Chapter Twelve
~ Macon ~
The laptop glowed with the pale blue light of a hospital corridor at midnight, and the whole kitchen felt like a waiting room for bad news. Carter sat at the old farm table, hands flat on the battered oak, eyes locked on the screen. The call was set to start at seven sharp—Harrison Steele’s idea, not mine. “Early morning clarity,” the man had said in his last email, as if honesty had a fucking time slot.
I stood behind the camera’s line of sight, shoulder braced against the wall. The whole left side of my body hummed with the need to act. I’d spent the last half hour cataloguing every creak in the house, every possible angle of entry, like the kitchen was hostile territory and I was waiting for snipers on the ridge. In reality, the only shot that mattered was the one about to come through the laptop speaker.
The clock on the oven ticked over. The call went live. For a split second, the image blurred, then locked in on Harrison’s face—close-cropped, silver at the temples, skin taut and unlined as an investment banker’s signature.
He wore a suit, tie sharp enough to cut, and somewhere in the background was the glint of Madrid morning, all glass and hard shadows. He looked like he’d spent the last twenty years curdling every drop of affection into acid.
Carter’s breath hitched—just a tiny stutter, but I heard it. I wanted to reach out, lay my hand on his shoulder, but I held back. This was his war. I was just the artillery.
“Good morning, Carter.” Harrison’s voice filled the room, dry and cool. Not even a question, just a formality. He took one look at Carter, then let his gaze drift lower, pausing at the visible round of Carter’s belly, which pressed the cotton of his shirt into a gentle arc. His mouth tightened at the edges.
Carter’s fingers curled against the wood. “Good morning, Father,” he said. I watched the muscles in his jaw work, watched his tongue wet his lips. “Thank you for making time.”
Harrison steepled his fingers, leaning forward until his knuckles gleamed in the camera’s lens. “Let’s not waste each other’s time. This… stunt—” he said the word like it was a terminal diagnosis—“has caused no end of trouble. The board is asking questions. Your brother is fielding press inquiries. There’s talk of you defecting to Europe, or worse.” He let the word hang. “There’s still a window to manage this. We’ll bring you home, handle the details with discretion, and minimize the fallout.”
I saw the color rise in Carter’s neck. He did not look away. “I’m not coming home,” he said, voice even. “This is my home now.”
Harrison’s gaze sharpened. “That’s not a decision you’re empowered to make. The family trust—”
“—is mine by legal right,” Carter said, cutting in for the first time in his life. “You know that. Barrett knows that.”
Harrison’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t bite. “You’re out of your depth, Carter. Whatever you think you’ve accomplished out there—on a rundown farm in the middle of nowhere—it’s nothing compared to what you’re giving up. Do you have any idea what you’ve done to this family?”
The words hit like a cluster bomb, shrapnel flying. I watched Carter absorb it, hands now gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles went white.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
That was my cue. I moved forward—two steps, just out of sight of the camera—and laid my hand on his shoulder. Not hard, just solid. A reminder.
He took a breath. “There’s no ‘situation’ to handle,” he said, the tremor in his voice evening out as I pressed my thumb to theridge of his scapula. “I’m having this baby. I’m staying here. And I own the Hargrove property now. There’s nothing left for you to leverage.”
For a second, the great Harrison Steele looked almost reacted. His face twitched—barely—but I saw it.
“You will do no such thing,” he said, the words clipped, dangerous. “You’re a Steele. You don’t get to shed your obligations just because you’re… confused. Or—” a quick, contemptuous glance at the belly, “—compromised.”
I could feel Carter’s pulse through his shirt, rapid and hard. But he didn’t flinch.
“Don’t call me confused,” Carter said, and for a second his old bitterness flared. “I’m more certain than I’ve ever been.”
Harrison’s face went flat, shark-like. “Your mother would be devastated to see you like this.”
That was low. Carter’s hands trembled, and for a heartbeat, I thought he might fold.
I squeezed his shoulder, just a little harder. “You don’t have to do this alone,” I murmured, low enough that only he could hear.
He lifted his chin, eyes never leaving the screen. “I’m not alone,” Carter said. “And you can stop pretending you’re worried about me. This is about the name, about keeping up appearances.”
Harrison’s composure broke. He slammed his fist down on the desk, the noise so sharp it made the laptop jump. “You are a Steele,” he roared. “You do not get to opt out of the consequences of your actions. I raised you better than this.”
Carter’s breath caught. For a second, I saw him at seventeen, hunched in a too-big suit, eyes wide and pleading. But then he squared his shoulders, and the line of his mouth went hard.
“Means nothing to me anymore,” he said. “I’m a Steele in name only, and soon I won’t even be that.”
Silence, thick and electric.
