Page 12 of Broken Blades

You'll know what you're looking for.

I read it twice. Hit send.

The message went through with a soft whoosh.

No names. No details. Nothing that could trace back if this went sideways.

But it wouldn't.

They'd show. Thomas and his business partner, sneaking away from the fundraiser like teenagers, thinking their masks and the darkness made them invisible. Thinking they were untouchable.

I set the phone on the passenger seat., watching my breath fog the windshield.

Friday couldn't come fast enough.

Chapter 3

Chastity

The car glided over smooth asphalt, headlights cutting through the early December darkness. Outside, mansions passed like lit stages—Colonial facades, wrought-iron gates, perfectly manicured hedges dusted with yesterday's snow.

I smoothed the fabric of my dress for the third time in as many minutes. The silk whispered under my palms, cool and expensive. My reflection wavered in the window: hair swept back, makeup subtle but deliberate, the kind of polished my mother had coached me through that afternoon.

Confidence is half of perception.

Dad sat beside me in the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting his cufflinks with practiced precision. His cologne filled the space between us—sandalwood and leather, the scent of board rooms and handshakes and deals closed over single malt scotch.

He looked comfortable. Powerful. In his element.

I felt like I was playing dress-up.

"You okay?" His voice cut through my spiraling thoughts.

"Yeah." I forced brightness into the word. "Just nervous."

"Don't be." He glanced over, and something in his expression softened—the CEO mask slipping just enough to reveal my father underneath. "You look beautiful."

Warmth bloomed in my chest. I smiled, and this time it reached my eyes. "Thanks, Dad."

He returned his attention to the road, and I watched his profile—strong jaw, salt-and-pepper stubble he'd trimmed precisely, the faint lines around his eyes that only appeared when he smiled.

I wanted to make him proud.

"Tonight's important," he said, and the warmth shifted into something sharper. Business mode. "A lot of key investors will be here. People who matter."

"I know."

"Optics matter." His fingers drummed once against the steering wheel. "Everything needs to be perfect."

That word again.

Perfect.

I heard it constantly now—from my mother, from my professors, from the voice in my own head that catalogued every misstep, every hesitation, every moment I fell short of the standard expected of a Harrington.

"Stay close to me at first," Dad continued. "Let me make the introductions. Then you can mingle on your own. Show them you're capable. Poised."

I nodded, smoothing my dress again.