"I couldn't sleep."
"Neither could I."
She didn't ask why. She didn't ask anything. She just sat there, picking at her toast, not looking at me.
I watched her. The way her hands moved—steady, always steady—the way she broke off small pieces of bread and put them in her mouth without tasting them. She was nervous. I could tell. The tension in her shoulders, the way she held her breath when I moved too quickly.
"Are you afraid of me?" I asked.
"No."
"Liar."
She looked at me then. Her eyes were brown—the color of earth after rain—and they were steady. That was the thing about her. No matter what else was happening, her eyes were always steady.
"I'm not afraid of you," she said. "But I'm not stupid. I know what you are."
"What am I?"
"Dangerous."
I smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "You have no idea."
We sat in silence for a moment. The servants moved around us—quiet, efficient, pretending not to see—and the sun rose higher, filling the kitchen with light.
"I was in the hallway last night," I said.
Her hands stilled. "What?"
"You heard me. Outside your door. You knew someone was there." I leaned forward, lowering my voice. "You knew it was me."
She didn't deny it. She didn't confirm it. She just looked at me with those steady brown eyes and waited.
"Why didn't you say something?" I asked. "Why didn't you tell my father I was there?"
"What would be the point?"
"The point is that I watched him fuck you. I stood in the hallway and watched my father fuck you, and you knew I was there, and you didn't stop."
Her face went pale. But she didn't look away.
"Maybe I wanted you to watch," she said.
The words hit me like a punch to the chest.
"What did you say?"
"You heard me." She stood, picking up her plate and her cup. "I'm not your father's possession, Nathan. I'm not Gabriel'ssalvation. I'm not yours. I'm just... here. Trying to survive. If you want to watch, watch. If you want to hate me, hate me. But don't pretend you're above any of this."
She walked to the sink and set down her dishes. I watched her go—the sway of her hips, the curve of her spine, the way the morning light caught the damp strands of her hair.
"Monika," I said.
She turned.
"I'm not going to lose to my father. And I'm not going to lose to my brother."
"I'm not a prize to be won."
