Chapter Fifteen #2
"I've faced worse than a dinner party," he says, a short huff of amusement breaking through. "Arena crowds. Corrupt officials. Emperors who could have me killed with a gesture." A slight smile tugs at his mouth. "I think I can handle your parents."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand that they're scared." He releases one of my hands to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "They lost one daughter, and they're terrified of losing another. Even if it's just losing you to someone they don't control."
The insight makes my chest tight. "That doesn't make it okay."
"No. But it makes it human." He leans closer, speaks the truth I need to hear. "Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to go to that dinner. I'm going to be polite and charming and exactly what they expect from someone dating their daughter."
"They're going to try to humiliate you—"
"Let them try." His smile turns sharp, dangerous. "I've been performing for hostile crowds for years, cara. I know how to work a room.”
I blink at the word. “Cara,” I echo quietly. “What does that mean?”
A small smile pulls at his mouth. “Something you call someone who matters.”
Heat blooms under my skin. “Oh.”
“If it bothers you, I’ll stop.”
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I… like it.”
“Good.” His eyes warm for a heartbeat before his expression sharpens again, focused and certain. “And more importantly—" he cups my face in both hands "—I know how to spot a manipulation when I see one."
Despite my fear, I feel a smile tug at my lips. "You have a plan."
"Always." He kisses my forehead softly. "Trust me?"
I think about the workshop, the dragon sculpture, how he looked at my art as though it were sacred. How he’s never once made me feel less than whole.
"I trust you," I say.
"Good." He pulls me against his chest, holds me close. "Because here's what's really going to happen Friday night. Your parents are going to test me. I'm going to pass or fail on my own terms—not theirs. And you—" he tilts my chin up so I can see his face "—you're going to make a choice."
"What choice?"
"Them or me. Safety or freedom. Being Grace's replacement or being Anima Venti." His gaze is steady, certain. "You don't have to decide right now. But Friday, when they set their trap—you'll have to pick a side."
The words settle over me like a challenge. Like a promise.
"What if I choose wrong?" I whisper.
"There's no wrong choice," he says. "Only the honest one."
"That's not true." My voice is small. "If I choose them, I lose you. If I choose you, I lose everything else."
"You won't lose me." The promise is immediate. Fierce. "No matter what happens on Friday, I'm not going anywhere. Unless you tell me to leave, I'm staying."
"Really?"
"Really." He kisses my forehead again, soft and sure. "Someone needs to help you plan your escape. And I've got years of experience running from things that want to control me."
That surprises a laugh from me—sharp and slightly hysterical. "Is that what we're doing? Planning my escape?"
"Eventually." He tugs me more firmly to his side. "But first, we get through Friday. We face your parents together. And then—" his smile is soft, hopeful "—then we figure out what comes next."
I curl into him, letting his warmth and certainty soak into my bones. Lucky migrates from his bed to press against my legs, offering solidarity in the way only dogs can.
"I'm scared," I admit.
"I know." Draco runs his fingers through my hair, gentle and grounding. "But you're also brave. Braver than you think. You've been building a secret life for years. Making art and selling it and planning your independence." He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "This is just the next step."
"What if they hate you?"
"Then they hate me." He shrugs, unconcerned. "I've been hated before. I survived."
"What if they forbid me from seeing you?"
"Do you want to see me?"
"Yes."
"Then you'll see me." His arms tighten around me.
"Charity, I've spent my lifetime learning that the only person who gets to decide my life is me.
Your parents don't own you. They've convinced you they do, but they don't." He pulls back enough to meet my eyes.
"You're twenty-five years old. You have your own money.
Your own career. Your own dreams. The only thing keeping you in that mansion is fear of what happens if you leave. "
The truth detonates in my chest, bright and brutal. Because he's right. Of course he's right. I've been staying because leaving is terrifying, not because I have to.
"After Friday," I say slowly. "After the dinner and everything that comes with it—will you help me? Help me figure out how to actually leave?"
"Yes." No hesitation. No doubt. "Whatever you need. Whenever you're ready. I'll help you build a life that's actually yours. We’ve already built some of the foundation."
I kiss him then—desperate and grateful and full of everything I don't have words for yet. He kisses me back with equal intensity, his hands gentle despite the fierceness of the embrace.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. He rests his forehead against mine, and I feel his smile against my lips.
