Page 27 of Broken Blades

He held my gaze for another breath. Then nodded once. "I believe you."

Relief flooded so hard my hands went weak around the phone. But his expression didn't soften. Didn't relax. If anything, the lines around his mouth deepened.

"That doesn't fix it."

The relief died.

"Perception is reality in this business." His voice stayed level. Professional. The tone he used in board rooms when delivering bad news to shareholders. "It doesn't matter what actually happened. It matters what it looks like. What people believe."

I stared at the photograph again. At the stranger's hand at my spine. At the way my body curved toward his like gravity.

Wyatt Garrison.

I didn't even know what he looked like without the mask.

"They think..." I couldn't finish.

"They think you're involved with a player with a documented history of instability. A man who publicly feuded with me two years ago." He took the phone back. Locked the screen. "They think this merger is compromised. That our family is compromised."

The walls pressed closer.

"What do I do?"

My father looked at me for a long moment. Something flickered behind his eyes. Something that looked almost like regret.

"Get dressed. The meeting's at noon."

He turned toward the door.

"Dad—"

He paused. Didn't look back. "We fix this together."

He started pacing. Three steps to the window. Turn. Three steps back. The kind of controlled movement that meant his brain was running calculations faster than his mouth could form them.

"Investors started calling at six this morning." His hand cut through the air. Sharp. Precise. "Board members want an emergency session. Isabel Berkley's firm—the people we're about to merge with—they're demanding clarification before they sign anything."

Each word landed like a hammer.

I pulled the blanket tighter around myself. Still in pajamas. Still trying to wake up from whatever nightmare this was.

"The merger's been in negotiation for eight months. Eight months of due diligence and legal review and carefully managed publicity." He turned at the window. Faced me. "This photograph threatens all of it."

"Because of me."

"Because of perception." He stopped pacing. Planted both hands on the footboard of my bed. "Optics are everything. You understand that, don't you?"

I'd heard him say it a thousand times. In boardrooms. On conference calls. Over dinner when he explained why certain partnerships mattered and others didn't.

Optics.

Image.

The story people believed mattered more than the truth.

"This makes you look careless." His voice stayed even but something sharp lived underneath. "Reckless. Like you don't understand what's at stake."

The word careless burned.