I search his face, waiting for the smirk, the taunt, the twist of cruelty I’ve come to expect. It doesn’t come. His expression is even, his tone careful, his words chosen with precision.
“You didn’t know?” My voice is hard, but the question burns.
His jaw flexes. “No.”
“How could you not?”
He sits. Not over me, not looming. He lowers himself into the chair across from the bed, deliberate, breaking the pattern I’ve come to brace against. He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, his eyes never leaving mine.
“My father ruled with paranoia,” he says. “He saw enemies everywhere. Informants in shadows. His solution was always blood. I didn’t see every order. I didn’t sign every execution.”
My throat tightens. “And I’m supposed to just… believe you? You tell me this, suddenly I should think you’re innocent?”
“I’m not innocent.” His voice is steady. “But I’m not the one who gave that order.”
The words land heavy. I want to laugh again, to cut him down with disbelief, but his tone disarms me. He isn’t playing his usual games. He isn’t standing over me with chains in his hand, telling me how the world works. He’s sitting. Talking. His calm is different now.
“You built your empire on his ashes,” I press, leaning forward, wrists tight in my lap. “You profit from what he did. Why should it matter whose hand signed it?”
His eyes narrow slightly, but not in anger. More like thought. “Because truth matters. Even to people like us.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “Truth? You expect me to believe you care about truth?”
He doesn’t flinch. “I care about what’s mine. My father’s sins aren’t mine.”
Silence stretches between us, sharp but different. Not the venomous silence of before, but something more curious, almost probing.
I study him. The way he sits forward, unguarded in posture. His hands aren’t clenched fists. His eyes linger on mine, not to dominate, but to hold. For the first time, I see something crack there.
“You could be lying,” I say finally, my voice quieter now.
“I could,” he admits. His lips curve, but not in a smile. “But I’m not.”
The storm outside rattles faintly at the windows, the rain a soft percussion against the glass. The room feels smaller, heavier, caught in the weight of words neither of us expected to exchange.
For the first time since stepping into this estate, our conversation doesn’t bleed pure venom. The sharpness is still there—always—but dulled, edged with curiosity.
I don’t look away. Neither does he.
He doesn’t rise right away. For a long moment he sits opposite me, silent, the storm outside filling the room with its restless hum. His gaze is fixed, his body carved from stillness, as though he’s forcing every piece of himself not to react to my doubt, to my barbs.
Then he stands.
The motion is smooth, deliberate, and for a flicker, I tense, bracing for the usual: a command, a threat, the cold weight of his control snapping down on me again. Instead, he crosses to the small table near the window, the chain at my anklepulling faintly as I instinctively shift to follow his movement with my eyes.
He sets the file down.
Not in my hands. Not shoved across the bed. He doesn’t push it toward me at all. He simply places it there, a neat rectangle of paper against polished wood. The gesture is too calm, too careful, and that makes it all the more disarming.
I stare at it, then back at him. “What is this?”
“Proof.” His voice is low, even. “The same pages I read.”
The words are stripped of command. No read it now, no see for yourself. Just a statement, flat and unadorned.
My suspicion spikes, but so does something else—something I don’t want to name. I don’t move. I don’t touch it. My fingers curl tight against my thighs instead.
He doesn’t press me.
