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By rights, this was the end. There was a ring on my finger. It might not have been a promise beyond the one our fathers had already made for us, but it was a line in the sand. And there needed to be a line in the sand. A point at which I said ‘enough’ before I crossed lines that I wasn’t willing to cross, even if no one else had any qualms about it.
By the time we went in for lunch, the men were up. Archer and Dad were going for a hair of the dog approach to the hangover, and Apollo was downing copious amounts of bacon, but he spared me a warm if tired smile as I sat next to him.
“Sorry we didn’t wait,” he said.
I grinned at him, all my hesitation and uncertainty put aside with him right in front of me. “You look like you need it.”
Dad put his hand to his head. “I don’t think I even remember going to bed.”
“Valen basically carried you in,” Mum said, with a knowing smile to me.
“WhereisValk?” Apollo asked.
“Cillian needed him.”
I wasn’t surprised Apollo dropped his fork at that. Frenella said it with such finality that everyone at the table knew how big a deal it was.
“Fucking Rossano…” Archer muttered.
“When will he give up?” Apollo huffed.
“When the Kincaids do their fucking job and put him down,” Archer growled.
“They’re doing their best,” Apollo said.
Archer stood up quickly, slamming his hands on the table. “Then perhaps their best isn’t good enough!” Then he stormed out.
Apollo threw his napkin on his plate, muttering incoherently, and ran after him with a snide, “What do you want me to do? Rig a fight so he loses lieutenant?”
I didn’t hear Archer’s reply, but I heard a door slam. I didn’t know whether Apollo was in the same room as his father or not, and Apollo’s continued absence didn’t answer that question.
“Frenella,” Mum said quietly, and they both made their excuses to leave.
I froze not sure what I was supposed to do now. I was all-but one of the women, so I should probably go with them. On the other hand, I very rarely got to spend any time with my dad and, after the emotional drain of the last day, the little girl in me wanted a few minutes with her daddy.
I couldn’t tell him anything I wanted to. I couldn’t be anything other than perfect and accepting and pliable for him. I couldn’t talk to him about my reservations and my fears. But I could get some comfort at least from his presence and the knowledge he did love me.
“How is Florence?” Dad asked, as though he could read my mind and was telling me to stay.
I nodded as the staff brought me my lunch, obviously also getting the memo that I was staying. “She’s good.”
“Good. I saw her father the other week. He said she’s got a shot at Paris…?”
I appreciated him trying. After all, what did he and I have to talk about otherwise?
“I don’t really get it myself,” I admitted. Maybe because I’d been quite hung up on my own shit lately and not given her the time I should have. Or maybe because she knew I didn’t understand Art and didn’t waste time explaining it to me. “But it sounds like some swanky art school. She’s been working her butt off.”
“Good for her.”
Dad didn’t ask me what I was working my butt of for because it wasn’t expected that I go to university or pursue an interest outside flower arranging or fashion parade organising or managing my household. It was unfathomable that I, with my life mapped and set and secure with the contract of a good marriage, could want anything differently. A woman wanting an actual life? How absurd.
It was so absurd thatIhadn’t even considered what I might do if I’d had any other option. I didn’t have any interests or hobbies or anything I was good at outside the persona our world expected of me. It was pretty sad when I stopped to think about it.
“And work’s…good?” I asked, more for the act of asking than anything.
He nodded. “Fine. The usual.”
I nodded as well. “Good.”
