The restaurant Shiv booked for the family dinner is the kind of place that knows its own power. Dim gold lighting. Velvet seating the color of deep wine. A single private dining room at the back—glass walls frosted for privacy, but still translucent enough to see shapes moving, silhouettes laughing, anyone watching. The kind of space where deals are born and marriages quietly die.

The table is long. Too long for comfort. Silverware perfectly aligned. Wine already breathing. A bowl of olives untouched because everyone’s too tense to eat them.

Logan isn’t here. He declined. Which makes the air somehow heavier.

Shiv sits closest to the head of the table, relaxed in a way that looks rehearsed—the daughter in control, the one who never loses the board. She swirls her burgundy wine slowly, waiting for Tom to fold like he always does.

She challenged him lightly over breakfast two days ago:

Bring her, if you’re so invested. Bring her to dinner. If she’s real. A dare dipped in honey. A test she assumed he’d fail.

She leans back, smug in the certainty that he will come alone.

Kendall sits opposite, scrolling through his phone but watching everything. Observing. Measuring. Probably calculating odds like this is a proxy war and he’s the only one who knows it.

“Tom running late?” Kendall asks, voice mild.

“Tom runs,” Shiv replies. “Whether that counts as arrival is debatable.”

Roman sprawls in the seat next to hers, tie loosened, amusement dripping from him like static. He knows something. Or he’s pretending he knows something just to enjoy the tension. Both equally dangerous.

“He’s bringing her,” Roman says, casually. “Our little Minnesota husband found some balls in a cereal box, apparently.”

Shiv laughs—sharp, dismissive, like a knife flicked across stone.

“No he’s not. Tom doesn’t bring people. He orbits. He attaches. He waits for permission.”

Roman picks up an olive, rolls it thoughtfully between his fingers, then eats it like the line he’s about to say tastes better with salt.

“Bet you fifty grand she’s walking through that door.”

Shiv smirks. “I’ll take that. Venmo ready.”

Kendall looks between them, sensing something unspoken in Tom’s absence. “If she comes, we’re being observed. Right?”

“It’s dinner,” Shiv reminds him. But her eyes flicker—just once—with doubt she’d die before admitting aloud.

Connor arrives late, coat draped over his arm, Willa trailing like a nervous shadow. They slide into the remaining seats. No one offers explanation. No one needs to. The Roys function on assumptions.

Willa whispers something about the centerpiece—fresh roses, pale yellow, ridiculously expensive. Connor nods in that earnest politician way. He thinks this night could be civil.

He’s wrong.

The waitstaff hover by the door, glancing toward the hallway every few minutes, as if expecting someone. As if they were told to prepare for a guest. Tom’s instructions.

Shiv exhales, annoyed. “He could’ve told us he was late.”

Roman’s grin widens. “He’s not late. He’s dramatic.”

No one laughs.

Shiv’s foot bounces under the table. Impatience. Or nerves. He wouldn’t actually bring her.

Kendall sets his phone down. The room sharpens.

“It’d be a move,” he says. “A real move. Not Tom’s usual defense posture. That’d mean he’s—”

“Growing up?” Connor finishes, hopeful.

Roman sips his drink. “Mutating.”

Shiv scoffs, but her jaw is tighter now. Her eyes keep flicking toward the entrance despite herself.

Tom is late—confidently late. Not stumbling-apologetic late.

Which is worse.

Because it means something has shifted.

The family dinner they normally sleepwalk through has become a battlefield dressed in linen and polished glass. A war of gazes. Of posture. Of chairs strategically chosen.

And Tom, for the first time ever, may hold a weapon of his own.

Roman taps the table twice, rhythm like a countdown.

“I hear heels,” he murmurs.

Shiv straightens like a wire pulled tight.

The waitstaff turn.

A shadow appears through the frosted door—one figure, then two. You and Tom, his hand at your waist like this is something routine.