“You even said that I’m out of immediate danger.”
“Uh, no, that’s overstating things.”
“Blake, this is what I need to do before I face the biggest night of my life.”
“Fine,” he nods. “You’ve got one hour. Say your hellos, get your shit, and go. If you're not back in one hour, I'm coming in guns blazing to get you. I don’t give a shit if it’s your father’s house or not.”
"Deal."
He walks toward me as if he’s going to go in for a kiss, but decides otherwise and gives me a playful pat on the ass. "Be careful," he tells me.
"Always."
Our Wintervale house sits in the area’s most exclusive neighborhood with old money, older secrets, and houses that have been in families for generations.
My father, Senator Richard Quinn, bought his way in years ago with campaign contributions when my mother was still alive. It was supposedly a gift for her, so she could live in a neighborhood she had zero access to as a kid. But I know better. My father loves the elitist hierarchy of Wintervale and has always wanted to climb its invisible ladder. He bought it for himself. Funny enough, the neighbors barely tolerate us.
I use my key and let myself in through the side entrance. The house is quiet. Too quiet. My father should be up by now. He's pathologically early, usually working by six a.m. My stepmother is probably still in DC. She rarely likes to stay in our home here. The ghosts of my mother must keep her up at night.
"Dad?" I call out.
No answer.
I move through the kitchen, then the study, checking rooms with growing unease. I find him in his office, sitting behind his desk like a king on a throne. He's not alone, though, and I don’t even need to ask who’s with him.
Silas Delano sits across from him, perfectly composed, holding a glass of my father's best scotch. The man looks like an older version of his nephew, but with Valdemort vibes.
My stomach drops.
"Peyton." My father's voice is cold, controlled. "How kind of you to finally come home."
I force my expression to be neutral. "I texted both you and your assistant. Said I was staying with a friend."
"A friend?” Silas smiles at me, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Is that what we're calling my nephew now?"
"Mr. Delano." I nod politely, but don't take a seat. "I wasn't aware my father was entertaining this morning."
"I invited myself. We had things to discuss." Silas gestures to the empty chair. "Please. Join us. This concerns you as well.”
"I'd rather stand."
"Peyton." My father's tone sharpens. "Sit down."
It's a command. The kind he's been giving since I was a child, expecting obedience because he's never been told no. I sit down, though, not because he ordered it, but because I need to know what Silas knows and, more importantly, what he wants.
"Your father and I have been having a fascinating conversation," Silas says. "About family legacies. About obligations. About the choices young people make when they think they're acting independently but are actually being manipulated."
"Manipulated by whom?"
“Let’s take my nephew, for example. Blake has a talent for making people believe he's protecting them when he's actually using them for his own purposes." Silas leans forward. “Yeah, Blake’s a smart one. He had a full academic ride to Syracuse that he blew fucking all the young things there.”
I swallow uncomfortably but try not to show it.
“Tell me, Peyton, did he mention that he's been in contact with the Kingsley family? That he's been feeding them information about you for weeks?”
Even though I know it’s a lie, the accusation still lands like a slap.
"That's not true," I say. “We haven’t even known each other for three weeks.”
