We settle into two leather armchairs facing the fireplace. He pours drinks from the decanter between us, just like always. His movements are steady. Practiced. It should comfort me.
It doesn’t.
The study hasn’t changed. Books line the shelves in neat, intentional rows. Family portraits hang on the walls, a gallery of curated legacy—wedding photos, posed holiday shots, a painting of my mother in her favorite blue silk gown. She looks serene. Regal. Down to the fine detail of the solitaire necklace around her neck.
My chest tightens.
Not just from the memory of her—but from yesterday.
From what happened at the country club. What I let happen.
What I wanted to happen.
Dante on his knees. His mouth around my cock. My groans echoing off marble and mirrors and polished wood like a fucking confession. Like I wanted the world to hear it.
Anyone could’ve walked in.
Anyone.
The Marchesi heir sucking off the Harrow legacy—like some sick fantasy pulled from the forbidden corners of our history. I should’ve stopped him. Should’ve shoved him away the second he dropped to his knees and looked up at me like he knew I wouldn’t.
Because I didn’t.
And fuck, it felt so good I almost forgot we were in public. That the door wasn’t even locked. That if anyone recognized us?—
It wouldn’t be just a scandal.
It would be the collapse of everything our families have built.
And still…
Still, it wasn’t enough.
Because I wanted more. Iwantmore.
And that alone makes me pissed.
My father shifts in his chair, the firelight dancing across the lines of his face. He’s aged in the way people do when grief becomes a long-term tenant—still strong, still composed, but hollowed out in places no one else can see.
He doesn’t bring up what happened to her. He never does.
Like always, he’ll talk business soon.
It’s how he survived it—burying himself in the firm after my mother died. Throwing himself into meetings and acquisitions and early grooming speeches, as if fast-tracking my inheritance would make us forget the blood on the marble.
I was only sixteen. Too young to drink but not, apparently, too young to sit in boardrooms and learn the architecture of empire.
And I didn’t complain because it kept him focused. Kept him from asking too many questions.
Even now, I can hear the sound of his scream. That guttural, broken sound when he found her.
She was lying in the foyer. Blood soaking into her yellow cardigan. Her eyes wide open and unseeing.
And I?—
I was standing at the top of the landing, staring down at them.
At her.
