Ethan Wolfe knew better than to expect civility at a Wolfe family dinner. Their knives were silver, but the sharpest things at that table were always their tongues.
The dining hall was cold and cavernous, draped in old-world grandeur. Chandelier light spilled onto red velvet curtains and a long polished table set with bone china and crystal. The scent of roasted lamb hung in the air, mingling with the ever-present smoke of Viktor Wolfe’s Cuban cigars. The walls were thick with history, but thicker still with tension.
You sat beside Ethan, upright and silent, your hand resting stiffly in your lap. He felt the subtle shift in your posture the moment Viktor opened his mouth.
“Ethan gave you five years of protection. He honored the contract. Most women in your position wouldn’t be so lucky.”
Ethan’s jaw tensed. His fingers closed tighter around his fork. He didn’t look at you, but he felt your eyes on him—burning, waiting. Waiting for him to speak. To push back. To protect you.
But he didn’t. What would it change?
Across the table, Dominic leaned back in his chair, casual and cruel. His wine glass swirled lazily between his fingers, catching the light in deep crimson arcs.
“Honestly, Ethan, it was always a mistake,” he said with a smirk. “You let emotions make choices for you. And now look where it’s gotten you.”
His gaze slid to you like a knife. Cold and dismissive.
“You’re distracted. Weak.”
Ethan inhaled slowly, the sound barely audible. His pulse pounded in his ears. He could feel your breath hitch beside him, your spine straightening. He wanted to reach for your hand beneath the table, to lace his fingers through yours and tell Dominic to shut his goddamn mouth.
But he knew what that would spark. What it would cost. So he stayed still.
The penthouse was quiet when you walked through the door, but Ethan knew it wouldn’t stay that way. You shrugged off your coat with sharp, practiced movements and didn’t speak until the door clicked shut behind you.
Then you turned sharply, rage written all over your expression.
“You just sat there.”
He stood near the entryway, still wearing his coat. He dragged a hand down his face, tired already.
“I knew this was coming,” he muttered.
“You let them talk about me like I was nothing,” you said. “And you said nothing.”
He flinched slightly, barely perceptible. “You think arguing with them would’ve changed anything?”
Your laugh rang out, brittle and bitter. “That’s not the point, Ethan. I didn’t need you to win. I needed you to try. I needed you to fight for me. Just once.”
He took a step forward, but you stepped back. The space you put between you hit him harder than any bullet ever had.
“I have been fighting for you,” he said quietly.
You shook your head. “No. You fight for them. For the criminal empire your family built. For the things your father carved into you. But not for me. Not really.”
The words landed like blows. He wanted to deny it, to tell you that everything he did was for your safety. That every deal, every silence, every sleepless night was his way of keeping you out of the fire. But then he saw the look in your eyes.
You weren’t asking to be protected. You were asking to be chosen.
And he hadn’t done that.
The room filled with silence again, but this one didn’t settle. It stung.
Finally, you spoke, your voice quieter now, but no less final.
“Ethan, you can’t have both. You can’t fight for everything but me and still expect me to stay.”
He stared at you, unable to breathe.
“Six months,” you said, steady but soft. “In six months, the contract ends. I can choose to stay or leave.”
Six months. That was all the time he had left.
And for the first time in years, Ethan Wolfe was afraid—not of death, not of war, but of losing the only person who had ever made him feel human.