Chapter 3 - The King’s TableThe private dining room on the manor's third floor was lit by a grand crystal chandelier that cast sharp, prismatic light across a long, polished mahogany table.
At seven o'clock sharp, my father, Frank Miller, entered the room leaning heavily on his carved wooden cane.
He looked thinner than he had before the shooting, the faint lines of pain still etched around his pale eyes, but his posture was upright. When his gaze found me standing near the fireplace, his tired face illuminated with genuine, profound warmth.
"Myra, sweetheart," Dad said, pulling me into a gentle embrace that smelled comfortably of fresh peppermint and engine oil. "Look at you. You look like royalty."
"Dad," I whispered, holding him tight, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. "How was the drive from Brooklyn? Are your ribs hurting?"
"Mr. Casaro sent his private driver to pick me up right from the shop," Dad said, shaking his head in quiet wonder. "I still don't quite understand why I was invited tonight, Myra. I'm just an old garage mechanic."
"You are a man who took a bullet for my family, Frank," Leo’s voice resounded as he entered through the double doors.
Leo walked straight to my father, extending a large, firm hand. My father took it, shaking it with deep, unspoken mutual respect.
"Leo," Dad said quietly. "I've tried to write letters... I never got the chance to properly express my gratitude for the hospital bills—"
Nico, who had just strolled into the room wearing a sleek midnight-blue suit, immediately cleared his throat loudly, stepping between my father and Leo with an overly familiar smile.
"Ah, Frank! No need to get emotional!" Nico interrupted smoothly, placing a heavy arm over my father’s fragile shoulders. "Family looks after family! I told my father from day one that we weren't going to let your medical expenses destroy Myra's peace of mind. I personally ensured you got the top surgical team at Mount Sinai."
I watched Nico’s performance with absolute, ice-cold clarity. The sheer, unadulterated shamelessness required for a young man to take public credit for his father's anonymous charity right in front of the man who wrote the checks was breathtaking.
I glanced across the room at Leo.
Leo did not explode. He did not raise his voice. He simply poured himself a glass of vintage red wine, his gray eyes locked onto his son with a quiet, devastating contempt.
"Sit," Leo commanded flatly.
We took our assigned seats around the expansive table. Nico sat directly to my right, taking my left hand above the table and squeezing it with possessive, firm pressure. My father sat directly across from us, watching Nico with a thoughtful, quiet scrutiny.
"So, Dad," Nico began as the butler served roasted rack of lamb and dark vegetables. "Have you finalized the trust transfer documents for the Gala next week? The legal board needs your formal authorization by Friday so we can register the Brooklyn port terminals under my new holding firm."
Leo sliced his meat with precise, measured movements, chewed slowly, and dabbed his lips with a linen napkin before speaking.
"The board has completed its review, Nico," Leo said smoothly. "However, an important modification has been added to the trust stipulations."
Nico’s smile wavered slightly, his fork lingering mid-air. "Modification? What kind of modification? Mother’s trust was explicitly set up to transfer automatically on my twenty-fifth birthday."
"Your mother’s trust contained a clear governance clause," Leo stated, his tone as calm as a frozen lake. "It requires the heir to demonstrate personal stability, honor, and a legally binding commitment to a woman of suitable character before control of physical real estate can be unlocked."
Nico let out a nervous laugh, his fingers tightening around my hand until my knuckles throbbed. "Well, that’s hardly an obstacle! Myra and I are together. The entire board knows she’s my intended wife. We can announce our formal engagement at the Gala!"
"A verbal announcement is legally meaningless, Nico," Leo replied smoothly. "The board requires a signed pre-nuptial agreement and an immediate co-ownership registration. If you marry Myra, her name will be placed on fifty percent of the master title for the Brooklyn shipping terminals."
Nico froze.
The color rushed out of his face so quickly he looked suddenly ill.
"What?!" Nico blurted out, losing his smooth composure entirely. "Fifty percent of the terminals to Myra?! Dad, that’s absurd! She... she doesn't know the first thing about commercial logistics! Her family doesn't have a single dime of investment equity!"
My father’s posture instantly stiffened at the head of the table. "Nico..."
"Just give me a second, Frank!" Nico snapped, panicking, slamming his palm onto the table. "Dad, you can't be serious! You're going to hand half of my life's work to a girl who didn't have enough money to cover her own father's medical bills until I stepped in?!"
The entire dining room plunged into a suffocating silence.
My father stared at Nico in absolute, heart-wrenching shock, betrayal dawning across his weathered face. "Nico... is that how you view my daughter? As a charity project you purchased?"
Nico realized his catastrophic mistake in an instant. He looked at my father, then looked down at me, his eyes wide with frantic, desperate panic. "No! Frank, Myra, listen to me, that’s not what I meant! I just mean... business is business! You don't hand away half of a multi-million-dollar maritime enterprise to someone outside the bloodline!"
I slowly, deliberately pulled my hand out of Nico’s grip.
I looked across the linen table at Leo.
Leo was leaning back in his tall armchair, swirling his wine glass gently. His gray eyes met mine, sending a clear, silent message: The trap is sprung.
"Nico is completely right, Mr. Casaro," I said softly, letting my voice tremble with delicate, weaponized innocence. "I don't deserve half of Nico’s empire. I'm just a mechanic's daughter. Nico has already given me so much... hasn't he?"
Nico wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, letting out an anxious, breathless chuckle. "See?! Even Myra understands! She’s reasonable, Dad!"
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Leo set his wine glass down with a heavy clink, fixing his son with a look of such profound, icy disappointment that even the air in the room seemed to freeze.
"We will settle this matter at the board session on Tuesday, Nico," Leo said softly. "Until then... I suggest you remember how to speak to guests in my house. Lest you find yourself stripped of a residence entirely."
