Page 197 of Arrow

“And what use do you see for me?” I asked, keeping my voice steady despite the anger surging through me. “A spy? A sacrificial lamb? Or just a daughter you can finally be rid of?”

“I see a Virelli. My blood. The only family I have left.”

“Family?” I laughed, the sound sharp enough to draw glances from nearby guests. “You sold me to the Romanovs. What kind of father does that?”

“The kind who knows his daughter is stronger than anyone gives her credit for.” His eyes, so like mine, held something I’d never seen before—a grudging respect. “I didn’t sell you to the Romanovs, Harlowe. I placed you in their midst. Like a virus they won’t see until it’s too late.”

I studied him, this man who’d shaped me through cruelty and neglect. Who’d taught me to be ruthless by giving me no other choice. “You actually believe that, don’t you? That this was all part of some master plan.”

“Everything I’ve ever done has been part of a plan.” His fingers tightened on my arm. “Including this. Remember who you are. Whose blood runs in your veins.”

“Time’s up,” Arrow’s voice cut between us, his hand settling possessively at my waist. “We’re leaving.”

My father’s eyes hardened as he looked from Arrow to me. “This isn’t over,” he said quietly. “Blood always calls to blood in the end.”

“Goodbye, Father,” I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. “I’ll see you at the church.”

Arrow guided me through the crowd, his body a shield between me and the curious eyes that followed our exit. Frank was already waiting with the car, door open, eyes constantly scanning for threats. Once we were safely inside, I felt the tension drain from my body, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that made my limbs feel heavy.

“Are you okay?” Arrow asked as the car pulled away from the curb.

I stared out the window at the city lights blurring past. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”

His hand found mine in the darkness, fingers intertwining with mine. The gesture was unexpectedly gentle, at odds with the violence that usually defined our interactions. I found myself clinging to that touch like an anchor in a storm.

“What did he say to you?” Arrow asked after a moment of silence.

I turned to look at him, studying his profile in the dim light. The sharp angle of his jaw, the darkness in his eyes that matched my own. “He said blood always calls to blood in the end. That he placed me with the Romanovs like a virus.”

Arrow’s jaw tightened. “Do you believe him?”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore.” I laughed bitterly. “He’s spent my entire life making me doubt myself, manipulating me. Why would this be any different?”

Arrow’s fingers tightened around mine. “Because this time, he’s not controlling the narrative. We are.”

I stared down at our interlaced fingers, struck by how natural it felt to have his hand wrapped around mine. Not grabbing, not restraining—just connecting.

“Your speech tonight,” I said, watching his face carefully. “Was that part of the plan? Making everyone believe there’s something real between us?”

His expression shifted, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

He was silent for a long moment, his thumb tracing patterns on my palm. “It wasn’t planned,” he finally said. “But it wasn’t a lie either.”

The admission hung between us, fragile and dangerous. I didn’t know what to do with it—this glimpse of something beyond our carefully constructed game of power and revenge. It was easier when we were just using each other, when the rules were clear. This new territory felt treacherous, unmapped.

“Tomorrow,” he said, changing the subject, “everything changes.”

“Does it?” I asked. “Or is it just making official what’s already happened?”

He turned to face me fully, his eyes searching mine in the dim light. “What do you think has already happened, Harlowe?”

I held his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. “Something I’m not sure either of us expected,” I admitted, the words feeling like a confession pulled from somewhere deep inside me. “This was supposed to be a business arrangement. A ceasefire. But now . . .”

“Now?” he prompted, his voice low and intimate in the darkness of the car.

I looked down at our intertwined fingers. “Now I don’t know what this is. But it’s not just business anymore.”