Oh dear God.

“You what?” My sister drops her cutlery and rounds on Lachlan, and it’s the first time since he walked in here that I’ve truly seen him thrown off his axis. “You put her where?”

“It’s not as bad as it seems,” I protest, though in reality, it’s worse. “I was in a … situation. And it was the only way to safely get out.”

“A situation.”

“Yep.”

“Care to elaborate?” Ava asks, her eyebrows raised.

“Not really.”

“And it involved putting you. Lark Montague. In a fucking trunk.”

“Well, I did get out, so …” I shrug and force my way through a bite of roast beef that I would normally decimate. “We worked past it. All turned out well in the end. Like Auntie said, it makes for a funny story.” Lies. So many lies and half-truths that I feel like they’re clinging to my skin, like all the masks I cover myself with will slide off in the oily muck of my deceptions.

“The trunk wasn’t my best idea at the time,” Lachlan says as a hint of blush creeps into his cheeks, “but our options were limited and, fortunately for me, Lark has a very forgiving heart.”

I cough around a sip of water, nearly spitting it back into the glass.

My mom and stepdad exchange weighted glances. I see fury in my mom, but disappointment in my stepfather, and somehow the latter is worse. I lay my hand on his, waiting for him to meet my eyes. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I whisper, my throat suddenly tightening around my words. “I’ve always wanted you to walk me down the aisle. But I fell in love with Lachlan so fast,” I say, gazing over at Lachlan in a way I hope is convincing. “And it just … happened.”

Part of me wishes my stepdad would challenge me on this. Dig a little deeper. Call me out. But to him, this is probably just another example in a long line of Lark doing her own thing, fuck the consequences. What else would he expect from someone who phones him in the middle of the night to cover up a fatal accident? Or who drops her job to go touring for six months, or packs up on a whim and moves closer to home because her best friend did?

He never calls me out, not really. Instead, he plasters on a weak smile and gives my fingers a gentle squeeze. “It’s all right, Lark. I’m just … very surprised. It’s a big shock.”

“I understand. But I just want you to know that I’m happy, truly.” I smile and shift my gaze to where Lachlan sits across from me. I probably should have asked him if he’s ever been in love, because honestly, if this is his attempt to look smitten, it sucks. He seems more pained than anything. Like he’s trying, but there’s too much worry and anxiety fizzing just beneath his surface.

His eyes narrow at me, just briefly. With the slightest bob of his head, I realize he’s communicating with me. Asking if I’m okay.

My smile grows a little brighter. Of course I’m okay.

There’s a slight tilt to his head as he studies me. He doesn’t look convinced.

My eyes widen until I know they’ll look a hint deranged. Play the fuck along, unless you want a tour of the batch ovens.

“I have to thank my brother, really,” Lachlan pipes up. “If it wasn’t for his wedding and all the preparation that went into it behind the scenes, I don’t think Lark and I would have spared each other the time.”

At least his lie is pretty convincing, because we sure as hell didn’t spare each other a single fucking second. Every time Lachlan was suggested as a companion for a run to the florist or the venue, I made every excuse possible to take someone else or do it solo. I’m sure the same was true for Lachlan, though I made a point of never asking about him, even though I remember every detail that fell into my lap. I can still recall the satisfaction I felt but pushed away when Rowan said Lachlan wasn’t bringing a plus-one to the wedding. I don’t analyze that thought.

My aunt jumps on the mention of the wedding to redirect the conversation to Rowan and Sloane’s nuptials, and I finally feel like I can take a breath. When questions come back around to Lachlan, he handles them with ease. Questions about his studio. About Ireland. About his parents, which has him shifting in his seat. He calls his father “a troubled man” and focuses on his mother instead. I know most of this from Sloane and Rowan, at least at a surface level. It’s different to not just hear it from Lachlan, but to see it in him. The haunted depths in his eyes where secrets thrive in shadow. His smile when he speaks about his brothers with pride that was earned by the pain he must have endured to raise them when his mother passed away. Every once in a while, Lachlan catches my eye as he talks, especially about the harder topics. He leaves the details unspoken, but I can hear them, the ghost notes in a melody.

And by the time we’ve finished the main course, I’m a little more at ease. Not just with myself, or because I know my family is at least trying to make sense of this situation, but with Lachlan too. When Ava clears our plates and returns with coffee and dessert, I feel calmer. We may not be in the clear yet, but we’re on our way.

Which is, naturally, exactly when Ethel chooses to strike.

“Now that you’ve harassed the poor boy with your inane questions, why don’t we address the elephant in the room? The contract with Leviathan.”

My stepfather wipes a hand down his face. My sister chokes on her coffee. My mother tries to chastise Ethel, which seems to delight the old matriarch. I groan and lean back in my chair as a headache needles my sleepless eyes. And Lachlan? He looks like he wants to melt into some other dimension, which brings me a single sliver of joy to realize I’m sitting across from a deadly assassin who’s out of his depth with family drama.

“There is no contract,” my parents say in unison.

Ethel grins. “There will be for the Montagues.”

“I haven’t signed anything,” my mother declares.

“That’s because I haven’t given you the power to do so. Nor will I. I’ve appointed Lark as chief security officer.” Ethel takes a thick envelope from her purse and slides it across the table toward me. My face heats and the rest of the family stares me down as though I’ve orchestrated a coup. I throw my hands up and shake my head, which seems convincing enough as they all refocus on Ethel.

“Conflict of interest. She can’t hire the company her husband is working for.”

My aunt snorts. “‘Conflict of interest’ my wrinkled old ass. We’re not doctors or lawyers. We make muffins, Nina. Since when have we cared about a conflict of interest?”

“Since now. She cannot hire Leviathan.”

“Lachlan is retiring. Problem solved,” I interject. Everyone is as shocked as I am. I don’t know where this is coming from, but holy fuck, it’s too late to stop now. “Thank you, Auntie. I hope to make you all proud. I’ll award Leviathan the contract, this family will be protected, Lachlan will retire, everyone will be happy.”

“No one will be happy,” my sister says.

“I’m happy,” Ethel protests.

“You’re dying and half-crazy. No offense.”

“I’m dying and perfectly sane. Certified by three doctors and my lawyer,” my aunt says as she slaps another stack of papers onto the table. “Ironclad, by the way. Just in case you try to overturn my decision.”

“Great. Then it’s settled.” I smile at each one of my family members, leaving Lachlan for last. His face looks like I imagine it would if he were stalking his prey from a distance. It’s like he’s shut off every part of himself so that only instinct and skill remain.

My mother’s gaze bounds from one person to the next before it lands on me, her hand gripped so tightly to her napkin that her knuckles bleach. “You don’t know what you’re doing, Lark.”

“I do. I chose love,” I say, unable to bear the weight of a lie about something so precious. “We are married. This is the life I chose. He is the man I chose.”