Page 131 of The Toy Collector

Enzo’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Lorenzo Russo,” he says, voice calm as a loaded gun. He doesn’t offer his hand or fake a smile, and I don’t think I’ve ever loved him more.

My father materializes at her side like he’s been summoned, a drink already in hand, ice cubes clinking against crystal with dissatisfaction. His gaze flicks over Enzo’s tailored coat, the perfect cut of his suit, the subtle details that speak of money older than anything the Harringtons have touched.

“I didn’t realize Piper was dating someone in security,” he says, voice dry as gin, as if Enzo is the help who’s wandered into the wrong room.

I want to vanish, to dissolve into the marble and re-form somewhere quieter, somewhere less cruel. Instead, I stand perfectly still, my face a porcelain mask.

“Actually,” I say, clearing my throat and catching my mom’s gaze. Then I lift my hand, the six-carat puzzle-cut diamond we picked up from the Russo estate before flying here catching the chandelier’s light like it’s throwing daggers. “Lorenzo’s my—”

“I’m her fiancé,” Enzo finishes smoothly, his voice absolute.

I watch my mom’s lips twitch, the micro-expression of someone who’s just been checkmated.

“Piper! Holy shit, you actually came.”

Teddy appears like salvation, a whiskey tumbler in one hand and the kind of grin that’s never been Harrington-approved. His tie is already loose, his hair a little mussed, his eyes clear despite the alcohol. He wraps me in a hug that smells like good whiskey and better intentions.

“You look like a revolution.” He grins when he pulls back, hands still on my shoulders, eyes seeing all of me. Then he turns to Enzo, gives him a slow once-over that’s neither threatening nor deferential. “So you must be war.”

A laugh escapes me—the first real sound I’ve made since walking in. Enzo extends his hand, introduces himself properly. “Lorenzo Russo.”

Teddy takes it with a firm grip. “Alright. Yeah. I see it.” He nods, a private assessment completed. It’s the only real introduction that happens in this house of performances.

We circulate for a full hour—sixty excruciating minutes. My mother finds me between conversations, her comments soft and steady, precision-guided missiles.

“Are you still at that internship? I thought it was only for… common people.”

“Is that dress… yours? The cut is so interesting.”

“Your lipstick is a little bold, darling. Remember what we discussed about first impressions.”

With each question, each subtle criticism, I feel the weight of it building—every inch of distance between the daughter they want and the woman I’ve become. My shoulders tighten beneath my dress.

The room seems to contract, the air growing thinner as I breathe it. Enzo stays close, his presence steady, his eyes tracking every microscopic flinch I try to hide.

His thumb moves against my back, slow and deliberate. “Do you want to leave?” he murmurs, just for me. Rather than coaxing me, he’s reminding me of the option.

I shakemy head once.

“You run this,” he adds. “We go when you say.”

The room fills with people who know a version of me that hasn’t existed for years. Former classmates, family friends, business associates—they ask about charity organizations I don’t know about, congratulate me on achievements I’ve never claimed, speak to me in the language of a future I rejected.

“This place doesn’t deserve you,” Enzo murmurs near my temple. “They look, but they don’t see. And still you stand taller than all of them.”

My father corners us near the library doors, martini in hand, his eyes slightly narrowed—the look he gets when he’s about to deliver what he thinks is wisdom.

“Well, let’s hope this one works out better than your lastboyfriend,” he says, glancing at Enzo with the idle disinterest of a man evaluating livestock. “That campaign manager nearly ruined your mother’s summer.”

I feel Enzo inhale beside me—sharp and slow. The kind of breath people take before court rulings or executions. One tilt of his head, one unreadable smile, and my father steps back like he’s heard a threat no one else can.

“How tragic,” Enzo drawls, eyeing my dad. “But I guess that’s what happens when you try to pawn your daughter off on someone unworthy.”

Yeah, I’ve told him all about the guys my parents tried to set me up with, and how it was always about how it affected them, how it looked for them.

Something inside me goes quiet at my dad’s words. Not breaking—nothing so dramatic. Just a simple, clean silence, like a circuit being cut. The insult of comparing Enzo to someone who was most definitely not a boyfriend hits hard.

After placing my untouched champagne on a passing silver tray, I smooth my dress with hands that don’t tremble, and I look my father directly in the eyes for the first time today.

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