Mounting cowboy brothers

Raven’s POV

The Lockwood dining room could make Versailles feel inadequate. Crystal chandeliers scatter light across hand-painted wallpaper, antique silver gleams against crisp white linen, and everything looks exactly as staged as it is.

Just like me.

I push a piece of salmon around my plate while my father discusses my upcoming film schedule with Margaret, our family publicist. Third project this year, grueling shooting schedule, another role I didn't choose.

My fork scrapes porcelain in a rhythm I've perfected over twenty-one years of these dinners.

"The press tour will need to start in March," Margaret says, tapping her tablet. "We'll coordinate with the studio on talking points."

"Make sure they emphasize the family angle," my father replies without looking at me. "America loves a dynasty."

I take a long sip of water and imagine it's vodka.

It's not, because Jonathan Lockwood's daughter doesn't drink at family dinners. She sits straight, smiles pretty, and performs the role of grateful offspring with Oscar-worthy precision.

Then my father clears his throat.

Not the casual throat-clear of a man with a tickle. The deliberate, attention-commanding throat-clear that has preceded every major announcement of my life.

My stomach plummets before he even opens his mouth.

"Margaret, that will be all for tonight." He waves her away with the casual authority of a man who's never been told no. "Raven and I have family matters to discuss."

Margaret gathers her things and disappears. The click of the door behind her sounds obscenely loud.

"I've finalized arrangements with the Brooks family," my father says, swirling his Bordeaux with practiced elegance. "You and their son Richard will announce your engagement at the charity gala next month. The press coverage will be extraordinary for both families."

The words hit my ears but refuse to arrange themselves into meaning.

Engagement. Arranged. Finalized. Richard Brooks, who I've met exactly twice and who spent both occasions staring at my chest.

My fork clatters against my plate. "You can't be serious."

"I'm always serious about business." He doesn't even blink. "The Brooks family owns the largest talent agency on the West Coast. Their connections to streaming platforms alone would guarantee you lead roles for the next decade. Combined with my directing portfolio and your rising profile, we'd control projects from conception to premiere."

"So this is about market share?" My voice pitches higher. "You're trading me for distribution deals?"

"I'm securing your future." He sets down his glass with a definitive clink. "Hollywood is consolidating. Independent names get swallowed or forgotten. A Lockwood-Brooks merger makes us untouchable—studios, agencies, talent, all under aligned interests. This isn't a discussion, Raven. It's done."

Something cracks inside my chest. Twenty-one years of suppressed resentment flooding through the fracture, hot and corrosive.

I've spent my entire life smiling on red carpets I never wanted to walk. Reciting lines for characters I never wanted to play. Being the perfect product of Jonathan Lockwood's ambition.

"You don't get to sell me off," I say, my voice trembling with something dangerous. "I'm not one of your actresses you can cast in whatever role suits your agenda."

His expression hardens into the familiar warning. The one that says I'm stepping out of line, embarrassing myself, being difficult.

"Lower your voice, young lady."

"No." The word feels foreign in my mouth. Exhilarating. "You've controlled everything. My career, my image, my entire existence. But you don't get to choose who I marry."

"I've given you everything." His tone could freeze champagne. "The career, the fame, the lifestyle. Every opportunity you've ever had exists because I made it happen."

"You gave me a cage!" I shove back from the table, crystal rattling. "A pretty, gilded cage where I perform tricks for your investors and smile for your cameras and pretend I'm not suffocating every single day."

He stands slowly, buttoning his jacket with infuriating calm. "You're being dramatic. It's unbecoming."

"I wanted to be a musician." The confession rips out of me, raw and bleeding. "I wanted to write songs and play piano and have a life that was actually mine. But you decided actresses make better trophies."

"Musicians are a dime a dozen." He dismisses twenty-one years of stolen dreams with a flick of his wrist. "I made you exceptional."

"You made me miserable!"

"I made you relevant." He steps closer, his shadow swallowing me whole. "Without this family name, without my connections, without everything I've built—you are nothing, Raven. Nothing."

The word lands in my gut and detonates.

I grab my clutch from the sideboard and storm toward the door. My heels crack against marble, echoing through the cavernous foyer.

"Walk out that door and you walk out on everything," he calls after me. "No money. No contacts. No safety net."

I slam it hard enough to rattle the windows in their frames.

The drive to the outskirts takes forty minutes. Forty minutes of white-knuckled steering and swallowed screams and mascara bleeding down my cheeks.

I found a dive bar with a flickering neon sign and no valet parking, the kind of place where nobody would recognize my face even if they watched entertainment news.

The whiskey burns going down, but I order another.

"Rough night?" the bartender asks, sliding me a third.

"You could say that."

I drink until the edges blur. Until the chandeliers and the contracts and the word 'engagement' fade into amber haze.

Maybe if I stay here long enough, the world will stop spinning.

Maybe I'll wake up and this will all be a nightmare.

My phone buzzes against the sticky bar top. A text from my father. Of course. Because Jonathan Lockwood always gets the last word.

Father: We are preparing for the engagement. Whether you like it or not.