“She had a gambling addiction,” I say. “She wasn’t Seraphina.”
“There’s a pattern, Xavier.” He leans forward, knuckles white on the table. “Your father ignored the signs. Thought she was innocent. Made one mistake. Forgave her. Then it happened again, and he told himself it was slip that he could fix. By the time he woke the hell up, she’d maxed every credit line, drained the trust accounts, and used the house as collateral at the baccarat tables.”
The image slams into me—her lipstick smudged, perfume too strong, slurring apologies.
I’d been hiding at the top of the stairs, afraid of being caught, as she and my father had yet another fight.
But that one was the final one.
“He didn’t divorce her. Know why?” Walt’s voice drops. “Because it would’ve been a scandal. Because she’d get half of what was left. So he locked her away instead. One-bedroom apartment, a monthly stipend, and her name erased from every document with the family crest.”
And every month, I still send her a check.
“You’ve never visited her.” He regards me. “Because deep down, you know you need to be cautious.”
I say nothing.
Walt pushes back from the table, eyes burning. “I won’t stand by and watch it happen again. I won’t.”
“Seraphina isn’t her.”
“The fact you’re defending her proves we need to be on guard. Her lack of loyalty to you is a risk. I don’t give a rat’s ass what you feel—she’s not worth the price we could pay.”
“You’re wrong.”
He points a finger at me. “You’re compromised.”
I rise slowly, blood humming. “Watch your next words.”
He doesn’t blink. “I want her gone.”
“Not happening.”
His voice rises. “Goddamn it, I own part of this company too.”
“Give me your number.” I step into his space, ice cold now. “I’ll take care of that with a check tomorrow.”
Silence slams into the room.
Walt’s face drains of color. Then his eyes—a jade like my own—grow lighter, as if fury has become grief. I see it then. My uncle isn’t angry. He’s afraid.
“I’m trying to protect you.” His voice is low. And if family ties didn’t matter to me, and if I didn’t believe him, I’d lay him out. “I’ve been in your shoes, nephew. Lost half of what I had, as well. Blackwell men are cursed.”
He really believes what he’s saying.
After a moment, he shakes his head. “You’ll regret this.”
I open the door. “We’re done here.”
“Xavier—”
“Out.”
Hands balled into fists, he leaves, pulling the door shut behind him.
I return to the table and steeple my hands. As I stare at the empty seat where Walt sat, I try to forget the sound of my father’s voice telling the eight-year-old me to never trust a woman.
They bring you down.
