"Then just tell Sharona to call the wedding off." She stood her ground, her spine straight, her chin tilted up in defiance. "If you really want peace, if you really love me, then prove it."

Tom didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for the bottle of whiskey. He poured another measure into his glass, the soft glug of liquid the only sound between them. Then, with a faint smirk, he poured a second glass — hers. He slid the glass toward her.

"What are you doing?" Sylvia tensed. The glass between them glimmered. Her fingers twitched in her lap, her spine straight as a board. She knew that look in her father’s eyes — the calm, deliberate expression that meant he was already ten steps ahead, orchestrating every word, every gesture.

"Sharing a moment with my daughter," Tom replied smoothly. He tilted the glass slightly, watching the light ripple through the whiskey. "Come on, sweetheart. Just like old times."

"I... I can’t." Sylvia’s throat felt tight, the air too heavy to breathe. Her gaze locked on the drink, that innocent quarter-filled glass that suddenly felt like a loaded gun aimed straight at her self-control. "Get it away from me."

Tom sighed theatrically, leaning back in his seat. "We used to do so many things together, Syl. Remember? You are my baby girl. Always have been." He took another sip of his drink, savoring it. "I’ve done terrible things, yes. But everything I’ve ever done — it was for you. To give you your heart’s desires. It’s what I’m doing right now."

Sylvia’s pulse thundered in her ears. "Don’t twist this," she snapped.

He leaned closer. "You and I both know," he said softly, "that helps you think clearly. You haven’t been thinking right for a while now. You’re letting your emotions control you. You’ve always been impulsive, Syl. A sip," he coaxed, pushing the glass an inch closer, "and you’ll remember what matters. What’s right."

"You have got to be kidding me!" Sylvia pushed her hair out of her face and glared at him. Her body remembered the comfort the whiskey promised: the false warmth, the numbing blur, the soft veil over pain.

Tom watched her quietly, a predator smelling weakness. He didn’t push, not overtly. He just waited — patient, calculating. "I’m not kidding, sweetheart. Take it. Think about what you’re doing. About what’s right for your brother. Do this for Winn."

Her chest tightened. He knew exactly which buttons to press. He knew how much she loved her brother.

But he also knew something else — that Sylvia Kane never could stop at one sip.

She was a bring-the-whole-bottle kind of girl.

Sylvia stared at the drink, and the longer she did, the louder her heartbeat became. Her throat felt dry, her palms clammy. The smell of whiskey — rich, smoky, edged with vanilla — curled into her senses, teasing her with familiarity. She hated it. She wanted it.

Tom smiled faintly when he saw her hesitate. "There’s my girl," he murmured.

"Don’t," she said.

"Just one sip," he whispered. "Then tell me you don’t feel better. Tell me you still think you’re right."

Sylvia exhaled shakily and looked him dead in the eye. "You want me drunk so I’ll shut up about Sharona. That’s it, isn’t it?"

"I want my daughter to think clearly," he said, smiling. "To stop making decisions out of spite."

"I just have to look at Winn," she said softly, her fingers brushing the rim of the glass. "And see how miserable he is. Then I think clearly."

"He is miserable because that whore left him," Tom said flatly, the venom in his tone slicing through the haze of whiskey-scented air.

Sylvia’s eyes snapped up to his. Her pulse thudded painfully in her throat. "Did she?" she asked. "I still think you had something to do with it."

"I didn’t," he said smoothly. "I give you my word. Winn has lost one happiness already. You really want him to lose another? House of Kane? I need you thinking clearly. I need you to think about what is right. For you. For your brother. For our entire family."

Sylvia stared at the whiskey between them. Her fingers twitched against her thigh, her body screaming one thing while her mind tried to scream another.

Her heart pounded against her ribs. "You’re manipulating me," she whispered.

"I’m reminding you who you are."

Syl swallowed hard, nails digging into her palms. Her throat felt dry, her thoughts tangled in the sticky fog of memory — the taste of whiskey, the spiral that always came after, the guilt she’d wake up to. Her father had always known her weaknesses, known exactly which string to pull to make her dance.

And yet, part of her wanted the burn, wanted to drown out his voice — wanted to stop feeling.

******

Outside, Reese slammed the car door and strode to the entrance of The Emperor’s Room, his jaw tight. The two bulky men at the door crossed their arms as he approached.

"ID?" one of them barked.

Reese flashed his badge. "Reese Dalton. Personal security detail for Miss Sylvia Kane. She entered with her father roughly ten minutes ago. I need to confirm her safety."

The guards shared a look that said they didn’t care who he was. "Private members only," the taller one grunted. "No entry without authorization."

Reese exhaled sharply, running his hand through his hair in frustration.

He stepped aside, pulling out his phone and dialing quickly. "Come on, come on," he muttered under his breath until the call connected.

"Sir," he said the moment Winn picked up. "There’s a situation."

"What kind of situation?" Winn’s voice came through.

Reese took a steadying breath. "Your father came by the house a little while ago and picked up Miss Kane. They’re at The Emperor’s Room."

"Reese, listen to me carefully. Get her out of there. However it has to happen, get her out of there. Please, Reese, now."

Reese’s hand tightened around the phone. "Understood, sir." He hung up, the cold night air filling his lungs as he turned toward the entrance of The Emperor’s Room.