Twisted Throne

Lyra

The words blur together before my eyes, refusing to make sense. Highlighted in bright yellow are names I’ve known my entire life:

Emerson Holdings. Hawthorne Shipping. Meridian Imports.

My father’s companies.

Attached is a list of bank transfers with amounts large enough to make my stomach violently contract.

My heart hammers against my ribs, and I instinctively reach to flip to the next page, desperate to find some context, some proof that this is a mistake.

Before my fingers can turn the paper, Dante’s hand slides over the folder, pinning the pages flat. His palm is warm, his grip completely unyielding.

I freeze, looking up at him. "Why are you stopping me?"

"Not yet," he says, his voice flat and controlled.

"Why not?"

"You haven't answered me."

"I'm not marrying you," I force the words out, trying to match his absolute stillness even as my chest heaves.

A ghost of a smile appears on his face, cold and fleeting, before disappearing immediately. "You'll change your mind the moment you read the rest of the file."

"Or maybe you've spent months manufacturing it." I reply immediately, jutting my chin.

"Read." Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his hand, freeing the pages.

The silence in the room is suffocating as I pull the folder closer and flip to the second sheet.

Foreign accounts. Wire transfers spanning years. It’s accompanied by supporting documents, signatures, and authorization codes. It is far too detailed to be a forgery.

Then come the photographs.

Grainy, distant shots taken from rooftops and parked cars. My father shaking hands with men whose faces are hidden under baseball caps.

My father stepping into an unmarked vehicle shortly after midnight.

The word slips out before I can stop it. "It can't be."

I look up, expecting a defense, a smirk, anything. But Dante hasn’t moved. He’s just letting me drown in the truth.

I flip page after page, each document chipping away at the foundation of my life. Stubborn. Demanding. Controlling. I knew my father was all of those things. But a criminal?

My fingers tighten around the paper.

No.

I refuse to believe this. Documents can be forged. Signatures can be copied.

People like Dante Rossi have the money to manufacture whatever truth they want.

Then, a date catches my eye. My breath catches.

It was the weekend Father cancelled my birthday dinner for an "urgent business meeting." I’d cried for hours, and he’d returned the next morning with an expensive necklace and a face full of guilt.

I look at the photograph attached to the timestamp. The man standing beside him isn't a client. He's carrying a duffel bag.

A cold, heavy dread settles deep in my chest. Every memory I have to defend my father is systematically dismantled by the paper in my hands.

I close the file with a sharp snap.

The silence in the penthouse is deafening. ". . .Where did you get all this?"

"I spent a year building that file." Dante says quietly. "Do you still believe any of those documents are fabricated?" His voice is smooth, entirely devoid of pity.

I open my mouth to say yes, to scream that it's a lie, but the words die in my throat. I look back down at the folder, desperately searching for a loophole. I flip it open again, my fingers moving frantically through the pages.

One. Two. Three.

And then, something slips free from between the final sheets and flutters onto the dark wood of the desk.

Frowning, I pick it up.

I look up to see Dante looking at the photograph. His hand tightens ever so slightly around the whiskey glass making the ice tap against the glass with a soft clink before his grip eases again.

When I look down at the photograph, I'm taken aback when I see it's the picture of a little boy. He’s no older than a year, sitting on a wooden floor, one tiny hand wrapped around a building block.

A strange, unexplained pull tugs at my chest—a sudden, sharp warmth that makes no sense. He has soft dark hair, a slim, upturned nose, and. . .

My breath seizes.

I stare at those bright, impossibly green eyes in the photo.

Slowly, my gaze rises to meet the exact same green eyes staring back at me from across the desk.