Chapter 22 I stand in the courtyard. The afternoon sun slants down between ancient stones, golden light slicing through the silence. He didn't bring me to his office. He brought me outside, like I'm some sort of offering. And my fists clench because this feels too much like another time. Another version of me, years ago, standing in front of my father after doing something stupid. So fucking stupid. I stole his race car. Took it for a joyride like a cocky little bastard. I might've gotten away with it if I hadn't forgotten to wash the mud from the tires. And then, worse: When I was furious with a rival gang, riding the high of recklessness, I stole one of their cars too. One mistake stacked on top of another. But this? What I've done now? This wasn't some teenage impulse. No. This was cold. Deliberate. This was war. I took Zoya Kopolova and murdered her betrothed. I dragged chaos through our front gate and planted it in the garden. My father's voice slices the quiet. "You disobeyed the fucking code, Seamus. What the fuck were you thinking?" He's shaking from fury and grief and the weight of betrayal. "You took her. You touched her. You chose her." A pause. A breath. "A Kopolov." I keep my face still, unreadable, even as my chest cracks wide open. "She's not the enemy." His eyes flash. "Oh no? Then you are." The words hit like a gavel. Final. "This syndicate is splintering because of you. Because of this. You're sleeping, literally sleeping, with the enemy." He throws a hand in the air, pacing the way he always does when he's balancing on the edge of losing control. His voice grows louder. "This family is teetering. I could be exiled for this. Killed." "I need you to trust me," I say. The words don't tremble. They vibrate with threat. With conviction and truth. The study flashes behind my eyes, dusty books, cracked leather, the smell of stale cigars. I remember what it felt like to be called reckless. To be punished. But I'm not that boy anymore. "I've told you before, and I'll tell you again. Your friend, your golden boy Branson? He's a fucking traitor." My words are a loaded gun. His jaw tightens, and his eyes lock on mine. "You've said that," he spits. "You don't know how loyal he is. You don't know what he's done for this family." "Why don't I, then?" I say, shrugging one shoulder. "Why was I, the one meant to inherit this throne, kept in the dark?" He scoffs. "Jealousy," he says, pointing a finger at me like it's a curse. "That's what this is." But it's not. I shake my head slowly. "No. The Irish aren't splintering because I married a Kopolov. They're splintering because of him." But he won't see it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Because Branson showed up when I was too young. Too impulsive. And my father never looked back. My father has a hard time letting go of control. Always has. He allowed just this one friend in, just one, because that man proved himself. In my father's eyes, loyalty is everything. In that moment, standing across from him, he is as immovable as the stone pillars surrounding us. "I'm ashamed of you," he says, shaking his head. It burns. It stings. A sharper blow than any blade. Sharper than any strike I've taken to the ribs or jaw. I taste bile and swallow it down like poison. "I need you to trust me," I say, softer this time, almost pleading. He leans in close. His whisper is deeper than his threats. "You murdered her betrothed, Seamus. They'll come for blood, son." I shake my head. "Not if I can help it." My breathing evens out, steady now. Every lesson he taught me, every scar he gave me, I'll use them all. I'll make them my armor. I know she's being held somewhere secure. I pray she is. Somewhere close. I tell myself maybe my mother is near, maybe Bronwyn's with her, two women with hearts made of iron and gold. Maybe they'll protect her for now, shield the rest. But I didn't marry a stranger. Not some woman dragged off the street. She was raised by Rafail Kopolov himself. She knows how to survive under fire. She was forged in it. And yet... I hate this. I hate the pain of being apart. I haven't felt like this in years. Not since the last time I made a reckless, desperate move. I've spent years crawling back into my father's good graces. Rebuilding the broken bridge of his trust, brick by agonizing brick. And now, here I am. His phone chimes, and he glances down. "Your mother says it's time for dinner," he says, clipped. Annoyance flickers in his eyes. Probably not at me, at her. Maybe both. I guess she's calling for him. I push up to my feet, exhale hard, and nod. A silent reprieve. A moment to breathe. An escape. Dinner's early tonight. We don't usually eat this early. It feels off. I know I'm not finished here, not by a long shot. But I'll take the moment anyway. "I'll go," I say. "Aye, you will. And you'll behave in front of your mother." He snaps the words at me like an order. I stop and turn toward him. "I'm not a child anymore." For the first time, we meet eye to eye. I look down at him and realize... he's shorter than I remember. Time has taken something from him. He's still strong, still built like the soldier he once was. He still trains, still lifts, still carries the weight of the past on his shoulders. But I've grown. I'm in my prime. And he knows he can't overpower me now. I see it in his eyes, the flicker of something like fear. "Da," I say softly. "Please. Trust me." His jaw locks as his gaze bores into mine. "You've left me no choice." "I know," I whisper, letting go of his wrist. "Let's go to dinner." I step past him, across the threshold. His glare lingers behind me. But I have other priorities. I need to get back to Zoya. I'm not letting the hammer drop. Not tonight. But tonight, it's time for a call to Matvei Kopolov. A Fated Encounter movie summary talks about Emma Brown who is forced by her father Henry to take her sister Bella's place and marry Tommy Anderson to save her business. Unlike the rumor Tommy turns ou...