“Of course,” Quinn retorts, before looking back at my dad. “It won’t be long until I call you Mum and Dad anyway.”
My spoon clatters against the bowl as a deathly silence falls across the room. I glance at my dad, he can’t honestly believe someone like this is suitable for our family, can he? I can tell he’s uncomfortable, which is a small win as my blood pressure rises. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He has never bought into anyone calling him anything but his titles. To him, it’s a sign of respect.
Glancing at my mum, she looks speechless for the first time in her life before pulling herself together.
“I think,” she says gently, placing her spoon down with deliberate care, “titles are earned over time.”
Quinn’s smile flickers, but it doesn’t fall. “Naturally. I only meant that when things are… formalised, it would be appropriate.”
“Formalised?” I repeat, my tone flat.
Quinn turns towards me as though we’re sharing a private joke.
“Well, this is the direction we’re heading, isn’t it? There’s no sense pretending otherwise.”
I lean back in my chair slowly. “You seem very certain of that.”
“I don’t deal in uncertainty, Roman. Our families have an understanding.”
“Our families…” I echo.
“I was raised for it,” Quinn’s chin lifts as her arrogance hangs in the air like perfume.
“And what exactly,” I ask, my voice lowering a fraction, “were you raised to do?”
“To stand beside the man who leads,” she smiles softly, with a territorial edge.
“And you believe that’s me?” I ask, disbelief lacing my tone. This bitch hated me for the last three years; she used to shake in fear any time I was in the same room as her.
“I don’t believe,” she says smoothly. “I’m certain. You need someone who understands legacy. Not… distractions.”
“Distractions?” Mum says, her eyes hardening as her lips thin while she looks at Quinn.
“Some girls are exciting,Fiona. Intense. But intensity doesn’t translate well into families.” Quinn flashes a nasty smile at Mum. I don’t miss how Dad’s gaze sharpens at both the smile and the disrespect of using her name.
“Say what you mean,” I snap, wanting to make sure she hangs herself in front of my parents.
“Fae isn’t built for this life, Roman.” Quinn turns to look at me. “She is emotional and impulsive. She would struggle outside of the compound.”
“Fae has survived more than most.” Mum’s voice cools instantly as I whip my head up at that. How does Mum know what Fae has or hasn’t survived? Did she confide in her?
“I’m sure she has,” Quinn replies in a sickly, patronising voice. “But survival and suitability are different things.”
My jaw tightens as I flex my hands, trying to control my breathing before I shoot another sharp glance at Dad.
“Not everyone raised outside certain standards can simply… adapt,” she continues. “You need refinement beside you. Someone who won’t embarrass you.”
“Careful,” Mum warns, glaring daggers at Quinn.
“I mean no disrespect. I just understand what your son requires. Perhaps better than you think.”
“You understand nothing,” I say, my voice dangerously calm. “Least of all anything about Fae.”
“Oh Roman, sweetheart…” she coos, leaning closer as though we are alone. Her hand slides boldly onto my thigh and her fingers press in. “You don’t have to defend her in front of your mummy.”
Something detonates inside of me. The sensation doesn’t start in my head; it starts in my skin. Her touch burns through the fabric of my trousers, crawling upward, up my leg, into my stomach, and into my chest.
It doesn’t feel like anger at first. It feels like pressure, like something expanding too fast beneath my ribs with nowhere to go. My heart slams once. Then twice. The air thickens as the room narrows and her hand tightens possessively.