Page 31 of Broken Blades

Recognition hit her face like a slap.

Perfect.

I let my mouth curve. Not quite a smile. Just enough to communicate I'd been expecting exactly this reaction. Exactly this moment. That nothing happening here surprised me in the slightest.

"Morning, Harrington."

I directed the words at her father. Let him hear the familiarity. The disrespect baked into my casual tone. The way I didn't bother with "Mr. Harrington" or "sir" or any of the polite deference other men performed when they wanted something from him.

His jaw went rigid. "Wyatt."

One word. Cold as January ice. Laced with warning and old hatred and the kind of fury men like him kept buried under expensive suits and carefully managed public images.

I shifted my attention to her. Held her gaze. Watched color creep into her cheeks. Watched her breathing quicken just slightly. Watched her realize she'd seen me before. Touched me. Let me touch her.

"Did you sleep well?"

The question landed exactly how I meant it to. Soft. Low. Dripping with implication that had nothing to do with actual sleep and everything to do with what the photographs suggested happened between us in that garden.

Her face went scarlet.

Harrington's voice cracked like a whip. "Enough."

I leaned back in my chair. Spread my hands. The picture of innocence. "Relax. We're just talking."

Gestured toward the empty chairs across from me. "Have a seat."

She sat because her father's hand pressed her shoulder. Because she'd been trained her whole life to be polite. To smile through discomfort. To perform grace under pressure.

But her eyes stayed on mine. Wide. Confused. Searching for answers to questions she hadn't figured out how to ask yet.

Smart girl.

She was starting to understand. This wasn't about a photograph. Wasn't about bad timing or unfortunate angles or media spinning scandal from nothing.

This was about something older. Deeper. Something that lived in the space between her father and me. Something that had teeth and claws and wouldn't stop until blood was drawn.

And she'd just become the battlefield.

I let the silence settle between us. Heavy. Thick with unspoken history. Then tilted my head just slightly. Curious. Almost sympathetic. "I hear the merger's not quite as guaranteed as everyone thought."

Harrington's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes. I'd done my homework. I understood exactly where the pressure points lived.

His voice came out flat. Controlled. "What do you want?"

I let my smirk widen. Let my gaze drift deliberately to his daughter. Watched the way she sat perfectly still, hands folded in her lap, watching this exchange like someone trying to translate a foreign language they'd never studied.

"I'll tell you." I brought my eyes back to Harrington. "After I hear what you want."

His nostrils flared. The only crack in his composure. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, and spoke with the clipped precision of a man who'd negotiated a thousand deals and expected to win them all.

"You tell the press nothing happened." Beat. "You clear her name." Another beat. "You fix this."

I leaned back. Steepled my fingers beneath my chin. Let my eyes travel over him slowly. Evaluating. The way you'd study a contract before signing. Looking for fine print. Hidden clauses. Places where leverage might hide.

Then I said it. Evenly. Calmly. "Of course."

Silence.