Chapter Text
A week had passed since the night everything shifted. Since the slam of the front door at 1 a.m., since my father’s voice calling Jace and me downstairs, since the way he sat us down in the living room like we were soldiers instead of his kids. His words still scraped across my bones, seven sharp syllables I couldn’t shake.
We’re merging with the Styles family.
I didn’t know what I expected afterward—maybe for life to stop, or at least feel different—but the strangest part was that nothing on the surface changed. School was still out for the summer, the halls of our house were still polished and cold, the staff still bowed their heads when I passed. But beneath it all, something simmered. An edge. A tension that hadn’t been there before.
And it followed me everywhere.
Every morning I woke, I heard it in the silence. Every night before I closed my eyes, I thought about what “merging” actually meant. I wasn’t stupid—I’d grown up in this life. A merge was never just handshakes and fancy dinners. It was alliances, negotiations, strategy. It was blood.
And tonight, for the first time, it would be faces. Names. Flesh and bone.
The Styles family.
I stayed in bed long after the sun rose, staring at my phone where Taylor’s name lingered in my notifications. Dozens of texts I couldn’t answer. Calls I couldn’t take.
The last time we’d spoken replayed in my head like a broken record.
Her whisper in the dark closet, trembling against me. Mila, what’s going on?
And my answer. The one that shattered her innocence and cracked our friendship open. My family’s in the mafia.
That was the moment her eyes had changed. I could still see them—wide, scared, glassy in the half-light. She didn’t look at me the same after. I don’t think she ever will.
A knock pulled me from my thoughts. Three short raps against my door. “Can I come in?” Jace’s voice.
I scrubbed my face with my hands before answering. “Yeah.”
The door swung open, and Jace leaned against the frame. His hair stuck up in messy tufts, and his shirt was wrinkled, but his grin was sharp, practiced—like he was trying to make things seem lighter than they were. “Morning, birthday girl.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That was a two weeks ago.”
“Still counts,” he said, stepping into the room and perching on the edge of my dresser. He drummed his fingers against the wood, his eyes scanning my room like he hadn’t been in here a thousand times. “You ready for tonight?”
“Ready for what?” I asked, wary.
He tilted his head, smirk faltering. “Don’t play dumb. You know Dad wants us sharp.”
The blanket around me suddenly felt too tight. “Why? It’s just dinner.”
His eyes flicked toward the door, then back at me. “Not just dinner. This is the Styles family. You don’t underestimate them.”
A chill crawled up my arms. “Do you know them?”
“Not really,” he admitted, but his pause stretched too long. “Enough to know they’re dangerous. More dangerous than most.”
My mind flashed back to the night by the back door, the shadowed figures, the strike to my knee that still hadn’t healed. My chest tightened. Could it have been them? I shoved the thought down before it swallowed me whole.
“Mom’s been up since six,” Jace continued, like he hadn’t just dropped that weight in the middle of the room. “She’s driving the staff crazy. Catering, decorations, flowers—she wants this house perfect. Like she thinks a centerpiece is gonna keep us alive.”
“And Dad?”
Jace’s jaw tightened. He looked older when he was serious like this, his sharp edges sharper. “Meetings. Planning. He says tonight’s about showing strength.”
Strength. Right. That was my father’s answer to everything.
The air between us thickened, and before I could think of what to say, the sound of footsteps and clattering dishes echoed faintly up the stairs. The house was alive in a way it hadn’t been in months—chefs rushing between the kitchen and pantry, cleaners darting from room to room, decorators bringing in more arrangements of lilies and roses than seemed necessary for a single night. It was all too much, too heavy.
I flopped back against my pillows. “Do you think Taylor hates me?”
The question slipped out before I could stop it, and for the first time, Jace’s smirk dropped entirely. He looked at me for a long moment, then shook his head. “She doesn’t hate you. She’s scared. There’s a difference.”
I wanted to believe him, but the image of her face—shaken, betrayed—was burned too deeply.
By midday, I forced myself downstairs. The smell of roasted meat and herbs filled the halls, so strong it clung to my clothes. I passed staff carrying trays and whispered instructions, but nobody made eye contact. Everyone was too focused, too tense.
Mom was in the foyer, waving her hands at a pair of florists. “No, no—more symmetry. The Styleses are perfectionists, I won’t have them thinking we’re sloppy.”
Her pearls gleamed against her throat, and her shopping bags from earlier in the week still sat unopened in the corner. Her voice was sharp, clipped, the way it always got when she was nervous.
