Shane

I sit on the edge of the leather chair, spine straight, hands clasped tight, like I’m back in prep school, bracing for a verdict I already know won’t go my way.

 Across from me, my mother lounges on the velvet settee like we’re catching up over afternoon tea. Perfectly relaxed. Smiling. As if we’re sharing a lovely family moment, and not coldly orchestrating the next phase of my life’s destruction.   

“Amanda’s already confirmed,” she chirps, lifting her imported teacup in that insufferable way she does—delicate sip, pinky raised, like she’s auditioning for a vintage British drama. “The yacht’s prepped. Amanda and I finalized your wardrobe coordination—navy and cream, very classic. Charles’s team lined up a few press spots for interviews and poolside candids.” 

She leans in, eyes glittering like this is the pinnacle of her year, and rests a manicured hand over mine. 

“It’ll be magical, sweetheart. St. Barts,” she breathes, like she’s offering me paradise. “New Year’s Eve under the stars. The kind of romantic backdrop people envy.”

Yeah, maybe if they’re not drowning in it.

“Oh! And we pulled some strings to get you both featured in Elite Weddings Magazine. Isn’t that divine? A full spread on the engagement, the families, the yacht. Fireworks over the water. Just think of the photos.”

She says it all with a straight face, like this isn’t complete madness. Like she truly believes it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity we can’t pass up. As if I should be thrilled my cage comes with champagne, fireworks, and a superyacht full of the fakest people on the planet.

I choke down the urge to laugh—sharp, bitter, dangerous. It’s been four days since the proposal. Five since I’ve seen Becca. And I haven’t breathed right since.

So I’m done.

“I’m not going,” I say flatly. The words are quiet. Controlled. But the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

My mother blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I said I’m not going.” This time I lean forward, voice laced with steel. “I’ve done everything you asked. The photos. The interviews. The ring. I’ve played the part, Mother. But I’m not spending a single second parading around on the yacht so you and Amanda can stage your next viral moment while Father and Charles auction off what’s left of my autonomy.”

Her smile falters, turning brittle. “Shane, don’t be so dramatic. This trip is important. For both of you. The narrative we’ve worked so hard to build—”

“I’m done being a narrative. Your story to script.” I don’t raise my voice, but there’s an unfamiliar edge in it. A defiance that neither of my parents has ever heard from me. “I proposed. I smiled for the cameras. I let you parade me around like a pawn. Let you chain me to a future I never agreed to. But I am not wasting another second of my holiday break pretending I’m okay with it.”

Silence.

The only sound in the room is the steady tick of the grandfather clock behind my father’s desk.

Then, just as she opens her mouth to argue—

“He’s right.” 

We both turn.

My father stands by the fireplace, scotch in hand, posture impeccable. Calculated. Always the strategist.

“It’ll look better if they stay home,” he says coolly. “Let the public believe they’re grounded. Responsible. A modern young couple with old-fashioned values.” He takes a slow, unbothered sip of his drink. “The boards of both companies need to see this engagement as more than champagne and headlines. Better they think the lovebirds are focused on school. Their future. On building a life of stability.” 

Then his eyes meet mine. Cold. Exacting.

 “But remember, son—appearances are everything. Stay out of the headlines. Stay clean. Stay out of trouble.”

A pause. Measured. Icy.

“And whatever… extracurriculars you’re about to run off to the second we leave?” His voice dips, menacing in its calm. “You keep them buried. Hidden. Where no one can find them. Where no one even thinks to look.”

My mother bristles. “But the Klines—”

“They’ll understand. Or they won’t. Either way, my decision is final.” He waves it off like it’s nothing. “The boy’s done his part. The rest of winter break is his to spend as he wants.”

Then his gaze locks on mine.

“But,” he says, voice flat, “you will lie low. No press. No headlines. No screwups.”

My pulse kicks hard in my throat. Instinctively, I already know what’s coming.

“And whatever you’re doing—wherever you’re going—don’t get caught. Do what’s right for this family… or I’ll take the choice out of your hands. Right now, you have a say. You have sway. A whisper of control. But cross me—” His eyes narrow. “And it’s gone. My word becomes law. And I guarantee you won’t like it.”

And there it is. The threat. 

This is the play. The reason he’s letting me stay. He knows Becca is my weakness. The leverage he’ll use to keep me in line. 

Bile rises, bitter in my throat, but I force a nod. Not because I agree. But because I can’t afford not to. Not yet. 

But someday… 

Someday they’ll pay for this.

And I swear to God. If they ever come for her... if they so much as breathe in her direction. I won’t just fight back. I’ll scorch the earth beneath their feet until there’s nothing left of their empires but ash.

And I’ll make damn sure they know exactly who lit the match.

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