Chapter 2

2.

After Tristan left, I sat in the empty living room and called my dad.

"Sweetheart."

His voice came through the receiver. That old-school Brooklyn accent, warm yet dangerous. It was the tone of a man who could attend Sunday Mass and order a "cleanup" on a snitch in the same afternoon.

"You’re up late."

"Dad, the wedding is off."

There was three seconds of silence on the other end.

"Did he put his hands on you?"

"Not like that." I closed my eyes. "He just... showed me who he really is."

"I’m sending Enzo to get you tomorrow."

"I can get back myse―"

"Grace." His voice turned serious. "You are a woman who just called off a high-profile wedding, living alone in Manhattan. It’s not safe. Enzo will be there at 4:00 AM. Pack your things."

He hung up.

I knew what "not safe" meant.

In our circle, marriage was never just about two people. It was an alliance. A treaty. It was redrawing lines on the map of power.

Canceling a wedding was tearing up a treaty. And the person who tears up the treaty needs to show strength, or else it looks like weakness.

The Vandermeers wouldn’t miss a chance to show strength.

At 3:00 AM, I lay in bed, unable to sleep. My phone screen lit up. A text from an unknown number.

He’s with me right now. Want to hear how he screams my name?

Attached was a photo.

Sienna and Tristan in bed.

The shot was clearly staged―angled just right to show their entangled bodies without being banned by the sensors. It wasn’t a candid shot. It was a flex.

I stared at the photo for a long time, waiting for some emotion to rise―anger, sadness, jealousy.

Nothing came.

There was only a strange clarity, like the exhaustion that comes after a high fever breaks.

I typed back one word: Good luck.

Then I blocked the number.

At 4:00 AM sharp, the doorbell rang.

Enzo stood outside, wearing his signature black cashmere coat. He was my dad’s driver, bodyguard, and occasionally a "cleaner"―a word that had a very specific meaning in our world.

"Miss Grace." Enzo took off his hat, revealing a polite smile. "Car’s downstairs."

"Thanks, Enzo."

He took my suitcase, his gaze sweeping over the band-aid on my finger. "Need me to leave something behind? A message?"

"No need."

"Understood." Enzo nodded and asked no more questions.

That was the rule―don’t ask what shouldn’t be asked, don’t act without orders, but always be ready to strike when needed.

By the time we reached Brooklyn, dawn was just breaking.

My dad’s house was in Dyker Heights, a three-story townhouse.

From the outside, it looked like every other house on the block―manicured lawn, a small statue of the Virgin Mary on the porch, neighbors who were third-generation Italian families.

But those in the know understood that the basement had been soundproofed so well you could hold a rock concert down there and the neighbors wouldn't hear a thing.

My dad was waiting for me in the dining room.

The table was set with a traditional breakfast―espresso, croissants, fresh figs, and prosciutto. The smell of fresh baking drifted from the kitchen. The radio played morning prayers in Italian.

Since Mom passed, Maria, our cook, prepared these meals. But Dad insisted on eating in the dining room every morning, as if Mom were still sitting in the chair opposite him.

"Sit." Dad pointed to my usual seat.

I sat down. Enzo silently slipped out of the room.

"Talk."

I told him everything from start to finish―the nine postponements, Sienna, the ridiculous "surrogacy" request, and the photo from last night.

Dad didn’t interrupt once. He just listened, occasionally sipping his espresso.

When I finished, he set down his cup.

"You did the right thing."

"What?"

"Canceling the wedding. You did the right thing." Dad’s expression was calm. "A man who doesn’t respect you won’t respect me. And a man who doesn’t respect me..."

He didn’t finish the sentence, but we both knew what came next.

"The Vandermeers will react, won't they?" I asked.

"Of course." Dad sliced a piece of prosciutto with ritualistic elegance. "Eleanor has already called me three times. She wants to explain, apologize, save the marriage."

"What did you say?"

"I said I respect my daughter’s decision." Dad looked up at me, his gray-green eyes hard as flint. "But Grace, you have to understand one thing. In our world, canceling a wedding isn’t the end. It’s the beginning. The Vandermeers will think we are weak. They will think they can humiliate the Hayes family without paying a price."

"So what do we do?"

Dad smiled. It was the smile he used when teaching me chess as a child.

"We make them pay." He said. "But not with violence. Not with threats. We use the things they care about most―money and power."

"You already have a plan?"

"Always, sweetheart." Dad stood up and walked to the window. "The Vandermeer shipping business is their lifeline. Cargo from Asia has to be unloaded at our docks."

He paused, looking out at the street.

"Choke it," I said.

Dad turned around, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

"Also, Tristan is bidding on a tech company investment project. It’s his lifeline to modernize the company."

"Don't let him get it," I added.

"Good." Approval flashed in Dad’s eyes. "But there’s more."

He pulled a file from his briefcase. "I did some digging. Tristan’s younger brother, Liam, has a very unusual relationship with your Miss Sienna."

He slid the file toward me.

It was a stack of private investigator reports, photos, and hotel records.

Sienna and Liam Vandermeer had met at least fifteen times in the past six months. Locations included boutique hotels on the Upper East Side, private beach houses in Long Island, and a weekend trip to Miami.

"They’re setting him up," I said slowly. "Liam wants to steal the inheritance from Tristan. Sienna is the tool."

"Exactly." Dad nodded. "You react faster than I thought."

I looked at the photos. Suddenly, I felt like my last three years had been a joke.

"They were playing me from the start."

"Yes." Dad’s voice was gentle. "But now you know. That is your advantage."

"How do we play this?"

Dad sat back down and poured himself more coffee.

"First, you have to appear in public. Act like nothing happened. Go to charity galas, art auctions. Let everyone see you are still my daughter. Still a Hayes."

"And then?"

"Then?" Dad looked at me. "Then you tell me how you want to play this chess game."

I understood. This wasn’t an instruction; it was a test.

"I will cut off their cash flow," I said. "Then beat Tristan on that tech project. As for the evidence of Sienna and Liam... we have to let Tristan find it himself. Too early, and he won’t believe it. Too late, and it won’t matter."

Dad stood up and put a hand on my shoulder.

"Good girl," he said. "If your mother were here, she’d be proud."

I looked into my father’s eyes and made a decision.

"Tell me about the docks," I said. "I’ll handle the rest."

Dad looked at me, a glint in his eye I hadn't seen before.

"Are you sure?" He asked. "Once we start, there is no turning back."

"I'm sure."

He nodded and pulled a thick folder from the drawer.

"Then let’s start with the Vandermeers' most vulnerable spot."