My father made a noise of agreement.
“Are we worried he’ll try to do something stupid over the weekend?” Maya asked.
“No. I have Harper keeping an eye on him until after the press conference,” I said. “Besides, we want to give people time to do their thing.”
This particular steakhouse wasn’t part of my family’s portfolio, but I’d chosen it because it was a notorious hotspot for journalists and other media power players on Friday nights. We were seated at the coveted center table, which was isolated enough from theother diners to ensure a private conversation. However, eating here also meant being in the spotlight.
That had been part of the plan as well. I’d wanted all eyes on us when we confronted Charles. The journalists here couldn’t resist a good story, and Charles Whitaker eating dinner with his disgraced competitors, only to storm off halfway through,mustbe a good story.
We didn’t have to leak anything to anyone; they’d uncover the truth themselves. We’d left some clues to help them along, but in the meantime, I was looking forward to Charles’s press conference. It was going to be a great show.
Normally, I wasn’t a vindictive person, but he deserved every bit of retribution thrown his way. When I thought about the launch—when I remembered how sick people had gotten and how I’d spiraled, thinking it was my fault—I was gripped by a fury so intense, I almost choked on it.
I drew a calming breath of air into my lungs and forced my fists to unclench as Neal motioned the server for a menu. He looked happier than I’d seen him in months. “Now that that’s over, I could use a bite to eat,” he said. “I’m famished.”
My father rolled his eyes. “It’s a steakhouse, Neal. What could you possibly eat here besides the potatoes?”
“The macaroni and cheese. The broccoli. The—”
“Oh, please. Side dishes? You’re going to eat a bunch ofsidedishes for dinner?”
Maya kicked me lightly under the table as our fathers continued to bicker. I inclined my head, acknowledging her unspoken exclamation.
They’re talking to each other again!
Our fathers were technically still fighting, but when we’d told them about Whitaker’s sabotage, they hadn’t hesitated to join forces to take him down.
That had been business. This? This sounded the banter between friends.
They appeared to have reached the same conclusion because their conversation abruptly ended. After a tense pause, Neal spoke again, his voice stiff. “Thank you for your help tonight, but it doesn’t change what you did. This was a temporary pause in our rift, nothing more.” He set his menu down without ordering and rose to leave.
To my surprise, my father stopped him. “Wait,” he said. “Sit down. There’s something I have to tell you.” He glanced at me. “All of you.”
Neal’s curiosity must’ve overtaken his pride because he sat back down without argument.
My father took a deliberate sip of his wine before he continued. “It’s time I shared the truth behind why I took that dinner with Whitaker,” he said. “It wasn’t because I was trying to network with him or have a foot in both boats, so to speak. It’s because he promised to tell me what really happened at Le Boudoir.”
My head snapped up. That was thelastthing I’d expected him to say.
Neal and Maya looked equally befuddled.
Adrenaline surged in my veins, but I fought to keep my voice calm. “What do you mean, what really happened?”
My father flicked his eyes around the room. The other diners had returned to their meals, their interest in us gone now that Charles wasn’t here to pique their curiosity.
“Whitaker said he’d discovered the real cause behind Martin Wellgrew’s death,” he said. “I thought he was full of shit, but I also knew Wellgrew’s passing has weighed heavily on you all these years, so I agreed to one meal.” My father directed that statement toward me. “It was a trap. When I got there, he told me he’d only share what he foundifI fed him insider informationabout Singh Foods. Everyone knows Neal and I are close friends, and he sought to exploit that relationship by using Le Boudoir as leverage. Obviously, I said no.” He glanced at Neal, who stiffened. “However, Whitaker dropped enough hints during our conversation to give me a lead. I hired my own investigator to look into the incident. It took a while. Wellgrew died years ago, and whoever killed him covered their tracks well. But eventually, my guy dug up the truth.”
Claws sank into my stomach. It was plunging into free fall, every shred of certainty I’d hung myself on crumbling like sandcastles in the tide.
“Martin Wellgrew didn’t die of anaphylactic shock from a peanut allergy,” my father said, his gaze steady on mine. “Someone poisoned him. Whatever they used mimicked anaphylactic shock to a tee. I couldn’t find the person responsible, but I know for a fact that it wasn’t you. You hadnothingto do with his death. It wasn’t your fault.”
His assurance rang in my ears.
It wasn’t your fault.
If I weren’t sitting, I would’ve stumbled to my knees. The anxiety, the sleepless nights, theguiltthat had plagued me for years—all the result of a lie.
My chest loosened, and a blinding wave of relief crashed over me.
