The Thorne dining room had always been theatrical.

A long obsidian table stretched beneath a row of chandeliers so bright they almost blinded. Gold-trimmed plates gleamed. Wine glasses glittered like polished threats. The place settings alone could bankrupt a small city.

Roman walked straight to his seat — the chair he’d never been allowed to sit in growing up. The one where his father used to make rules and his brothers used to play heads.

He pulled it back with a slow scrape that made half the room flinch.

Tessa sat beside him, her posture regal, expression unreadable.

Across the table, uncles whispered.

Aunts narrowed their eyes. Cousins stared with...