“Mila, sweetheart,” she said the moment her eyes landed on me. “You need to wear the navy gown. The one we had altered. And don’t be late getting ready. They’ll expect you downstairs by seven sharp.”
I nodded, swallowing back the urge to argue. My life didn’t feel like mine anymore. It was choreography—every move planned, every smile calculated.
By late afternoon, the house glowed with candlelight and the faint clink of glassware being polished. My father still hadn’t come home, but that wasn’t unusual. He always arrived last, when it mattered most.
I stood by my window, staring at the driveway lined with black cars, engines purring softly as they waited. The sky was fading from blue to gold, the air thick with the promise of night.
Jace appeared in my doorway again, his suit jacket hanging loose around his shoulders. He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned against the frame like he was studying me. Finally, he asked, “You ready?”
I didn’t answer. Because how could I be ready?
The clock downstairs chimed six.
The staff moved like shadows, lighting the last candles, smoothing the last napkins. Mom’s heels clicked across the marble floor, her voice echoing instructions. Every detail was in place, every seat set, every glass gleaming.
And as the hour stretched thin, my chest tightened.
Tonight wasn’t just a dinner. It was the beginning of something we couldn’t undo.
Because tonight, the Styles family was coming.
And nothing would ever be the same. The grandfather clock struck six, its chimes echoing through the house like a warning bell. By then, everything was too quiet. The staff had finished their preparations, every glass polished, every dish laid out like a painting. My mother floated between mirrors and lamps, smoothing down her dress again and again as though perfection could shield us. My father stood stiff near the window, adjusting his cufflinks, his expression unreadable. Jace tugged at his collar, mumbling about how he hated ties, though I could see the nerves behind his restless movements.
Then came the knock.
Three solid raps against the door, loud enough to still the air.
The butler opened it, and the Styles family stepped inside.
Jacob Styles led the way, a man whose presence filled the foyer before his voice did. He was tall, broad, and carried himself with the sort of practiced ease that only years of power could grant. His suit was immaculate, his hair silvering at the temples but sharp as the rest of him. His handshake with my father was firm, their smiles polite but tight—like two men circling each other without weapons, but armed all the same.
Beside him was a woman I recognized instantly: Lacy. She was elegance embodied, wrapped in an emerald silk dress that shimmered with every step. Her smile was wide, warm enough to disarm, but there was calculation behind it too. My mother welcomed her as though they were old friends, their voices slipping into that soft, high-pitched tone women used at parties.
Then came Zayn. His hair was perfectly styled, his smirk lazy, his charm effortless. He gave Jace a nod, then clasped his hand firmly, and in seconds the two of them were laughing like they’d known each other for years. Something in me twisted at the ease of it.
And then, last, came him.
Harry.
He moved like a shadow behind the others, quiet but impossible to ignore. His eyes scanned the room quickly, then dropped, his hands shoved loosely into his pockets. His silence was louder than anything Jacob or Lacy said, his detachment almost defiant.
But my gaze snagged on something else.
The scar.
Thin but unmistakable, cutting across his cheek. My heart jolted in my chest, the memory crashing down like a wave—darkness, the back door, his hand grabbing me, my knife flashing, the sharp kick to my knee before he disappeared.
I swallowed hard, my fingers curling into my skirt to keep from shaking. No. It couldn’t be.
Introductions blurred. My father’s booming laugh, Jacob’s smooth responses, Lacy’s soft compliments, Zayn’s easy grin—all of it washed over me. Everyone else seemed comfortable, as though this night wasn’t balancing on the sharp edge of something dangerous.
Everyone except Harry.
When the call for dinner came, we filed into the dining room. The chandelier above glittered, its light scattering across polished mahogany and shining silverware. The table stretched long and wide, enough to hold both families like kings at a feast. Candles flickered in the center, their glow painting the crystal glasses in shades of gold.
My father claimed the head of the table, Jacob opposite him. Their wives flanked their sides, their voices already rising in polite chatter. Jace slid in beside Zayn, their laughter bubbling like they were old friends already.
Which left me.
My chair sat directly across from him.
Harry lowered himself into his seat without a sound. His posture was stiff, his jaw set, his eyes unreadable. And still—still—they found mine.
The world hushed around us. The clinking of glasses, the scrape of chairs, even the low hum of conversation—it all fell away. All I saw was him. The scar glinting faintly under the chandelier’s glow. The boy who had left me gasping and limping in the dark.
And now, he was here. Across the table.
A stranger to everyone else. But not to me.
