Page 4 of Broken Blades

"Well, I'll steer clear. Promise." I grinned at him. "Wouldn't want to damage the company image by association with a hothead."

"Good." He nodded once. "That's smart thinking."

But he was looking past me now, toward the kitchen doorway. Toward the sound of my mother opening cabinets, the gentle clink of dessert plates being stacked.

I'd seen my father negotiate hundred-million-dollar deals without breaking composure. I'd watched him face down hostile boards, aggressive competitors, skeptical investors—always steady, always in control.

This wasn't that.

This was something else.

The candles flickered. Shadows moved across the Wedgwood, across Father's face, across the empty chair where Mother had been sitting.

I told myself I was reading too much into it. Exhaustion from the drive. The strangeness of being home after months away.

But the air had changed. Something unspoken had moved through the room—too quick to catch, too heavy to ignore.

Mother returned with three perfect slices of torte, each garnished with a raspberry and a mint leaf.

"Here we are." Her voice was bright. "Your favorite."

She set a plate in front of me, then Father, then took her seat again.

Everything looked normal. Everything looked fine.

I picked up my fork and told myself that's exactly what it was.

The torte was perfect—dense chocolate with that slight bitterness Mother always got right, the kind that made cheap grocery store cake taste like sawdust afterward. I cut through the layers with my fork, watching the ganache separate from the mousse.

"The dress code is formal," Father said. "Black tie. Masquerade theme, so masks required." He gestured vaguely toward his face. "Venetian style, apparently. The event planner went all out this year."

I swallowed. The chocolate coated my tongue, rich and dark. "Do I need to buy something?"

"I have something." Mother set down her fork, torte barely touched. "Upstairs. I picked it up last month."

I blinked. "Last month?"

"For the hospital gala." She smoothed her napkin across her lap. "But then your father had that conflict, so we didn't end up going."

"The merger negotiations," Father said, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.

"It's white," Mother continued. "Floor-length. Sophisticated. You'll look elegant."

"You think I'll fit?"

"I know your measurements." Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "And your style. You can try it on after dinner if you'd like. We're practically the same size."

The raspberry burst tart against the sweetness when I bit into it. I chased it with another forkful of cake, buying myself time to swallow the odd flutter in my chest.

"That's perfect," I said. "Thanks, Mom."

"Of course." She stood again, reaching for Father's plate even though he'd only eaten half. "I'll go pull it out now, make sure it doesn't need any alterations."

She disappeared upstairs before either of us could respond.

Father finished his wine in one slow swallow. "Your mother has excellent taste."

"She does."