrupy sweet.
“You could be a political scientist,” she suggests, gesturing with her glass. “Study government and policy. You’d make an excellent Olivia Pope.”
Penelope’s jaw tightens, but her smile stays intact. “Thank you, Abi, but I’m quite set on becoming a child welfare specialist and bereavement social worker.”
She looks at me and continues. “My mom was a therapist. She worked with kids and families going through loss. I used to watch her help people and color with the kids who came in. I guess… I’m trying to do what she did.”
Her dad chimes in before Mom can reply, his voice proud and soft.
“And we’re very proud of you, honey.” He looks at me continuing, “Her mother, my late wife Andrea, passed away when Penelope was only nine. It’s been her dream to help kids navigate loss ever since—to make sure they have someone who loves and cares for them. ”
That lands. Even I feel it.
“That’s amazing,” I say before I can stop myself. And I mean it. She looks up at me then—really looks—and for a second, the air between us hums again. Like that night at the club, when everything blurred into want and sin and nothing else mattered.
I look away, push the food around my plate to keep my hands busy.
Because the truth? I wish I had the kind of conviction she does. I’m not in computer science because I love it. I’m there because it’s safe. Because it makes my mom happy. Because she told me I owed her after she spent “an arm and a leg” shipping me off to boarding school.
“Your selfish behavior has consequences, Talon,” she’d said back then.
She wasn’t wrong. But damn if she ever let me forget it.
I want to design mobile apps—real ones, useful ones, maybe even something for kids like Minxy to make learning less of a chore. But that’s not an option, not if I want to prove I’m “responsible enough” to see my sister whenever I want.
So yeah. I do what I’m told. Smile, behave, study code, and play the role.
But across the table, Penelope sits there like every contradiction I shouldn’t want.
And Chad? He has no clue. Not about me. Not about his daughter. Definitely not about what she does on weekends behind closed doors at Velvet House.
For a second, the thought flickers—tell him. Watching the whole perfect thing she’s built come crashing down. I could. One sentence, and she’d crumble.
But where’s the fun in that?
No, this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
I lean back in my chair, watch her laugh at something her dad says, and think about the way she looked when she said no to me after class. The way she meant it.
A better man would walk away.
I’m not that man.
Maybe I’ll use what I know. Maybe I’ll push until she stops pretending she doesn’t want to see me again.
She’ll cave.
They always do.