Each word is a knife. Each fact a condemnation.
"Her talent—" I start.
"Talent doesn't pay for the lifestyle you're accustomed to." He closes the file. "It doesn't maintain family legacy. It doesn't ensure your children have the advantages you had."
"Julian's husband was talented—"
"And Julian is working as a regional theater manager in Portland, living in a two-bedroom apartment and struggling to pay bills." Father's voice doesn't rise. It doesn't have to. "Is that what you want? To throw away your inheritance, your family, your future for someone who can't give you anything but biology's illusion of compatibility?"
"She gives me more than that—"
"Does she?" He leans forward. "Or does the bond just make you think she does? Because from where I'm sitting, you look like a man suffering from a chemical addiction, not love. You're jittery. You're distracted. You can't focus on basic conversations without touching your chest like you're in pain."
He's right. I've been touching my chest all day, trying to soothe the ache of separation.
"The bonds are real," I say quietly. "Scientifically proven—"
"Scientifically proven to create dependency. Obsession. The biological equivalent of drug addiction." He pulls out another document. "I spoke with a doctor at Johns Hopkins. He's doneextensive research on fated mate bonds. Do you know what he told me?"
I don't answer.
"That in eighty-three percent of documented fated mate cases, the bonded pair experienced severe depression, anxiety, and psychological distress when separated. That the bonds create such intense chemical dependency that partners often can't distinguish between genuine affection and biological compulsion." He sets the paper down. "Does that sound like love to you?"
"It's more complicated than that—"
"It's exactly that simple." Father sits back down, and his expression softens slightly. Almost gentle. Which is somehow worse. "Son, I don't blame you for this. You were vulnerable. This girl likely manipulated the situation to trap an Alpha from a good family—"
"She didn't trap me. I hunted her. I kidnapped her. I held her at a lake house and—" I stop myself too late.
The silence is deafening.
"You kidnapped her," Father repeats slowly.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
"It wasn't— The context—" I'm scrambling. "She was dying from rejection sickness. The fated bond was killing her. We had to—"
"You kidnapped a scholarship student, held her captive, and claimed her during what I'm assuming was a heat-induced vulnerable state." Father's voice has gone deadly quiet. "And you're telling me this wasn't manipulation on her part?"
"She didn't want the bond! She ran from me! I'm the one who—" I stop again. Every word is making this worse.
"You're the one who what?" Father leans forward. "Who became so obsessed with an inappropriate Omega that you resorted to kidnapping? Who let biology override basicmorality? Who threw away everything you were raised to be for a girl who will destroy you?"
"She's not destroying me—"
"Look at yourself!" His control finally cracks, voice rising. "You're a mess. You haven't slept properly in days. You're so anxious being away from her that you can barely function. This isn't love, Dorian. This is textbook psychological dependency caused by artificially induced trauma bonding."
The clinical assessment hits harder than anger would have.
"I love her," I say, and the words feel both true and insufficient.
"You think you love her. The bonds make you think you love her." Father stands again, comes around the desk. "But son, if you pursue this, you will lose everything. The inheritance. The family name. Access to your mother and me. The network that's been built over generations to ensure Ashworth success."
"Like Julian lost everything."
"Exactly like Julian." He puts his hand on my shoulder, a rare gesture of physical contact. "I don't want to lose another son. But I will not watch you destroy yourself the way he did. I will not enable you to throw away your future."
"So you're giving me an ultimatum."
