"I'll find out who was driving." I keep my voice level through sheer force of will. "And they'll pay for what they did."
"I'm sure you will." Uncle studies my face with those sharp dark eyes that miss nothing. "How is she? The girl?"
The girl. Not Zola. Not her name. Just the girl, like she's interchangeable with any other woman in the city.
"She'll recover fully." I bite down on the anger, knowing it won't help anything here. "Few weeks of healing and she'll be fine."
Uncle's expression shifts almost imperceptibly. "I heard she can't bear children."
Of course he heard. Uncle has ears everywhere, informants in every corner of the city including apparently the hospital staff. Nothing happens in Philadelphia without him knowing within hours.
"That's true." My jaw clenches so hard it aches. "The impact caused internal damage. They had to perform emergency surgery."
"Unfortunate," he says again. "I suppose she can still make a good mistress. Even better since there will be no bastards." Uncle says it matter-of-factly, like he's discussing weather patterns.
I blink at him. "What?"
He waves his hand. "She was never suitable as a wife, anyway, Declan. But you need heirs. You know this. Now, she can't give you any, which means it is time to move on from this…situation you have been in."
The words gut me even as they piss me off because somewhere underneath the fury, I know there's truth there. I've been raised in this world, groomed for leadership since I was old enough to understand what our family does. And one of the unspoken requirements—one of the foundational expectations—is children. Heirs to continue the bloodline, to ensure the family's power extends into the next generation.
"I love her." The admission comes out rough because I have nothing else.
"Love." Uncle's mouth twists slightly, not quite contempt but close. "Love is a luxury, nephew. One you can afford as long as it doesn't interfere with your responsibilities."
"She's not a luxury." My hands curl into fists at my sides. "She's?—"
"She's unsuitable." Uncle cuts through my protest with the efficiency of a blade. "She was always unsuitable. No family connections, no standing in our world, no way to strengthen our position. I've tolerated this distraction because you're young and young men need to work these things out of their systems. But you're being groomed to lead this family eventually. You need a proper wife. Someone from the families, someone who understands this life, someone who can give you the heirs you'll need."
Each word drives deeper, twisting in my chest like a knife. Because he's not wrong about the expectations, about what's required of someone in my position. The families intermarry strategically, building alliances through blood and marriage contracts. That's how it's always worked, how power is consolidated and maintained.
But the thought of anyone else, of some strategically chosen woman who isn't Zola—it makes me physically ill.
"I'm not marrying someone else." The words come out flat, absolute.
"Then you're not taking over this family." Uncle's voice hardens, taking on the edge of command that's made him feared across three states. "This isn't negotiable, Declan. You want the power, the position, the responsibility—it comes with requirements. You need legitimate heirs. She can't provide them."
I know it's true. Just like I know I'd give up everything for Zola.
Maybe there's another option, but I won't abandon her the way everyone else has. Not even for everything I've ever worked for.
5
ZOLA
The morning light through Declan's bedroom window is softer than what I'm used to at my apartment. Everything here is softer—the sheets, the carpet, the way he moves around me like I might shatter if he's not careful enough.
I shift against the pillows propped behind me, and pain flares through my abdomen sharp enough to steal my breath. Three days out from surgery and it still feels like someone's taken a baseball bat to my insides. Which, according to Dr. Reeves, isn't far from what actually happened.
"You need another pillow?"
Declan appears in the doorway before I can answer, holding a glass of water and what looks like toast. He's been doing this constantly—materializing with food or medication or extra blankets before I can even think about needing them. It should be comforting. Instead it makes my chest tight with guilt and something else I don't want to examine too closely.
"I'm fine." The lie tastes stale. "You don't have to keep checking on me every five minutes."
"It's been ten." He sets the water on the nightstand, that familiar muscle working in his jaw. "And you're not fine. You just winced hard enough that I felt it from the hallway."
Smart ass. I reach for the water anyway because my throat is dry and arguing takes energy I don't have. The movement pulls at my incision and I can't quite hide the grimace.
