MIA
The crystal chandeliercasts fractured light across the marble floor, a glittering echo of the fracturing within my family's foundation. It’s been a day since my father dropped the unthinkable on me.
Marriage?
Who does he think he is?
I stand frozen like a statue in the foyer, my gaze locked with my father's. His silhouette rigid against the mahogany door is an immovable force. I’ve seen this stance before, and it reeks of the power he wields in city boardrooms.
"Enough," his voice slices through the tension.
My mother hovers by the window, her presence merely a whisper. She wrings her hands, the only sign of her unrest.
"Tell me it isn't true," I say, my words a blade pointed at the man who stands before me, a man I once believed unshakeable. "Tell me I didn’t hear what I thought I heard."
His eyes—so much like mine—hold a cold fire. He doesn't answer. He just lets the silence fester like an open wound.
I can't relent. Not now. My palms feel slick against the fabric of my jeans. "You can't just decide my future, Dad. Not like this."
"Your safety is not up for discussion, Mia." His tone is granite, his stance as unyielding as the city skylines.
My heart hammers, its tempo erratic. "How can you just dismiss this?" I'm standing now, too, my hands flat on the table, leaning towards him. "You're forcing me into something dangerous."
The air is tense, an invisible barrier neither love nor logic can dismantle.
"Marriage isn't danger." His face is a mask, but there's a tremor in his denial, a hairline fracture in his facade.
I search for softness in his eyes but find only the reflection of a man burdened by secrets. With each thudding heartbeat, I gather my courage. "Are you so entangled in dubious dealings that you'd pawn off your only daughter?"
"Entangled?" His eyebrow arches, a subtle lift betraying his surprise.
"Blackmail," I press on. The word tastes bitter. "It reeks of desperation, or worse, manipulation."
"Those pictures," he starts, the words heavy, "they came with a threat. To us. To you."
“Then let me see the pictures." It's not a request but a demand, my voice a blade cutting through the tension. The weight of his silence is leaden, but his admission falls like a guillotine when he finally speaks.
"I gave them to Dario."
"See?" The word escapes me before I can cage it, raw and accusing. "That's what I'm saying. For all we know, he orchestrated the whole thing."
My fingers curl into fists, the tips of my nails pressing crescent moons into my palms.
"Believe what you want, Mia, but this is to keep you safe." He reaches out, but I step back, refusing the touch and the false promise it carries.
"Safe? Or controlled?" There’s no hiding the scorn in my voice.
"I said enough!" He sits, his command a slap, sharp and resounding.
His gaze pierces me, but behind the mask, I see the flicker of doubt, the weariness of a man cornered by his own decisions.
"Everything I do is for this family," he says, but the words sound hollow, a mantra repeated too many times to hold meaning still.
"Even if it means losing me?" My question lingers, unanswered.
"Mia, that’s all I will hear about this," the finality in his voice is a door slamming shut.
“Marcus," Mom’s voice cuts through, gentle as a whisper yet firm enough to command the room. Her hand extends towards me like an olive branch, but her eyes, mirrors of mine, betray the worry creasing her brow.