Chapter 36 Parker #2
“Thank you.” I keep my voice polite, professional. “You look very nice as well.”
“I’m glad Charles suggested this,” Ryan continues, shifting slightly to face me. “I’ve been wanting to spend more time with you since you came back. Get to know you again. Or maybe—” He smiles. “—get to know you for the first time, properly.”
The opening is there. I can take it or leave it. But I need to know.
“Ryan,” I say carefully, “can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why would Charles think we’d been in contact while I was in California?”
The question hangs between us. Ryan’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes—calculation, maybe, or resignation.
“Because I told him we had been,” he says finally.
I blink. I’d expected deflection, or confusion, or maybe a smooth lie. I hadn’t expected honesty.
“Why?” I ask.
Ryan sighs, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that’s probably meant to look rueful but comes across as practiced.
“Because I thought it would help my case. Make Charles more supportive of... this.” He gestures between us. “Of us getting to know each other. I thought if he believed I’d been watching out for you, helping you, that he’d see me as a better option.”
“Option for what?”
“For you.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “Parker, you’re brilliant. You’re beautiful. You come from one of the most powerful families in the region, and you’ve proven you can build something on your own. You’re exactly the kind of woman I want as a partner.”
The words should be flattering. They’re meant to be flattering. But all I hear is transaction. Calculation. Strategy.
“So you lied to my brother about our history to make yourself look better.”
“I made myself look like someone who’d been there for you when no one else was,” Ryan corrects. “I thought—” He pauses. “I thought it would show I was serious. That I wasn’t just interested in the alliance or the power. That I actually cared about you.”
“But you don’t actually know me,” I point out. “We haven’t had a real conversation in years. You don’t know anything about my life in California, about my children, about what I want or need or care about.”
“Then let me learn.” He shifts closer, his voice dropping into something more intimate. “That’s what tonight is for, isn’t it? Getting to know each other. Seeing if there could be something real between us.”
I look at him—really look at him. Ryan Matthews is handsome, successful, from a good family. He’s intelligent, ambitious, probably capable of being charming when he wants to be. On paper, he’s everything someone in my position should want.
And he’s not what I want at all.
“Ryan,” I say gently, “there isn’t going to be anything between us. Not romantically. Not ever. I’m sorry if Charles gave you the impression otherwise, but I’m only here tonight as a colleague. A professional courtesy.”
His expression hardens slightly. “Because of them.”
“Excuse me?”
“Jace, Cal, and Silas.” He says their names with something that might be disdain or might be jealousy. “I’ve seen the way they look at you. The way they position themselves around you like guard dogs. The way you look at them when you think no one’s watching.”
My heart stutters. “I don’t—”
“You do,” Ryan interrupts. “And I get it. History, loyalty, whatever this thing is between the four of you. But Parker—” He leans forward, his voice earnest now.
“They can’t give you what I can. Stability.
A real partnership. A future that doesn’t involve looking over your shoulder or wondering if the violence will ever stop. ”
“You don’t know what they can give me,” I say quietly.
“I know they work for your brother. I know they’re enforcers, soldiers, the people Charles sends when he needs someone hurt or killed or disappeared.” Ryan’s voice is matter-of-fact. “I know that’s not the life you want for yourself or your children.”
He’s not wrong. It’s not the life I want. It’s not the life I chose when I ran to California six years ago.
But it’s the life I’m choosing now. Because the men who do that work—who carry that violence, who live in those shadows—they’re also the men who look at my sons like they hung the moon.
Who kiss my scars like they’re something precious.
Who fight each other and doubt each other and fuck up spectacularly, but who love me enough to open their mouths and let me take their DNA without question.
“You’re right,” I say finally. “It’s not the life I want.”
Ryan’s expression brightens.
“But they are,” I finish. “And I’d rather have them in the shadows than you in the light.”
The brightness dims. “Parker—”
“I appreciate the honesty about lying to Charles,” I interrupt. “Genuinely. I didn’t expect that from you. But there’s no future here, Ryan. Not the kind you want. I’m sorry if that’s disappointing, but it’s the truth.”
He sits back, studying me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Maybe.” I look out the window as the museum comes into view, all lit up against the night sky, photographers already gathering on the red carpet. “But it’s my mistake to make.”
Ryan doesn’t respond, and we spend the rest of the short drive in silence.
The museum’s grand entrance is a masterpiece of architecture—wide stone steps leading up to massive columns, warm light spilling from the ornate doorway, and a red carpet that stretches from the curb to the threshold like a river of blood.
Photographers line both sides of the carpet, cameras ready, shouting names and instructions. I can see other guests arriving—men in tuxedos, women in gowns that probably cost more than most people’s cars, everyone playing their part in this elaborate performance of respectability.
Our car pulls up behind the others. Through the window, I can see Charles and Sienna on the steps, posing for photos with practiced ease. Evelyn and Aria are just ahead of us, Aria’s hand resting on her flat stomach in a gesture that’s probably meant to be protective but reads as performative.
