It was focus.
It was purpose.
And maybe…
Retribution.
?
The expansive office of Hawthorne Holdings reflected Gideon Blackwell’s deliberate separation from the legacy that had shaped, and stained, so much of his life. Sleek, modern, and purposeful, the space exuded quiet strength rather than ostentation.
Clean lines. Muted tones. The kind of focused minimalism that stood in stark contrast to the gilded decadence of Blackwell Enterprises, where his mother, Evelyn, still ruled with an iron fist.
Sunlight slashed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, castinglong, angular shadows across the polished wood of his desk. The Manhattan skyline stretched beyond the glass, a sea of ambition and power.
But inside these walls, Gideon had built something different.
Something stripped of illusion.
Here, precision reigned.
Papers lay in careful disorder across the desk, the faint scent of ink mingling with the hum of the city far below. Gideon leaned forward, scanning the latest report from Leo Marcus. Every line deepened the knot coiling in his chest.
A knock at the door.Sharp. Steady.
“Come in.”
Leo entered first, methodical and unshaken, carrying a thick, worn folder Gideon recognized as both necessary and damning. Christian Sampson followed, gaze sweeping the room with quiet, coiled vigilance.
Where Leo was calculated, Christian was instinct.
Leo placed the folder on the desk. “We’ve got more.” He paused, expression grim. “Bishop’s team is circling tighter. Financials, emails, property deals—your family hasn’t just bent the law. They’ve pulverized it.”
He crossed his arms, settling against the desk. “Skeletons in every closet. Not enough doors to hide them.”
Gideon flipped the folder open. The contents stared back, line after line of corruption laid bare. Shell companies. Coerced land acquisitions. Money rerouted through “redevelopment” with little to show but displaced families and padded pockets.
“And Alex?” His voice was low.
Leo nodded. “Up to his neck. He’s the front man, but it all funnels back to Evelyn. Every dollar. Every contract. Clean on paper—but scratch the surface, and it’s rot all the way through.”
His jaw clenched. “The tenants who tried to speak out were… handled.”
Threats.
Legal pressure.
Bribes.
Gideon’s stomach turned.
“Colton?” he asked, already knowing.
Leo nodded. “He’s the messenger. Your cousin’s the one delivering the threats.”
The memory hit hard, Colton’s smug face, leaning across the bar like a man too accustomed getting what he wanted.
“It doesn’t bother him,” Gideon muttered, voice tight.
