As I walk with Nathaniel out of the room, his presence a steady force beside me, I know something has shifted.
And I have the feeling that, for the first time in a long time, she isn’t looking at Nathaniel with worry.
She’s looking at him with hope.
THREE
nathaniel
The study smellsof aged oak and whiskey, the air laced with the scent of smoke that curls from the fireplace. The glow from the flames castsflickering shadows across the polished wood paneling, giving the room the same air of authority it’s always held—unwavering, immutable,suffocating.
My father moves behind his desk, his fingers poised around a glass tumbler, as composed as ever.
I step forward, my posture rigid, my guard locked into place. I’ve spent my whole life bracing for my father’s expectations and inevitable confrontation, the disappointment that has become second nature between us. I’m prepared for more of the same.
Instead, he surprises me.
“I was too hard on you at lunch.”
I freeze, my body tensing at the words. Charles Caldwell does not apologize. He corrects. He criticizes. He sets expectations and dismisses emotions as irrelevant. But now—now, he stands there, swirling whiskey in his glass, meeting my gaze with something that’s almost…reflective.
I narrow my eyes, waiting. There will be a follow-up. There always is. The sharp edge of his words will come eventually, slicing through any pretense of softness.
“I don’t expect you to say anything to that,” he continues smoothly. “I just wanted you to know that I’ll be more mindful of it.”
I study him, my pulse steady, my expression impassive.Is this a trick? A test?But his voice holds no bite, no condescension.
“All right,” I reply at last, my tone deliberately neutral. I don’t acknowledge the implied apology, but I also don’t reject it. I simply let it sit in the space between us.
He leans against the desk, watching me in that way that makes my skin itch, like I’m under a microscope. Then, he says, “I’ve spent my whole life trying to expand this empire. Preserving our legacy has always been my top priority—making sure that what was passed down to me would thrive long after I was gone. In pursuit of that…” he pauses thoughtfully, “I pushed Alexander onto the path I’d set for him.”
The mention of Alexander sends a sharp pang through my chest. I clench my jaw but remain silent.
“And when we lost Alexander,” my father continues, “I forced you into his place.”
A bitter taste coats the back of my throat.Forced.The word is too clean, too simple for what it was. He reshaped me, stripped me down, bent me into something that would fit the space my brother left behind.
“You were never meant to be a second choice,” my father goes on, his voice measured. “But I treated you like one, didn’t I?”
I swallow once. The admission should feel like vindication, but instead, it unsettles me.
“You gave me a role and expected me to step into it without question,” I say, my voice steady, my control absolute. “Alas, I could neverbehim.”
“Indeed. You arenotAlexander.”
The words should sting, another reminder of my insufficiency. But then, my father continues—words I never expected to hear.
“But that is not a bad thing.”
My pulse stills.
He lets the silence stretch, allowing the weight of his statement to settle before adding, “I made you believe that you had to force yourself into a mold that wasn’t meant for you. And I see now that it was wrong to expect it of you.”
He exhales, quieter. “Your mother always said as much. I should’ve listened sooner.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. For years, I tried to be what he wanted. I twisted myself into something I couldn’t recognize only to find that no matter what I did, I would never measure up to the golden boy who had been taken too soon.
But now, for the first time in my life, my father is admitting fault.
