Chapter 22 The Court Convenes
TWENTY TWO
The Court Convenes
April
They walked back through the club together, Don's hand resting at the small of her back like a claim. April moved looser, lighter, no longer braced for correction.
The VIP booth came into view, and seven men looked up at once.
They saw April’s flushed face, her mouth slightly swollen, her hair not quite as neat as it had been thirty minutes ago despite clear efforts to fix it. And then they saw him.
Seven sets of eyes tracked from April's expression to Don's hand to the man himself.
Then April saw Chad. Being escorted toward the exit by two security guards, his mouth moving in that familiar pattern of volume-as-substitute-for-power. Still performing. Still convinced the world owed him an audience.
Her steps changed direction. Dante adjusted his pace automatically, letting her take the lead. He followed, half a step behind, his hand falling away so she could move freely.
At the booth, Killian started to rise—half out of his seat before Liam's hand landed on his shoulder. The gesture said everything: Sit down before you embarrass us more.
Killian sat.
Seven men stayed exactly where they were, watching April cross the club toward the man who'd shrunk her for three years.
She didn't look back to check if Dante was following. She could feel him there, a shadow with manners. It was hers to lead.
Chad saw her coming. His performance faltered for half a second before he tried to recover. "April, babe—listen, this is all a huge misunderstanding, these guys don't know the full story, we just need to talk this out like adults—"
Her voice cut through his. "Because you can't seem to understand it, I want to make it clear."
Security paused; one of them glanced at his partner then they both went still, hands loose at their sides, letting this play out.
"I am saying we are done." The words landed stilted, like someone who'd never learned how to be mean finally figuring out the mechanics. “I’m done changing my life for you. Or for any man. I'm done making myself small. I deserve—" She stopped. "I deserve nice things. You are not a nice thing."
“"You forfeited your right to my assistance, my support, my love when you cheated on me. You have been cheating on me every Tuesday like it's a lunch break for who knows how long. And you gave me a fake watch.”
The words rang louder in her chest than the club speakers.
From somewhere near the bar, a woman’s voice rang out: “Yeah, dump his ass!”
Energy rippled through the watching crowd; women raised glasses in sharp, gleeful solidarity. Most of the men looked annoyed or confused, like someone had paused the music without asking.
She glanced back toward the booth. Seven men sat utterly still, watching her. Jax lifted his glass in a slow, deliberate toast.
April smiled back, proud and a little wild. The kind that comes when you throw the punch and it lands. Security resumed escorting Chad toward the exit. April turned and walked away. The high hit her all at once, singing through her veins. I did it. I actually did it.
She made it three steps before she saw them: two big, tattooed men falling in behind Chad as he was pushed through the exit.
Through the club's glass front, she watched Chad notice them.
His face drained white. He tried to walk faster.
He did that panicked shuffle-jog of someone who knows they're being followed but doesn't want to make it obvious, doesn't want to run and confirm it—oh shit oh shit oh shit visible in every jerky movement.
One of the men reached into his jacket.
Chad flinched so hard he nearly tripped.
The man pulled out a coupon.
One conversation in a vault and the world had moved.
She couldn't help it. The laugh burst out of her—relief, victory, and the sheer absurdity of watching a man run from free tacos.
Dante's hand found the small of her back. "Efficiently."
She was still laughing when she reached the booth. Seven men looked up as she sank into the seat, cheeks warm, still riding the thrill of finally having the last word.
She would've been impressed by their synchronized attention if they hadn't already made it abundantly clear they could do it when it counted.
“This is Don Dante," April said, trying for casual, landing somewhere left of composed. "He's helping with… a thing."
Don sat down like he owned the club. Given the way the staff had suddenly become both attentive and nervous, he might.
Jax produced a blank metal name tag and held it out to Don Dante without a word.
Don Dante took it, produced a Sharpie—because apparently everyone in the club carried office supplies—and wrote in precise letters: Don Dante.
He pinned it to his shirt. Eight men. Eight name tags.
Seven engraved, one in Sharpie that looked more permanent than all the rest. Nobody spoke, recalibrating around one new variable in black ink.
Arthur cleared his throat, eyes on April, because she was apparently the actual agenda. "You left upset."
Liam set his glass down precisely. “We didn't follow because you asked for a minute. But we noticed." His tone held the line between concern and respect, like he was guarding her space instead of stepping into it.
Killian exhaled once through his nose. "We did a hostile takeover when you wanted a polite resignation." His gaze flicked to April's mouth, checking whether she was about to laugh or break.
Jax lifted a hand, then thought better of it and tried again. "We turned your moment into a group project." He made a pained little face. "Consent isn't optional. Even for chaos."
Excellent with boundaries, her ass. Two for two on steamrolling them while looking vaguely confused about why that kept being a problem.
"Are you okay?" Jiro reached toward her, the gesture half-formed—an offered hug he wasn't sure would be accepted.
"I'm sorry we—" Caleb started. "We don't want—" Mateo said at the same time.
They both stopped. Caleb gestured at Mateo.
Mateo shook his head once—you first. Caleb leaned forward, forearms on his knees, the confidence gone from his face.
