Michael's POV
Reagan summoned me downstairs for dinner.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Until I walked into the dining room and witnessed the flickering candles casting shadows across an ornate table arrangement that made my blood run cold.
What the fuck is this supposed to be?
"Reagan," I growled, my voice cutting through the romantic ambiance like a blade. "Explain this circus to me."
He threw up his hands defensively. "Dad, take it easy."
My jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth might crack. "You were aware of this setup?"
His shoulders lifted in a guilty shrug. "She mentioned it right before you walked down."
Of course she did. And naturally, he stood by and let it happen.
He gestured toward Snow, who posed there with that sickeningly sweet smile, as if this twisted dinner theater was somehow endearing rather than completely deranged.
"Mom arranged everything," he explained. "It's her attempt at an apology. A peace offering to patch things up."
