Tom's POV
Imogen returned with a little bounce in her step, breaking the quiet tension between her dad and me. "Five more minutes, Dad," she said with a smile. "Samuel's dishing up." Then, without a second thought, she flopped down beside me on the couch — close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off her shoulder.
Her dad looked at her, his stern face softening just a bit before he went back to scrolling on his phone. I tried to act calm, casual, like I wasn't completely out of place in this palace of a home, but my leg wouldn't stop fucking bouncing.
Dinner came sooner than I expected. Samuel called us to the dining room. The table looked like something straight out of a royal banquet: shining silverware, polished glasses, the whole damn setup. I took my seat across from Imogen while her father sat at the head of the table, his posture straight, his expression calm but sharp.
"So, Tom," her dad began suddenly, his voice deep and composed. "How did you and Imogen become friends? I know you both attend the same high school, but she's never mentioned you before."
I froze mid-bite, my fork slipping from my fingers and clattering against the plate. The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot. Fuck. My brain went blank — I felt like I was sitting in an interview I hadn't prepared for, under a spotlight I didn't ask for.
"Uh…" I started, clearing my throat. "Well, Imogen and I… we're not exactly in the same social circle," I managed to say, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. "But—"
Before I could dig myself into a deeper hole, Imogen cut in smoothly, her tone light and effortless. "We sit together in algebra, Daddy," she said, flashing her dad a soft smile before glancing at me. The look in her eyes was warm — reassuring. A silent I got you.
I looked back at her, relief flooding through me, and mouthed a quiet thank you.
Her dad paused, looking between the two of us, then nodded as if the answer satisfied him. "Alright then," he said with a small smile. "Any friend of my daughter's is okay with me, kid."
"Thank you, sir," I said, trying not to sound too damn nervous.
The rest of the dinner went by in a blur — small talk about school, the weather, her dad's work. He wasn't as terrifying as I thought he'd be. Sure, the man had a presence that could silence a room, but once you got past the intimidating politician vibe, he actually seemed… decent.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was out of my depth — like I didn't belong in this perfect little world of polished marble floors and family portraits.
Imogen laughed at something her dad said, her smile soft and effortless, and for a second, I almost forgot about everything — Tyler, her lies, the plan. Just for that second, she wasn't a pawn in anyone's game. She was just her.
And that scared the shit out of me more than anything else.
After dinner, her dad leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, folding his napkin neatly beside his plate. The man looked like he'd just come from a political debate — calm, collected, untouchable. Then his gaze shifted to Imogen and me, and I straightened up immediately, like some obedient soldier waiting for orders.
"Well," he began, his tone carrying that soft authority that didn't need to be loud to be commanding, "I've got some calls to make before I turn in for the night." He stood, buttoning his shirt cuffs as if even at home he couldn't completely drop the image of power. "Imogen, make sure Samuel tells the driver to take Tom home."
"Okay, Dad," she replied softly.
He turned slightly at the doorway, pausing just long enough to add, "And go with him. I want you to make sure he gets home safely."
Her cheeks flushed just a little, but she nodded obediently. "Yes, Dad."
"Good," he said simply, his tone final. Then he gave me a polite nod. "It was nice meeting you, Tom. You're welcome here anytime."
"Thank you, sir," I said, managing not to sound as nervous as I felt.