I forced my gaze down to the polished plate in front of me, but it didn’t matter. I could still feel him watching, heavy and sharp, like a storm waiting to break.
The dinner began with laughter and easy conversation, but none of it reached me. Because under the flicker of candlelight, the only thing that mattered was the boy across the table, and the war that had already started between us.
The clink of silverware and the low hum of voices filled the dining room. Jace and Zayn were already deep into some debate about cars, their laughter spilling across the table in easy waves. My father and Jacob spoke in low, serious tones at either end, their words carefully chosen but sharp, like every sentence carried more weight than it let on.
I stole a glance at Harry. He hadn’t said much since we sat down, just cut into his food with a steady rhythm, quiet, unreadable. But then his eyes flicked up, caught mine, and something shifted.
“So,” he said, his voice cutting softly through the noise, “is this how dinners usually go in your house?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Loud, chaotic, and a little awkward?” My lips curved into a small smile before I could stop it. “Pretty much, yeah.”
A quiet chuckle slipped from him, low and warm, and for the first time that night, his features softened.
“At least your brother seems entertained,” Harry added, nodding toward Jace and Zayn, who were now mock-arguing about horsepower versus design.
I rolled my eyes. “Jace could talk about cars for hours. He thinks he knows everything, but really, he just memorizes specs online and pretends he’s an expert.”
Harry smirked, his fork poised halfway to his mouth. “Sounds like Zayn. He once spent three days watching documentaries about engines just so he could win an argument with Jacob. Didn’t work.”
That made me laugh, the sound surprising me as it slipped out. Light and genuine. It had been days since I’d laughed like that.
“Guess they’re a perfect match, then,” I said, shaking my head.
“Guess so,” he agreed, and for a moment, it felt like the table, the chatter, the deal between our families—all of it faded into the background. It was just us, sharing a quiet joke like two people who weren’t supposed to notice each other but couldn’t help it.
I toyed with my napkin, hesitating before asking, “Do you like this? These dinners… this whole ‘family business’ thing?”
Harry tilted his head, considering. “It’s complicated,” he admitted, his voice softer now, meant only for me. “But I’m used to complicated.”
I didn’t push, and he didn’t offer more. But somehow, that felt like enough. A small bridge between us.
The rest of the table carried on—Zayn and Jace laughing too loud, Lacy complimenting Trish’s choice of wine, Jacob and my father exchanging sharp, approving nods.
But beneath it all, Harry and I kept talking. Not about anything world-shattering—just small things. Music, school, little observations about the night. Nothing heavy. Nothing dangerous.
Dinner stretched on until the plates were cleared and the conversation splintered into smaller groups. My father and Jacob excused themselves, their voices low but urgent as they disappeared into his office. Jace and Zayn slipped off not long after, still buzzing from their car debate, eager to prove the other wrong with whatever nonsense they could find online.
Lacy and my mother exchanged knowing smiles, rising together with glasses of wine in hand. “We’ll be in the lounge,” Lacy announced lightly, as though it had been planned all along. Trish nodded, her voice fading as the two of them disappeared down the hall.
And just like that, it was quiet.
Harry and I sat across from each other, the empty space at the table suddenly feeling like a canyon. I chewed on the inside of my cheek, unsure if I should speak or wait for him to make the first move. His hands rested loosely in front of him, fingers brushing the table lightly, and he seemed lost in thought, his green eyes staring somewhere beyond me.
I hated silence like this. So finally, I spoke.
“What happened to your cheek?” My voice broke the quiet, careful not to sound accusatory.
His hand twitched as if he wanted to touch it, then fell back to the table. “Accident,” he said simply, voice low, measured.
I tilted my head. “Some accident,” I repeated, teasing lightly, but there was no heat in my tone—more curiosity than anything else.
He smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Slipped off my bike when I was younger. Took the brunt of it here.” He tapped the side of his face with a knuckle, casual, almost rehearsed, but I noticed the subtle tension in his jaw.
I leaned forward slightly, studying him, trying to see behind the wall he was carefully building. “Mm. Convenient story.”
His lips pressed into a thin line, and his gaze met mine, steady but unreadable. There was a pause—a long one—where the silence grew heavier, almost suffocating.
I let a petty comment slip out, more from boredom than malice. “Guess scars make good conversation starters when you don’t want to say much else.”
Harry’s eyes flicked to mine, sharp and piercing, and for a moment, I thought he might answer with a joke or a teasing remark. But he didn’t. He didn’t move, didn’t smile, didn’t even flinch. He just looked away, returning his gaze to the empty plate in front of him, as though my words had vanished into the air and meant nothing.
