A slow, deliberate breath filled my lungs before I pushed the chair back slightly, staring at the skyline instead of the screen.
I would take them down.
Both of them.
It didn’t take long to find the crack.
Men like Harrington built empires on image—clean lines, polished smiles, family-first headlines. You just had to look where the shine was brightest to see where it would fracture.
I dug through everything. Board reports. Press coverage. Charity features.
And then…
There she was.
A photo from some polished, forgettable event. Harrington in a suit that probably cost more than my first car, hand resting lightly at the small of her back like he owned the world—and she was part of it.
Chastity Harrington returns home after completing her degree.
I clicked the image. Zoomed in. Scrolled.
More pictures.
Different angles. Different events. Same girl. Soft smile. Clear eyes.
No edge to her. No calculation.
Nothing like Barbara. Nothing like the world I’d been dragged through.
My jaw tightened as I leaned closer to the screen.
I opened another article. Mentions of her stepping into the company soon. Representing the next generation.
Thefutureof Harrington Group.
And there it was.
The real leverage.
Not the deal. Not the money. Not even Barbara.
Her.
I sat back slowly, letting it settle.
“You care about her,” I said under my breath, like I was testing the truth of it.
Because men like Harrington?
They didn’t care about much.
But they always had one thing they couldn’t afford to lose.
I stared at her photo again.
The way she leaned slightly into him.
The way he angled his body toward hers.