"I'm sorry we celebrated and didn't notice you were upset.
" Mateo's hand drifted toward her water glass, then stopped halfway.
"We don't want to win for you; we want to win with you. "
Her gaze swept across them like a teacher waiting for students who should know better to connect the dots. "I was furious at Chad," she said finally. "I was also mad at you. You answered him for me."
She pointed a finger at them, manifesting the boss she'd told Dante she was going to be. "Next time: I speak first. You stand behind me and look terrifying for ambience." She tipped her chin toward Don Dante. "Dante followed me. You would've led."
Killian's jaw tightened. Arthur nodded once. Jax leaned back with that delighted grin. "Understood."
Seven engraved name tags, getting schooled by the guy with a Sharpie.
Caleb raised his glass, smile bright with menace and delight. "To the eight pranks of April," he said.
The others followed, voices a low, overlapping chorus. "To the eight pranks of April." They drank.
Under the table, Dante's hand found April's and squeezed once.
April looked around the booth at the eight men with name tags. Did they mean anything? Or were they just expensive accessories on men who'd already proven they could talk over her when it suited them?
She'd spent the entire day on Chad. First trying to celebrate their anniversary, then pranking him to get back at him. The club was supposed to be the safe place, the fun place. Then he'd shown up here too.
Now it was being shaped by men in name tags.
The club's music pulsed too loud. The lights felt too bright. The crowd was too close, the attention too sticky, the thrill of being seen no longer felt like her. It felt borrowed. Like something she'd been trying on that didn’t fit right
Her scalp ached from the dozen pins holding up her hair. The emerald dress, God, she loved this dress, but she’d chosen to prove a point to a man who didn't deserve the energy.
"Are we having fun here?" The words came out before she could stop them.
She looked at the men around her.
"I mean—why are we even here? Is this—" She gestured at the club, the booth, the whole performance of it. "Are we here because it's what people do after galas? Because someone said to?"
She paused, rearranged thoughts. "I keep ending up places. Like I'm a leaf or something. Just... floating wherever the current takes me. And I want to—"
Choose—no. Decide.
Killian opened his mouth— Mateo's hand landed on his arm. Jiro's gaze flicked sideways. The message was clear: Let her talk.
Killian closed his mouth.
"I don't want to be here anymore," April said.
She looked at the name tags again. They'd apologized. Stayed seated when she confronted Chad. Dante had followed her lead without a word.
Maybe the name tags meant something.
But if they did mean something, if they were actually listening this time—
She stood up. "I'm leaving.”
Eight men rose as one. April walked toward the exit. Eight men followed.
The logistics alone were fascinating. Killian coordinated with Arthur in that silent dialect of eyebrow movements and tiny nods.
Mateo still held her hand like he'd decided the arrangement was permanent.
Liam watched the crowd. Caleb drew a crowd.
Jiro stayed close enough to register without touching.
Jax had his phone out. Don Dante looked like he was graciously allowing them to leave.
Deciding to leave had been easy. Where to go next was not. April stood on the sidewalk, grand exit halted by the sheer fact there were 9 of them and she had no idea where to go that would fit them all.
“My place?” Killian offered.
“Whose car?” April asked. There were too many of them for this to be simple.
"Mine," Killian said.
"Mine," Don Dante said at the same time.
They looked at each other. April watched two men used to being in charge have a silent negotiation about who was driving her home.
"We'll take both," Liam said, cutting through the territorial tension. "Split up. Meet at Killian's."
April hesitated, eyes flicking between the cars. She'd started the day in a supply closet and was ending it headed to an obscenely expensive estate with eight men.
Liam stepped in, his hand came briefly to the center of her back. Giving her the space to choose.
April paused.
Then she stepped toward Dante’s car. Liam opened the door and stepped back as she climbed inside.
The car was absurdly nice; leather seats and an interior that smelled like money and careful decisions.
She sank into the seat and closed her eyes.
Her phone buzzed. She pulled it out, squinting at the screen.
Laura: Okay so. fake engagement, celebrity chef, viral song, now a club. I'm not even asking anymore. But I AM prepared to come get you if you need extraction.
Laura. Her escape hatch. She could text back "yes" and Laura would be there.
Jax was peppering Dante with questions about security protocols and whether the taco guys were on retainer. Dante answered in monosyllables, patient and amused.
Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
April: Not today. This is mine.
Laura: What is yours?
She looked at the men in the car. The ones following her to Killian's house. Who'd stood up when she stood up. Who'd apologized. The one who'd followed her across the club without asking why.
She switched the phone to Do Not Disturb. The escape hatch snapped shut.
She reached up and pulled the pins from her hair. It fell around her shoulders, loose and finally free, dropped the pins into her purse and let her head fall back against the seat.
Jiro’s voice barely lifted above the hum of the tires. “Are you okay?”
"I'm trying to be," she said.
Then she shifted, leaning until her head rested on his shoulder.
Jiro's fingers found the spots where the pins had been, where her scalp was sore from hours pulled tight. He massaged slowly, working out the tension with quiet care. April let her eyes close and let herself sink into the warmth he offered.