I shifted in my seat, crossing my arms on the table, suddenly aware of how quiet it was around us. The clatter of silverware and laughter from the distant rooms had disappeared entirely, leaving just the two of us in a bubble of tension. My stomach twisted a little at the thought that I’d tried to provoke him—and failed.
And yet, even though he ignored me, there was a strange comfort in the fact that he hadn’t left. He was still here, still sitting across from me, letting the silence stretch without running away.
I stared at him a moment longer, curiosity and something heavier swirling together. There was a depth to him I hadn’t touched yet, and a distance he wasn’t ready to let anyone cross. But sitting here, across the table from him, I realized I didn’t want him to run away. Not yet.
For now, that was enough.
The two of us sat there, the tension lingering, words left unsaid, glances exchanged, and the night stretched on quietly, leaving us alone with each other for the first time.
The quiet at the dinner table shattered like glass the moment Harry’s hand slipped into his back pocket. My stomach dropped as I saw him pull out a small packet of white powder and set it carefully on the polished surface, the glint of a platinum card flashing under the chandelier light.
I froze. My heart thudded so loudly I thought it would give me away. “Harry… what the hell is that?” I whispered sharply, panic slicing through me.
He leaned back, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth as if he hadn’t done anything wrong. “Relax,” he said smoothly. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?!” I barked, my voice cracking with shock. “That’s cocaine! You can’t—what are you doing?! Do you even realize how insane this is?!”
He shrugged, the picture of casual arrogance, and began sliding the packet toward himself with the card. “You’re overreacting,” he said, as though that somehow made it okay.
My blood ran cold. “Overreacting? Harry, stop! Don’t even think about it!” I lunged forward instinctively, and with a swift motion, I brushed the powder off the table before he could touch it.
His eyes widened, then darkened, emerald green flashing dangerously. “WHAT THE HELL, MILA?!” he shouted, shoving me backward with frightening force. I stumbled, crashing into the edge of the table. Plates and silverware rattled across the floor like a chaotic percussion.
“I— I’m not letting you do that!” I yelled, my voice rising, shaking with fear and anger. “You’re reckless! You’re insane!”
“YOU DON’T GET IT!” he screamed back, chest heaving. “You never get it!”
“NO, YOU DON’T GET IT!” I shot back, almost trembling. “Do you even care what could happen to you? Or me? Or anyone?!”
“You think I care what anyone thinks?!” Harry shouted, lunging toward me, eyes wild with anger. “You think I need someone to babysit me?”
The tension between us escalated with every word. My hands trembled as I took a defensive step back, trying to put distance between us. “You’re not invincible!” I shouted, voice cracking. “And this… this is dangerous!”
Harry’s expression twisted, a combination of fury, defiance, and something darker I couldn’t quite name. “And you think you’re perfect?!” he roared, shoving me again.
I stumbled against the wall, gasping, tears pricking my eyes. My heart felt like it would burst from my chest. “I’m not perfect! But at least I don’t risk destroying everything!”
Suddenly, the door to the dining room banged open. Jace and Zayn charged in, their expressions pale but fierce. “STOP!” Jace shouted, grabbing me before I could move toward Harry again. Zayn lunged at Harry from the side, pinning him against the wall.
Harry struggled with terrifying strength, thrashing against Zayn. “LET ME GO!” he yelled, voice sharp, trembling with rage. “You can’t tell me what to do!”
“ENOUGH!” Zayn’s voice was low, dangerous, final. He held Harry tight, forcing him to his knees. “This ends NOW.”
I backed up, hands pressed to my chest, gasping for breath. The cocaine packet lay on the floor, a silent accusation, while the platinum card glinted menacingly in the chandelier’s light.
“Why are you even doing this?” I demanded, voice shaky but loud enough to echo off the walls. “Why risk everything for… for this? You’re not invincible, Harry! One mistake and it’s all gone!”
Harry’s chest heaved as he glared at me, eyes glinting with anger, humiliation, and a hint of something I couldn’t place—desperation, maybe. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jace tightened his grip, and Zayn’s hold left him no room to argue.
For a long, tense moment, none of us moved. Only our ragged breathing filled the room. Then, without warning, Harry’s shoulders slumped slightly, the fire in his eyes dimming. He looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze before he turned away, silently defeated.
