Page 77 of The Arrogant's Surrender

"Silas, for sure is. So, dinner at my parents’ house is set, then?"

I take a deep breath. "Yes."

"I have to go. I’m heading into surgery. I’ll pick you up at eight tonight, as usual?"

"Yes. Come. I’ll be waiting."

Athanasios

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

"So,Brooklyn, what did you do before you fell into a coma? Did you ever work?"

My girlfriend’s foot starts tapping against the floor, and anger rises within me. I place my hand on her thigh to try to calm her, but I think the tremor has become almost a nervous tic since the evening began.

"Is this an interrogation, Mrs. Pappakouris? Do I need a recorder? A notepad?" L.J. asks sarcastically.

To a less attentive observer, he might have sounded casual, even playful, but I’ve known him my entire life, and I know he’s as irritated as I am.

My mother, usually an impeccable hostess, hasn’t given Brooklyn a moment’s peace, bombarding her with invasive questions.

"It’s fine, L.J.," Brooklyn replies. "I was a hairdresser, Mrs. Pappakouris, and I loved—love—my profession."

"Oh!" my mother exclaims, and I feel my jaw tighten.

I squeeze my woman’s hand over the table, in full view of everyone, ready to get her out of here, but she doesn’t look at me. Instead, she holds my mother’s gaze evenly.

"There’s nothing wrong with being a hairdresser, my dear," my father says, trying to smooth over his wife’s rudeness.

"I’m not ashamed of my profession, Mr. Pappakouris. When Athanasios met me, I told him what I did."

"Technically, he didn’t ‘meet’ you," my mother presses on. "My son didn’t have much of a choice since he was responding to a request from the Kostanidis family."

"How do you know that?" I ask, now genuinely pissed off.

"I have my ways of finding out whatever I want. That’s not the point. I know he would never refuse to help his friends, and the Kostanidou are like us. It wasn’t a critique of how you two met but rather that I wanted to know more about your . . .girlfriend, son."

"Look at me," I say to Brooklyn. Even then, it takes her a moment to respond, clearly determined not to lower her guard against my mother. "We can leave."

"Athanasios," my mother calls.

"Excuse me, Mom, I’m talking to her."

Throughout my life, Medeia Pappakouris and I have had our disagreements. To be frank, her shallow ways have always drained me. I have zero patience for manufactured drama, like the color of napkins for a dinner party—a topic she once obsessed over while I was growing up.

However, aside from her obsession with marrying me off to Febe, she’s never lost control the way she did tonight.

"Brooklyn," I insist.

"No, Athanasios. There’s no reason for us to leave before dinner is over. After all, your mother went to the trouble of organizing everything. It would be a sin to waste such a delicious meal."

The rest of the evening passes without incident, but I keep a close eye on her, watching for any signs—however small—that she wants to leave. Yet Brooklyn remains steadfast, even managing to chat with my father and laugh at L.J.’s antics.

William is tense, and I know my friends, like me, are counting the minutes until the night is over.

Finally, after dessert, we say our goodbyes.

"Bring the twins for us to meet, Brooklyn," my father says as he escorts us to the door.

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