"We're going to be okay," he says.
"How do you know?"
"Because we're already impossible." He gestures between us. "Roman gladiator and Manhattan heiress. Street performer and secret sculptor. Two people who should never have met but did anyway." His thumb traces my bottom lip. "If we can survive being impossible, we can survive your parents."
I want to believe him.
"Friday," I say. "Seven o'clock. Formal dress. They'll probably set the table with three forks and two spoons just to make you fumble."
"Then I'll make it part of the show." His grin is dangerous, delighted. "Your parents want to test me? Fine. Let's give them a performance they'll never forget."
The confidence in his voice makes something loosen in my chest. This is Draco—the gladiator who survived arenas and emperors and two millennia of impossible circumstances. A formal dinner with my controlling parents might be uncomfortable, but it won't break him.
The question is: will it break me?
"I should go," I say reluctantly. "Before they come looking for me."
"Stay a little longer." He pulls me back down beside him. "Tell me about them. Your parents. What should I actually know before Friday?"
So I tell him. About Father's obsession with the family name and maintaining standards.
About Mother's need to control every detail of my life because she couldn't control the accident that killed Grace.
About the way they've built their entire identity around protecting me from a world they see as fundamentally dangerous.
"They're not bad people," I finish. "They're just… scared. And their fear has been smothering me for twenty-five years."
Draco is quiet, processing. Then, "Do they know about your art? About Anima Venti?"
"They know about the workshop. About the welding.
" I lean back against him, tired just thinking about it.
"They thought it was strange at first—totally unfeminine, Mother said—but they decided it was acceptable as long as it stayed a secret.
A private hobby. Nothing that would embarrass the family. "
"And Anima Venti?"
"When the sculptures got good enough to sell, they saw an opportunity.
Donate them to charity auctions under a pseudonym, get tax write-offs and accolades for their generosity.
The Pembroke family, such patrons of the arts.
" I twist to look at him. "I was fine with it.
Better than fine, actually. I got to create without the pressure of the family name attached.
They got to look philanthropic. Everyone won. "
"Except you didn't get credit for your own work."
"Credit never mattered. Creating did.” I pause. "But lately… I don't know. Watching you perform, seeing people recognize your talent, hearing them ask for your card—it made me realize how much I've been hiding. Not just from them. From myself."
He's quiet for a long moment. "That's different from what I thought. At least they know about the art."
"They know I make sculptures and weld metal in my workshop and that my pieces are donated to charity auctions under my pseudonym—Anima Venti.
They arrange the charity connections; they take the tax write-offs.
But they have no idea I've been privately selling other sculptures.
" My voice drops. "The pretty, flowing pieces I donate to their charities?
Those are the acceptable ones. A few collectors found me online and contacted me directly.
I have them boxed and leave the property at the same time the charity sculptures are shipped.
Those sales go straight to my private account. "
I hide those profits the same way I hide the Dragon sculpture—tucked away where my parents will never think to look, protected like tiny pieces of the life I’m not supposed to want.
"My parents still think Anima Venti is nothing more than a polite hobby we dress up for philanthropy. They don’t realize the name has its own following now.”
"How much?"
"Enough that I could leave." The words come out barely above a whisper.
His arms tighten around me. "And then I showed up."
"And then you showed up." I turn in his embrace, frame his face with my hands. "And suddenly leaving doesn't feel scary anymore. It feels necessary."
"We'll figure it out," he says. "After Friday."
"After Friday," I say. "Let's just get through Friday first."
"After Friday," he agrees.
We sit together in the cottage while Lucky snores at our feet and autumn sunlight streams through the windows. Outside, the estate grounds are perfectly manicured. Inside, we're planning a revolution.
Friday will come with all its tests and traps and judgment. But right now, in this moment, I let myself believe that maybe we can survive it together.
That freedom might actually be possible.
That I might actually be brave enough to choose it.
"Draco?" I say quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for not running."
He pulls me closer, presses a kiss to my temple. "Thank you for being worth staying for."
And in the safety of Grace's cottage—the place where all of this began—we sit together and plan for a Friday night that will change everything.
One way or another.