“It was at his bar.”
“Ah, the infamous Gilded Cage,” he said it like she’d confessed to a crime. “And you just happened to sit next to him? Just happened to smile? Just happened to land in his bed?”
“Enough.” My voice came out low, dangerous. “This conversation is over.”
But my father ignored me. He was enjoying this. I could see it in the cruel curl of his lips, the way he leaned closer to Zara, lowering his voice so only she and I could hear.
“Let me tell you what I see when I look at you. I see someone who doesn’t belong. Someone who will drag my son down. Someone who will never be accepted into this family. AndI promise you—I will make your life a living hell if you stay with him.”
Zara’s face went pale. Her eyes glistened, not with tears, but with something harder. Fear. Rage. Humiliation. For a moment, I saw something shift beneath her skin—a stubborn refusal to look away, to flinch, even when she wanted to. She wanted to stand her ground, to fight back, but the words caught behind her teeth. Not here. Not in front of him. Not yet.
“Do not play with me, girl,” my father spat out.
She looked at me.
And in that look, I saw her crumbling. The walls I’d planned on carefully dismantling were being rebuilt with steel-reinforced concrete, and my father was hammering every nail himself.
I’d be damned.
“Get the fuck away from my wife,” I snapped.
I grabbed my father by the collar of his perfect gray suit and hauled him to his feet. The restaurant fell silent. A waiter dropped a glass. Somewhere, a woman gasped.
My father’s eyes widened—genuine surprise, for once—but he didn’t struggle. He knew better.
“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,” I growled, my face inches from his, “but you will not talk to my wife like that. You do not look at her. You do not breathe in her direction. Do you hear me?”
“Lorenzo, I suggest?—”
“Fuck your suggestions. You’re done here.”
I shoved him back. He stumbled, caught his balance, and straightened his jacket with shaking hands.
“Fine,” he bit out. “You’ve made your point.”
The restaurant watched, frozen, as he shot me one last look—something cold and calculating—then turned and walked out.
I turned to where Zara was standing, her jacket clutched to her chest, her eyes wide and wet. Not crying. But close. Too close.
“Zara—”
“Don’t.” Her voice cracked. “Just… don’t.”
She attempted to walk past me. Toward the door.
But I followed, catching her wrist just before she reached the exit. “Wait.”
She stopped. But she didn’t turn around.
“Let me explain.”
“Explain what?” Her voice was hollow. “That you knew he’d come? That you brought me here so he could humiliate me in public? All for what? So you could play the big, possessive hero while I sat there and took it?”
“No. That’s not?—”
“Let go of me, Lorenzo.”
She tried to pull her arm from my grip, but I held on tight. “I didn’t know he’d show up tonight. I swear it. I brought you here because I wanted to be alone with you.”