“Ready?” Ryan asks, and there’s something in his tone that says he’s not quite ready to give up yet.
“As I’ll ever be.”
Marcus opens the door. Ryan steps out first, then offers me his hand. I take it because refusing would cause a scene, and I let him help me out of the car.
Cameras flash immediately. Photographers call out our names.
“Mr. Matthews! Over here!”
“Parker! Parker Carter! Look this way!”
“Mr. Matthews, who’s your date tonight?”
Ryan’s hand moves to the small of my back—possessive, proprietary, exactly the kind of touch that photographs well. I resist the urge to step away, keeping my expression pleasant and neutral as we climb the steps.
The coat hides everything. The storm-grey silk, the steel-blue accents, the amber beads that catch firelight. All of it concealed beneath black cashmere that could be hiding anything.
We reach the entrance. An attendant materializes—young, professional, eager to help.
“May I take your coat, miss?”
“Not yet,” I say smoothly. “I’ll check it inside.”
Ryan’s hand is still on my back as we move through the doorway, into the museum’s grand entrance hall. It’s breathtaking—marble floors, soaring ceilings, art on every wall. And at the far end, a sweeping staircase that curves down to the main gallery floor where the gala is actually being held.
I can hear music from below. Conversation. The clink of champagne glasses and polite laughter.
And standing near one of the columns at the top of the staircase, positioned perfectly to see everyone who arrives—
Jace. Cal. Silas.
All three in black tuxedos that fit like sin, looking dangerous and elegant and absolutely lethal.
Jace’s steel-blue eyes are scanning the crowd with tactical precision.
Cal’s leaning against the column with practiced casualness, but his amber gaze is sharp and focused.
Silas stands slightly apart, his storm-grey eyes dark and assessing, violence riding his shoulders like always.
They haven’t seen me yet. Haven’t looked this direction.
“Let me help you with that,” Ryan says, reaching for the coat.
This is it. The moment. The reveal.
I let him help me out of the coat, the black cashmere sliding off my shoulders to reveal—
Storm-grey silk that moves like liquid shadow. Steel-blue accents that catch the light like blades. Amber beads that glow like captured fire.
Their colors. All three of them, woven into fabric and thread and deliberate choice.
Ryan doesn’t notice. He’s focused on checking the coat, on offering his arm, on playing the role of attentive date.
But they notice.
I watch it happen in slow motion. Jace’s eyes find me first—a casual scan that turns into a locked stare. His entire body goes still, that tactical mind processing what he’s seeing. The colors. The deliberate choice. The message written in silk and steel and amber.
Then Cal sees me. His practiced casualness evaporates. He straightens, his amber eyes going wide and then dark with something that looks like hunger and recognition and regret all tangled together.
Silas is last. His storm-grey eyes meet mine across the space, and I see everything I need to see in that look. Understanding. Appreciation. Possession.
They know exactly what I’m doing.
Ryan offers his arm, oblivious. “Shall we?”
I take his arm because I have to, because this is the role I agreed to play, because backing out now would cause exactly the kind of scene Charles was trying to avoid.
But I don’t take my eyes off them.
Not as I place my hand in the crook of Ryan’s elbow. Not as we move toward the top of the staircase. Not as every step brings me closer to where they’re standing, still as statues, watching me with expressions that make my skin heat despite the distance between us.
We reach the top of the stairs. The main gallery spreads out below us—hundreds of people in formal wear, champagne and canapés and carefully orchestrated conversation. The orchestra is playing something classical and elegant. Everything is beautiful and expensive and completely meaningless.
I pause at the top of the stairs, and the movement draws attention. Heads turn. Conversations pause. People look up to see who’s arrived.
And I stand there in storm-grey and steel-blue and amber, my hand on Ryan Matthews’s arm, my eyes locked on three men who are finally understanding exactly what this dress means.
I’m yours. Even when I’m angry. Even when you’ve fucked up. Even when I’m on another man’s arm.
I’m yours.
The storm-grey silk catches the light, shifting like clouds before rain. The steel-blue accents gleam like polished blades. The amber beads glow warm against my skin.
Silas’s eyes. Jace’s eyes. Cal’s eyes.
All three of them, claimed in color and fabric, visible to everyone but understood by only four people in this entire room.
Ryan says something—probably a compliment, probably asking if I’m ready to descend. I make some appropriate response, letting him guide me down the sweeping staircase, each step deliberate and measured.
Like a runway. Like a claiming. Like a challenge.
And with every step, I feel their eyes on me. Following my descent. Watching me move through the crowd on another man’s arm while wearing their colors like a brand.
By the time we reach the main floor, my heart is pounding and my skin feels too tight and I’m hyper-aware of every place Ryan’s touching me—his hand on my elbow, his presence at my side, the assumption in the way he’s positioning himself as my date.
But I’m not his.
I’m theirs.
And now everyone in this room who matters knows it.