𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

Chapter Eighty-Three

VALENTINA
LARS

I arrived with Christian, my hand in his, his fingers locked with mine in that unyielding grip he always used whenever he sensed things might turn. And with my family? They often did. My father, mother, Bridget, and Damien were already there, seated on the couch. They seemed to be waiting, a quiet tension thickening the air as Christian and I walked in.

"What was so urgent we had to be here for?" I asked, barely able to contain the sharp edge in my tone. My gaze swept over each of them, searching for signs, hints of the inevitable confrontation beneath their expressions. Christian stood beside me, his arms crossed, a dark scowl on his face that warned everyone not to push too far.

"Take a seat, honey," my mother whispered softly, reaching out to pull me down beside her. Her hand held mine in a familiar warmth, one that had always been my comfort in this dark, twisted family. Christian, however, remained standing, his defiance evident, an immovable pillar beside me.

Then came Bridget's voice, timid and almost foreign in its sincerity. "I'm sorry for everything I did, Valentina. Let's just be mature and become the family we're supposed to be." Her gaze found mine, a mixture of guilt and something that might've resembled humility. "I've been immature, and I shouldn't have done what I did."

Her words hung in the air, and I felt the weight of every insult, every knife wound she'd inflicted, stirring just beneath my skin. But there was something about her gaze—a tiny ember that perhaps hinted at honesty. I managed a nod. "I'm sorry too. And Damien..." I turned to my brother, who looked at me with his trademark smirk softened, less edged. "I'm sorry for going against you. But Christian won't apologize—not until you do first."

Damien's smirk disappeared, his mouth pressing into a thin line. His stare held Christian's, a silent duel, until he finally nodded. "I'm sorry, Christian," he said, the words sounding strained, like they'd been forced up from a dark pit he'd kept hidden.

Christian nodded back, his expression unreadable. "I'd apologize, but I'm kind of an egoist." His words carried that usual nonchalance, a wall he used to keep his true feelings guarded.

Damien let out a heavy sigh, the weight of his frustration palpable. "Okay, asshole," he muttered, shaking his head, but I saw a flicker of something less antagonistic in his eyes.

With the apologies exchanged, my father rose from his seat, his movements deliberate as he came to stand before me. He lowered himself so he was eye-level, his face softened in a rare vulnerability that made my chest tighten. "Okay, now that everyone's happy," he murmured, "Valentina... will you come home? Both you and Chrissy?"

His question was a plea wrapped in authority, a request masked as a command. I knew the weight of coming back to the family. It wasn't just a return to comfort—it was a return to the shadows, to the tightly wound control that my father wielded over each of us. I looked away, avoiding the hope in his eyes. "I want to stay away for a bit, Dad. I have a few priorities."

A shadow passed over his face, brows furrowing. "What priorities?" he asked, his voice tight, as if he feared the answer.

I glanced at Damien, then back at Christian, who gave me a look—a warning not to say it. But this was one secret I couldn't keep hidden forever.

"Damien, can you leave for a moment?" I whispered, knowing he'd only make things harder. He rolled his eyes but stood, retreating to the hallway. Bridget stayed, her curious gaze flicking between me and Christian, a mix of amusement and surprise.

Finally, with Damien gone, I exhaled, gathering the courage. I felt Christian's hand tighten on mine, his silent plea clear: don't say it. But I had to. I looked up, meeting the collective gaze of my family, my heart pounding as I spoke the words. "I'm pregnant," I announced, the declaration echoing like a gunshot in the stillness.

The room fell deathly silent. The disbelief was instant, like a shockwave spreading from face to face. And then, my father's expression twisted from shock to fury.

"What?" he growled, his fists clenching as he stood, his face darkening with a familiar, terrifying rage. "I'm going to kill you!" His hand shot out toward Christian, but before he could strike, my mother reached out, clutching his arm, her eyes fierce as she anchored him back to the present.

"Wait," she said, her tone softer but unyielding, "let's just be happy for them."

Bridget, surprisingly, broke the silence, her lips curving into an actual smile. "I'm so happy!" she said, her eyes bright with excitement. "But, Valentina... can you try to have daughters?" she teased, her voice carrying a lightness I hadn't heard in years.

I couldn't help but smile back, though my heart still hammered with tension. "I don't even know if I'll have this baby... your boyfriend might kill me first," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper, but loud enough to convey the worry beneath my smile.

Bridget's smile faded, and she shook her head, her expression hardening with determination. "I'll calm him down. Guys, let's just all be happy, okay?" She turned to our father, her voice almost commanding, like the peacemaker she'd always pretended to be.

But happiness was a fragile thing in this family, like a flame vulnerable to even the slightest breath of discord.

My father took a step back, his eyes locked on Christian with a fierce, unrelenting scrutiny. And then, as if that was all it took to tip him over the edge, he lunged. The next few moments blurred as shouts erupted, fists flying as my father and Christian clashed. My mother's attempts to pull them apart went unheard, her voice lost beneath the chaos.

Christian's nose cracked, blood dripping down his face, but he didn't back down. He was determined, his strength as stubborn as my father's wrath.

It wasn't until Bridget finally shouted, her voice piercing through the room like a bell, "Enough!" that they pulled apart. Christian's face was bruised, his stance defiant as ever, while my father's chest heaved with residual anger, his glare softened only slightly by my mother's hand resting on his shoulder.

In the stillness that followed, we all stood in a precarious truce, blood and tension mingling in the air, a testament to the unbreakable yet fractured bond of this family.

The room tensed further as my father stood before Christian, his eyes hard and scrutinizing. His gaze was sharp, as if he could peel back Christian's very soul, dissecting each layer to search for any reason, any crack, any weakness.

"What are your intentions with my daughter?" he barked, his voice carrying the kind of menace that had brought men to their knees. His question was both a challenge and a warning, a test that dared Christian to cross into dangerous territory.

But Christian only smirked, the kind of arrogant, self-assured grin that had infuriated my father from the start. He slid an arm around me, his grip possessive, pulling me closer to him. He was practically flaunting our connection, taunting my father with his audacity.

"My intentions toward your daughter are simple," he replied, his voice calm but unbreakable. His gaze never wavered, not even in the face of my father's anger. "She is mine, and I'm hers." His smirk widened, daring, rebellious. "And that's how you'll accept it, Damon."

My father's jaw clenched, the tension in the room so thick it felt like we were all breathing in smoke. No one challenged my father. No one dared to push against the power he had. He was a man who demanded respect through fear, a man whose authority was never questioned.

But Christian? Christian was a wildfire that refused to be controlled. He crossed every line my father had drawn, danced over boundaries no one else would dare approach.