But Ivy's looking at me with those eyes that see too much, and the alcohol has loosened something in my chest, and I'm so fucking tired of carrying this alone.
"My senior year." I stare at the bourbon in my glass, can't look at her for this. "I discovered he was cooking the books. Fraud. Massive scale. Shell companies, dummy accounts, the whole thing." My hand tightens around the glass. "He was putting everyone at risk. Employees, investors, our family name. All of it."
I hear her sharp intake of breath but keep going. If I stop now, I'll never say it.
"I thought I was protecting the company. Thought if I quietly went to the right people I trusted, we could fix it before it destroyed us." The laugh that escapes me is bitter. "I was seventeen and stupid enough to believe doing the right thing mattered."
"Thorne..." I can’t look at her. Seeing her pity would hurt too much.
“I talked to a board member. Warren Hartwell. He went straight to my father." I finally look up at her. And I don’t see pity, but anger. "Sure, my dad cleaned it up. Couldn't risk me going public. But he made damn sure I paid for my disloyalty."
"How?" She's barely breathing.
"Sebastian became the heir. Got the distillery, the legacy, the real power—everything that was supposed to be mine." I drain my glass, pour another. "I got acquisitions. Important, sure, but safely away from Blackstone's heart."
"Oh my God." Her hand covers her mouth.
She's blinking fast, like she can't decide whether to cry or hit me. I can't stop now. It's all coming out.
“So you see, I should have caught these environmental violations. Should have known he wouldn't stop just because I'd exposed him once. Should have kept watching." I look at my drink, but it holds nothing but numb oblivion. "But I was too angry. Too bitter about what he'd taken from me. So I stopped looking closely at anything he touched. Signed off on acquisitions without digging deeper because..."
"Because he'd taught you that trying to do the right thing only gets you punished.” She looks away when she says it, her hand curling into fists.
“I suppose,” I sigh. “But so does doing nothing. Because of this I missed what he was doing. I didn’t look too close. Let him do what he wanted, because then maybe I’d get to keep something."
Neither of us speaks.
"You were seventeen years old." A tear falls from each of her eyes. The sight of them is almost too much. They are for me. Who has ever cried for me? “You were a child who discovered his father was a criminal and tried to do the right thing. And instead of protecting you, he punished you for it."
"He taught me a valuable lesson—"
"He taught you that morality was weakness." Her hand tightens on mine, almost painful. “He taught you that doing the right thing gets punished. That the only way to survive was to become like him. And then he spent the rest of his life proving it to you over and over again."
My throat's closed up. I manage a nod instead.
She moves closer, and I expect her to pull away, to finally see what everyone else does. But instead, her hand finds mine.
"You're not responsible for the deals he made.”
“I knew firsthand the kind of man he is. I should have looked closer, not in the other direction."
His retaliation was harsh. You can’t be blamed for wanting to protect yourself. That's survival, not complicity,” she says fiercely
"Doesn't feel like it." My voice is hoarse. "If I'd kept watching—"
"You'd have been punished again. That's what he did, Thorne. He made you believe that his crimes were your fault. That if you'd been different, better, quieter, he wouldn't have hurt you." She squeezes my hand. "Your father was a criminal. He was committing crimes before you caught him, and he committed crimes after. That's on him. Not you."
“But I enabled it. By looking away.”
Her other hand comes up to my face, gentle, making me look at her. "You were a kid who’d tried to do the right thing. Two people took away more than your promised career. They stole your trust. And instead of breaking completely, you found a way to survive. Maybe you made choices you regret. But you survived him. That's what matters."
I’m not sure that’s true, but her words still soothe me. "I've never told anyone," I admit. "Not in nineteen years. You're the first person who knows besides Hartwell."
"Thank you," she whispers. "For trusting me with this."
We sit there. Her hand on my face. Mine, gripping my empty glass. Then reality crashes back in. The newspaper on the floor. The photographs. The investigation closing in.
“That's why I have to be the fall guy," I say, pulling back from her touch. The loss of it is immediate. "I should have looked closer. But if I step forward now—"
