The car pulled up to the front steps just as the evening lights were being turned on. The house looked different somehow. Like the walls knew. Like the entire estate had shifted ever so slightly to acknowledge what she had done.
Celina stepped out, and for the first time, the house didn't just look grand—it looked sinister. Shadows clung to the corners like secrets, and the flickering lights felt more like warning beacons than welcome lanterns. And yet, for all of that, a strange feeling curled in her chest.
She belonged, not because she wanted to. But because she'd finally done something brutal enough to be accepted. To this sharp-edged, cold-burning world her family ruled so effortlessly. She stilled herself and walked towards the towering doors with her boots clicking on the marble tiles, the leather jacket still clinging to her like second skin.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, garlic, and exotic spices. Her mother's way of welcoming her back was always food. But this wasn't just a home-cooked meal. This was an orchestration. A message. A spectacle.
This wasn't just dinner.
This was a feast.
A long table stretched across the dining hall. Fine linens in ivory and gold. Expensive wine already poured into crystal glasses. Candles flickered like they were part of a celebration. And maybe they were. Her father stood at the head of the table, hands clasped behind his back, nodding once in approval when he saw her. Everything about the room screamed pride—controlled, calculated pride.
"Good job," he said simply, as if she had just returned from an afternoon errand.
Her mother rose and kissed her cheek, perfume clinging to her like a second skin. "You did well, darling. We're so proud."
It made something in Celina clench. The applause, the feast, it didn't feel like praise. It felt like branding.
Cassia leaned close as she passed, a smirk curling at the corner of her mouth. "First mission and already a banquet? Must be nice to be the favorite."
Celina gave a small shrug, her face unreadable. "They're just happy I didn't screw it up."
Cassia snickered under her breath. "A feast for your first mission? I got a slap because I hesitated for half a second meanwhile..." She sipped her glass, eyeing Celina with no expression. "You get lamb and applause."
Celina leaned back in her chair and said flatly, "I just want to get this over with."
Cassia chuckled dryly, settling into her seat like a cat ready to pounce. She lifted her wine glass with a faint smirk. "I left something for your pet. Maybe you should go visit him later."
Celina's jaw tensed. Her eyes sharpened. "I don't need to," she said tightly, voice clipped.
Cassia leaned in, her voice like silk laced with venom. "Oh, but you need to... if you want him to keep breathing. If you want to keep Father from thinking you're his sweet darling." She paused just long enough to let the words sting. "We both know he doesn't give second chances."
Celina's hands curled slowly on the tablecloth, leather creaking faintly. Her glare could've ignited stone.
Before she could answer, their father's voice swept through the room like a command.
"So," he said, settling into his seat, "how do you feel after your first mission?"
Celina looked up. For a split second, her breath caught. She wanted to scream. To cry. To ask how they could be so calm, so celebratory, about what she had done. She had delivered a severed finger. A part of someone's body. It wasn't a mission. It was a statement. A threat. A cruelty.
But she didn't scream.
She didn't cry.
Because she knew. She knew what kind of man her father really was, beneath all the tailored suits and subtle warmth, he was sharp edges and unrelenting expectation. Behind the love, there was always a knife.
She met his gaze, steel in her spine. "I kicked him. Ended everything between us."
Her mother smiled as if she had just announced an engagement.
Her father nodded once. "Good. You'll start training tomorrow. Ismael will handle it personally."
Cassia's wine glass hit the table a little harder than necessary. Her eyes flashed. "But Ismael and I had something to do tomorrow—"
"You can manage," their father said, not even glancing at her. "Celina will need him first."
Uncle Gregory, who had been quietly cutting into his meat, finally spoke. "Cassia is strong," he said, voice low but clear. "But Celina will need more help than strength. She'll need someone who can keep her steady."
Cassia didn't respond. Her hand slipped, and her utensil clattered against her plate, the sharp sound echoing across the table.
Their mother, ever composed, jumped in quickly to cut the tension. "Speaking of good things," she said brightly, "we've had confirmation—the charity gala is moving venues. It'll be hosted here next month."
That changed everything and the family started to buzz again.
They ate. Or rather, they pretended to. Celina moved food around her plate, forcing down tiny bites when eyes were on her. The scent of garlic and wine turned her stomach, and more than once, she had to close her eyes just to keep from gagging. Her throat tightened with each swallow, nausea curling inside her like a live wire.
She smiled when her mother passed her more bread. She nodded when her father raised his glass. She even laughed when one of the uncles said something vaguely amusing.
She acted.
And the whole time, she felt like she was about to throw up all over the silk napkin on her lap.
Finally, when it felt like her mask would crack, she stood and excused herself with a soft murmur.
Cassia's voice followed her like a knife to the back. "Don't forget."
Celina paused mid-step, her jaw tightening.
She didn't even need to turn to know what Cassia meant.
But in the back of her mind, she knows that if she went down there to save Rafael, she'd also be risking herself.