I sank against the wall, hands trembling, heart pounding like a drum. The room felt suffocating, thick with tension and the scent of fear, anger, and powder. I realized in that moment that nothing—absolutely nothing—would ever be the same again.
And as the three of us stood there, a fragile silence settling like dust, I couldn’t help but wonder… how much danger had I just narrowly escaped? And how far would Harry go before he realized the stakes were real?
The night had exploded into chaos in a way I never expected—and the fallout was only just beginning.
***
The car door slammed and the sound of the Style family leaving rattled through the house. My heart was still racing from the argument at the table, from Harry’s anger and the way everything had exploded. I tried to tell myself it was over, that maybe I could breathe again, but then I heard the heavy steps behind me.
“Mila.”
I froze. My dad. Ross. The weight in his voice made my stomach drop. I didn’t need him to say more; I knew. I knew exactly what was coming.
“You think this is acceptable?” he barked, stepping into the room. His eyes were hard, cold, and full of disappointment. I wanted to explain, wanted to tell him it wasn’t what it looked like—but the words died in my throat.
“I—dad, it—” I started, voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t want to hear it.” His hand shot out before I could finish, and the sharp sting across my cheek made my head snap to the side. My vision blurred instantly, tears welling up from both pain and shock.
I put a trembling hand to my face, staring at the spot where his palm had struck. My chest tightened, and I could feel the tremble in my knees as I tried to steady myself.
“You are out of control,” he hissed. “Getting into arguments, starting fights… do you think I’ll let this continue?”
“I—I wasn’t trying—” I choked out, but he didn’t wait.
“You need to learn respect. Now.”
It was like a cold hand had closed around my heart. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stay. I bolted up the stairs, slamming my door so hard I thought it might break off its hinges. My body shook as I collapsed onto the bed, face buried in my pillow.
I reached for my phone, my hands trembling so violently I could barely type. I needed Taylor. She would understand. She would know what to say, what to do…
My fingers dialed her number with shaking urgency.
“Come on, pick up,” I whispered, pressing the phone tighter to my ear.
It rang once… twice… and then… blocked.
No. No, no, no.
My hands fell to my sides, trembling, and I pressed my face further into the pillow. My whole body ached—not from the slap, not from the argument, but from the cold, hollow realization that I was alone. Completely, utterly alone.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I could only feel the sting of the slap still on my cheek, the echo of my dad’s voice, the screaming, the powder, Harry’s anger… everything replayed in a loop I couldn’t stop.
I wanted to scream, to throw something, to make the pain go away, but my body felt like lead. My arms and legs felt heavy, as if the world itself was pressing down on me. The tears came, hot and fast, soaking through the pillow, blurring my vision.
I curled into myself, trying to make myself smaller, invisible. I wanted to disappear. I wanted someone—anyone—to tell me it would be okay. But the silence was deafening. My room, my sanctuary, felt like a trap.
I whispered into the darkness, my voice barely audible over my sobs, “I just… I just want someone to care. I just want someone to hear me.”
The tears didn’t stop. I pressed my hands to my face, wishing I could erase everything that had happened. The fear, the anger, the shame—it all seemed to crush me from the inside out.
Minutes turned into hours, though I couldn’t tell. My sobs eventually slowed into quiet hiccups, my body trembling from exhaustion and heartbreak. My pillow was soaked, my cheeks raw, and my chest ached from the weight of it all.
I thought about Harry, about the argument, about the way he had shoved me. I thought about the powder on the table, the danger I had been inches away from. My stomach twisted at the memory, at the realization that life wasn’t simple, that safety and trust could shatter in an instant.
And worst of all, I thought about my dad. The man who was supposed to protect me. The man who hit me. Who didn’t even ask if I was okay. The thought made bile rise in my throat, and I curled tighter into myself.
“I don’t want this,” I whispered, my voice cracking, “I don’t want any of this. I just want… to go back. Back to a time when it didn’t hurt this much.”
I tried to call Taylor one more time, a desperate, shaking hope that maybe, just maybe, she would answer. But again, blocked. Silence. Nothing.
I hugged my knees to my chest and buried my face against them, letting the darkness swallow me. My tears slowed, but the pain remained, a constant throb behind my eyes. I whispered into the quiet room, “I just want to be safe. I just want someone to care. I just…”
Sleep eventually came, heavy and merciful, dragging me into oblivion. But even in sleep, the ache didn’t go away. It was still there, pressing on me, reminding me of every word, every slap, every betrayal.
And I knew, deep down, when I woke, it would all still be waiting.