Page 19 of Broken Blades

This is my daughter. She'll be stepping into a leadership role next quarter.

I'd heard him say it four times tonight. Different investors. Same script.

Showing her off. Proving stability. Proving legacy.

My jaw locked.

You love your daughter, Harrington?

I watched him guide her toward another cluster of suits.

Let's see how much.

She touched her hair again—tucking, smoothing, self-soothing.

The gesture did something strange to my chest. Something sharp and unwanted that had nothing to do with revenge. Possession. Raw and immediate.

She doesn't belong in their hands. She belongs in mine.

I hated the thought instantly. That wasn't the plan. She was a tool. A means. Collateral damage in a war Harrington started when he destroyed my marriage and walked away clean.

But watching her navigate the room—innocent, earnest, trying so hard to be what her father needed—something shifted. Not sympathy. Something darker.

I drained the whiskey and set the glass down.

She moved toward the dessert table.

I pushed off the wall and followed.

She grabbed three chocolate-covered strawberries and a truffle before slipping toward the glass doors.

I tracked her movement through the crowd. Nobody else noticed. They were too busy networking, drinking, performing.

She pushed through to the hedge garden and disappeared.

I counted to ten. Never rush the hunt. Desperation showed. Desperation made you sloppy, and sloppy men lost.

I'd already lost once. Not again.

At eight, I set my empty glass on a passing tray. At ten, I moved.

The glass doors opened soundlessly. Cold air hit immediately—sharp contrast to the overheated ballroom. My breath fogged.

The garden stretched out in geometric patterns, hedges trimmed to military precision, lanterns glowing amber against dark greenery dusted with fresh snow.

She stood twenty feet away, back to me, one hand braced against the stone balustrade. She popped a strawberry in her mouth. Her shoulders dropped. Relief in the gesture.

Overwhelmed.

I almost laughed.

She was a peach. Sweet. Fresh. Untouched by the rot festering in her perfect family. And God, that made this better. Better to corrupt something innocent. Better to watch her father's face when he realized what I'd taken. Not his money. Not his reputation. His daughter's trust. Then her ruin. Then his legacy crumbling.

I didn't want to touch her—not like that. Physical was easy. Physical was forgettable. Emotional devastation lasted.

I wanted her to give me everything willingly. Wanted her to choose me over him. Wanted Harrington to watch his precious daughter defend the man who destroyed him.

That's the revenge worth having.