Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
STEFANI
"Mayor Konan… you summoned me," I mutter as I step into the private room of his favorite French restaurant.
"Don't start with your theatrics, Stefani." His tone is bored, dismissive—like this is something he's said a thousand times. "I'm your father, and I deserve your respect."
"You have to give respect before you can earn it, Mayor." I usually don't let him intimidate me as much as he used to, but something about today feels… off.
"Sit," he orders, his expression hardening.
"I'm not staying long."
"You will sit, and you will eat," he snaps. "I have something to discuss with you, and you will adhere to everything I say."
Cutter's words echo in my mind—You belong to us now. You don't answer to him anymore. The look he gave me before I left… it warned me not to doubt him.
A small smile tugs at my lips. It's been so long since I felt wanted the way they want me. My mother loves me, sure—but it's not the same.
"I don't know what makes you think you have any say over what I do," I snap. "You lost that right when you decided to fuck that pathetic dick of yours into every woman you met."
He moves faster than I can react. His hand cracks across my face, sending me stumbling into the edge of the table. The pain is sharp, but the shock hits me harder.
"You will sit your ass down and shut the fuck up," he barks. "We have company coming, and you will be silent."
"Bastard…" I whisper, my hand covering my cheek. "I'm not staying."
I straighten and turn toward the door, but his two goons step in front of it, blocking my path. I whirl back toward my father, my fists clenched at my sides.
"Let me go…"
"I said sit the fuck down," he snarls, eyes hard as he glares at me.
There's no way out—not with his men guarding the only exit. So I do the only thing I can… I play his little game. I stomp to one of the empty chairs and sit. He smirks, mistaking necessity for submission.
Another guard steps inside. "Sir, Mr. Mayfield is here."
"Send him in," the mayor says smoothly.
A moment later, a man who looks to be in his late forties enters. My father stands, extending his hand.
"Mayfield, it's so good to see you again."
"Mayor Konan," the stranger replies, returning the handshake. "Always a pleasure."
"Please," my father says, gesturing to the empty chair. "Sit."
The man beside me obeys immediately, sending me a smug, assessing glance before settling in. His presence makes my skin crawl.
If I want answers, then I must remain silent and pay close attention. My father may think I'm still the meek little girl he can bully into obedience, but he's sorely mistaken. I'm watching and listening. I'm no longer afraid of him the way I used to be.
"You weren't lying," the stranger says, looking me over with a kind of sick satisfaction. "She's even more beautiful than you said."
"Of course she is." My father's tone turns defensive. "She's of my blood."
I look nothing like my sperm donor. I'm my mother's daughter in every way that matters. But I don't bother correcting him. My cheek still throbs from where he struck me.
"I hate to say it," Mayfield continues, chuckling, "but I think you're getting the short end of the deal. You get my vote… and I get your beautiful daughter in my bed."
A sharp gasp escapes me before I can stop it.
Both men turn toward me, smirking like they're sharing some private joke. Mayfield is a middle-aged bastard whose shirt buttons look ready to pop off. His thinning hair and too-tight suit only make the smugness on his face more repulsive.
My father can't be serious. He's trading me for a fucking vote! A vote. Who does that? Who even thinks like that?
Every instinct in me screams to run, but his goons stand at the door like stone pillars. I'm trapped. I have to stay calm, play this right, and keep the bile from rising any higher in my throat.
My father watches me for a few more seconds, waiting to see if I'll argue. When I don't, he scoffs and turns back to Mayfield.
"It's not just your vote, Mayfield. Remember that."
Mayfield waves a dismissive hand. "Of course. My partners will follow me. They've already said as much."
"Good," my father says, clapping his hands together like he's just sealed a business deal instead of selling his daughter. "Now, let's eat!"
I sit there for another hour while they drone on about politics, alliances, and favors. I barely hear any of it—until the part that matters.
I'm to be delivered to Mr. Mayfield's home the day before voting.
Delivered like a damn package.
Two weeks. That's all the time I have to figure out how to escape this nightmare.
Mayfield takes his leave first. My father's hand clamps around my wrist before I can fully stand. He yanks me forward, dragging me over the table until his face is inches from mine.
"Enjoy your time whoring around with those two bastards," he snarls, breath hot with rage. "Because soon you'll belong to Mayfield. You'll be his little kept secret while his sick wife rots in bed."
My eyes widen at the mention of Cutter and Dash.
"What's the matter?" he taunts. "You didn't think I knew about you spreading your legs for those two playboys? Listen to me, Stefani, and listen well. I know everything that happens in your life. Remember that."
He shoves me so hard I hit the floor, pain shooting up my side as I land. He doesn't even pause—just sneers down at me, tosses his napkin onto his plate, and walks out like I'm nothing more than a spilled drink.
For a moment, I can't move. My hands tremble as I grip the chair and pull myself upright. My cheek throbs, and my ribs ache, as I take in a shaky breath. But I'm able to stand.
I squeeze my eyes shut, inhale once, steadying myself, then walk out of the room with as much dignity as I can muster.
I need to speak with the guys. They're not going to be happy about this. But I know one thing with absolute certainty: They won't let my father hand me over to Mr. Mayfield.