I sat slowly, warily, while Mom perched on the arm of my chair, her hand resting on my shoulder like she was afraid I'd bolt. Dad settled back into his desk chair, steepling his fingers in that way he did during board meetings—the gesture that meant he was about to deliver news you weren't going to like.
"I'm glad you came," he said. "It shows growth. Maturity. The kind of instinct the company needs."
The company.Not "I'm glad you're here because I almost died." Not "Thank you for dropping everything." The company.
"Dad, what happened? Z said you had chest pains, that they took you to the hospital—"
"A minor incident," he interrupted, waving it off like it was nothing. "Elevated blood pressure, some tightness in my chest. The doctors overreacted, as they do. Ran their tests, kept me for observation, but I'm fine. Medication, rest, stress management—I'll be good as new."
Minor incident.The phrase sat wrong, discord jangling in my skull. "Then why did Z make it sound like you were dying? Why did I fly back from Oklahoma in a panic thinking—"
"Because we needed you here." Dad's voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "And you came. That's the point, Beau. You came when it mattered. You chose family." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes boring into mine. "I can see the change in you. The ranch did what it was supposed to do. You look different—grounded, focused. You've grown up. Well done."
Well done.
The words hit me like ice water. I sat back, my mind racing, pieces clicking together in a pattern I didn't want to see.
"Wait. What do you mean 'what it was supposed to do'? You sent me to the ranch as punishment. After the party, after everything blew up—the FBI raid, the articles, the stock dropping. You froze my accounts, threatened to cut me off permanently. You said I was an embarrassment."
"And you were," Dad said simply. "Sterling Industries stock dropped two points in a week because investors questioned the stability of our succession plan. So yes, I sent you away. Told you to figure your life out. Prove you could be more than a punchline."
"And I did," I said, heat rising in my chest. "I went to the ranch. I worked. I kept my head down, stayed out of trouble—"
"Until the articles started."
I froze.
Dad reached for his phone, sliding it across the desk toward me. "Go ahead. Look. Search your name. 'Beau Sterling ranch.' 'Beau Sterling Oklahoma.' See what comes up."
My hands were shaking as I picked up the phone. I typed in the searches, watching the results load.
Nothing.
I mean, there were old articles—archived pieces from months ago about the party. But the recent ones? The ones that had been everywhere just weeks ago? Gone.
The photos of me hauling hay. The blurry shots from the Rusty Spur. The invasive pieces that had somehow gotten details about Winnie.
All of it. Erased.
"How..." I looked up at him, my voice barely working. "How did you do this?"
"It wasn't difficult, Beau. I have resources. Connections. When I need something to disappear, it disappears." Dad reclaimed his phone.
The room tilted. "You're saying... you had those articles removed? After they caused all that damage? After you called me, furious, saying the press was killing the company—"
"Those articles served their purpose."
The words hung in the air like a bomb.
"What purpose?" My voice was rising now, panic and fury mixing. "Those stories trashed me. Trashed the ranch. Reporters showed up at the gate, terrifying Winnie, digging into her past like she was public property!"
"I created a scenario," Dad corrected. "I ensured certain information found its way to certain outlets. The ranch story—Sterling heir in exile, playing cowboy—it was compelling. Got clicks. Kept you relevant while testing your resolve. And you passed, Beau. You didn't run. You stayed."
I whirled toward Z, still standing in the corner like a specter. "You knew? You've been reporting back to him this whole time?"
Z's jaw clenched, but he didn't deny it. "Beau—"
"Every call where I told you about the ranch, about Winnie... you were feeding it all back to him?"
