TWISTED FATE (Twisted Path Book 1)

Chapter 48

Shane

The door clicks shut behind us with a soft finality that lands loudly—like steel locking into place.

I don't turn. Don't speak. I just stare at the room, which greets me like a taunt.

The dining suite is sickeningly flawless. Dimmed lighting. Crystal flutes pre-filled with champagne. Hors d'oeuvres arranged on gold-rimmed porcelain. The table gleams beneath a centerpiece of winter-white roses and soft candlelight, like this is just another celebration. Just another night for the Montgomerys to toast their success.

But it's a trick.

A clever disguise for the leash they're about to snap around my neck. The ominous feel of the air around us gives way to the nauseating pressure building in my gut.

My mother slides into her seat, movements graceful and rehearsed. She lifts her champagne flute to her lips, taking a sip like she's trying to hide that too-wide smile that signals she's had a hand in whatever the hell this is.

My father's expression gives nothing away. He adjusts his cuff, straightens his jacket, and steps toward the head of the table like he's arriving at a press conference, not a private dinner with his wife and only child.

I, on the other hand, just stand there. Because whatever this is—it's not dinner.

It's an ambush.

And the idea of sitting down before I know what the hell I'm walking into feels too much like surrender.

"You should have worn the suit." My mother breaks the silence, her voice slicing through the room like a scalpel—sharp, clinical. No warmth. No disappointment. Just judgment, cold and overflowing.

I glance at her, watching as her perfectly manicured fingers tighten on the stem of her glass. She's not upset that I disobeyed her instructions. She's upset because I ruined the aesthetic. The story she curated for tonight.

"I was led to believe this was a family dinner," I say flatly. "No one told me it was a publicity stunt. "

She scoffs. "Don't be so dramatic. You know better than that." She lifts her glass but doesn't drink—just holds it like a prop. "Everything we do is a statement. A visual reinforcement of unity. You walking in here dressed like some college sophomore on winter break isn't the message I intended to send."

I exhale through my nose, jaw tight. "Good thing I'm a person, not a statement, then. Hmm?"

That gets her. Her gaze sharpens, lips pressing together in a tight line. Across the table, my father's eyes flick to hers. Something passes between them—an unspoken exchange I'm not invited into, but I catch the shift.

Whatever this is? It's choreographed.

My father straightens, reaches for the back of the chair at the head of the table, then gestures to the one beside him.

"Shane, have a seat."

It's not a request.

I move slowly. My muscles coiled tight, throat dry. Because whatever's coming... this is only just beginning.

My mother opens her mouth again—probably to launch into another tirade about optics and appearances—but my father cuts her off.

"None of that matters, Catherine." His voice is firm, landing with the weight of a door slamming shut—harsh, final, and unbothered by the frost his tone leaves in its wake. "We're here to discuss the boy's future."

Boy?

His words hit me hard, and my stomach knots.

Here it comes. The real reason for this fucking charade of a dinner. I should've known there was an ulterior motive. With my parents, there always is. Nothing comes without strings. Not love. Not praise. Not even family meals.