"There's more," he says quietly. "But perhaps you've heard enough."
"Play the rest." My voice doesn't sound like mine.
"Caleb—"
"Play it."
He does. James's voice continues: "—which is why I wanted to talk to you directly. About what you're actually offering, because the way you phrased things on Christmas was?—"
My father stops it again. "The specifics aren't important."
"The hell they aren't. What did you offer him?" But the cold is spreading now, because James met with him. Actually went to his office, sat in that chair, and had this conversation. That part's real, regardless of what was said.
"Does it matter?" My father sets the phone down. "He took the meeting. He came to my office the day after Christmas and discussed his 'opportunities.' You can parse the exact words if you'd like, but the essential truth remains."
"You edited it. Cut out context?—"
"I stopped it because I'm not interested in humiliating you further." His voice sharpens. "But if you need tohear him discussing payment structures and timelines, I can accommodate that."
The words hit like a physical blow. Payment structures. Timelines.
"You're lying."
"Am I?" He picks up the phone again and scrolls. "December 26th, eleven-thirty to twelve-fifteen. Forty-five minutes. Would you like me to send you the full file? You can listen to the whole thing, verify I haven't edited anything. Bring it to an audio forensics expert if you don't trust me."
And that's the trap, right there. Because now if I don't take the file, it looks like I'm afraid of what I'll find. And if I do take it, I'll spend the next week obsessively listening, trying to find the innocent explanation that might not exist.
"Why are you showing me this?" The words finally come, barely audible.
"Because you're my son." He closes the folder, his expression almost gentle. "And whatever our differences, I won't stand by and watch you be used."
"He wouldn't—" I can't finish the sentence not knowing if it's actually true. That's the horrible truth.Oh fuck, do I know?
From the start, James and I have been putting on an act; it was more about what we could get from each other than anything real. What if that's all it ever was for him?But no, he said…
"The file is on your phone," my father says. "I just sent it. Listen to it. Don't listen to it. Talk to James about it. Don't talk to him. That's your choice." He pauses. "But Caleb? Whatever you decide, he took that meeting. He sat in my office for forty-five minutes and had that conversation. That part isn't edited."
"I'm sorry, Caleb." My father sounds sincere. "I know you have feelings for him."
Have. Present tense. Like he's not assuming it's over, just... damaged. Somehow that's worse.
"I need to go." I turn for the door, needing out… out of this room, this house, the crushing weight of everything he said.
"The car can take you back to campus," he offers.
"I drove myself. I don't need anything from you."
But even as I say it, the words taste like ash, because the file is already on my phone, burning a hole in my pocket. And my father knows I won't be able to resist listening. Knows I'll tear apart every word, every pause, every background sound, looking for proof that this is all manipulation.
Because that's what he does; he plants the doubt and lets me destroy everything myself.
The worst part is how carefully he presented it all. Not with his usual political precision or the cold calculation I've come to expect, but with something that almost looked like genuine concern. Like he actually cared about protecting me from being hurt. Which is ridiculous, because when has Caleb Huntington II ever prioritized my feelings over political advantage?
James wouldn't do this. He's not like that. He's grumpy and sarcastic and completely unimpressed by money or status. He told my father to go to hell on Christmas Day, for fuck's sake.
That's what he said he told my father.
Except... he grew up with nothing. Foster care. Student loans that probably keep him up at night. And he took the meeting. That part's undeniable. Whatever was said, however it went, James went to my father's office the day after Christmas and sat there for forty-five minutes.
