"I have class that night," I said, setting down my fork.
"Skip it."
"I can't just?—"
"You can and you will." My father's voice was steel wrapped in velvet. "This isn't a debate, Grace. This is family business."
"I'm not part of the business."
"You're part of this family." He looked at me, his blue eyes—so like my own—hard and unyielding. "And in this family, we stand together."
The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of tension and forced pleasantries. As soon as it was over, I made my excuses and headed for the door, desperate for fresh air and distance.
Connor caught up with me in the foyer.
"Hey," he said, his voice low. "You okay?"
"Fine." I shrugged into my coat, avoiding his gaze.
"You don't have to do this, you know. The dinner."
"Don't I?" I looked at him then, seeing the concern in his eyes. "You heard him. In this family, we stand together."
"Grace—"
"It's fine, Connor. Really." I forced a smile. "It's just dinner, right? I'll survive."
He didn't look convinced, but he nodded. "Call me tomorrow?"
"I will."
Outside, the night air was crisp and clean, a welcome relief after the stifling atmosphere of the house. I walked quickly, my heels clicking against the pavement, putting as much distance between myself and my father's expectations as possible.
By the time I reached my apartment, my anger had cooled to a dull ache. I kicked off my shoes and headed straight for the piano, not bothering to turn on the lights. The moonlight streaming through the windows was enough.
I sat down and placed my hands on the keys, feeling the cool ivory beneath my fingertips. Then I began to play—Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, the first movement. Slow, haunting, filled with a quiet sort of desperation.
The music flowed through me, each note a release. This was mine. Not my father's, not the O'Sullivan legacy, not the weight of expectations and obligations. Just mine.
I played until my fingers ached and my eyes burned with unshed tears. Until the knot in my chest loosened enough to breathe again.
In the morning, I would go back to my carefully constructed life—law books and coffee, highlighters and case briefs. I wouldpretend that tonight never happened, that my father's words hadn't reopened old wounds.
But for now, in the darkness of my apartment with only the piano for company, I allowed myself to feel the full weight of what it meant to be Grace O'Sullivan—caught between worlds, belonging fully to neither.
The last notes of the sonata hung in the air, fading slowly into silence.
Tomorrow, I would be strong again. Tonight, I let myself break a little.
2
RAFE
The war room was silent except for the shuffle of papers and the occasional clink of ice against glass.
I stood at the head of the table, hands braced against the polished mahogany as I surveyed the spread before me. Surveillance photos. Financial records. Property deeds. Phone transcripts. The entire O'Sullivan empire laid bare in black and white.
Knowledge is power. My father taught me that before he taught me how to shoot.
