He turns fully toward me, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on mine—soft, furious, and unbearably sincere. “You deserved better.”
That shouldn’t hit me the way it does, but it does. Hard.
I look away, focusing on the piano keys instead of the heat in his gaze. “It’s not just about education. It’s…everything. Expectations. Reputation. Who you’re born as. What you carry.”
“Legacy,” he says quietly.
I nod. “Legacy.”
He leans back, exhaling like the word tastes familiar to him too.
“I really don’t like your father,” he says.
I let out a humorless laugh. “I know that much.”
But something in his tone is different this time—less sharp, less performative. Calmer. Honest in a way he usually avoids.
His fingers drift over one of the piano keys, pressing down lightly just to hear the soft note bloom and fade.
When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“My revenge against your family….” He pauses, jaw flexing. “It’s not just business.”
My stomach clenches. I search his face, but his eyes are on the keys, already far away.
“It’s personal,” he finishes.
The air shifts. It presses against my skin. Suddenly, I’m too aware of the space between us—small, fragile, dangerous.
“What do you mean?” I ask softly.
He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t have to.
“The Laurent Bank scandal destroyed more than companies,” he says. “It ruined lives. Hundreds of them.”
A breath catches in his throat. Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just…there.
“I lost someone,” he murmurs. “One of my oldest friends.”
My heartbeat stumbles.
He finally lifts his gaze to mine, and I swear the room tilts. There’s a rawness in him I’ve never seen—no armor, no calculation, no rage. Just…pain.
“I was young,” he continues quietly. “He was, too. His family lost everything when the scandal hit. His father committed suicide. His mother followed two months later.”
He swallows hard. “He…didn’t make it either.”
The words hit me like a punch.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. It feels small compared to the weight he’s carrying, but my voice cracks anyway.
He shrugs, but it’s the kind of shrug that isn’t a shrug at all—just a failed attempt at control. “It’s been a long time. But some losses don’t age. They stay.”
I reach out before I even realize I’m doing it—my fingers brushing his wrist, light as breath.
He doesn’t pull away.
