Page 36 of Broken Blades

She was smaller than I'd realized. Softer. Every line of her body screaming privilege and protection and a life spent inside carefully maintained boundaries that kept the ugliness of the world at a comfortable distance.

Not anymore.

Her voice came out barely above a whisper. "Please."

I tilted my head. "Please what?"

She swallowed hard. "Don't do this."

"Sweetheart, this was in play long before you realize. I'm just collecting what I'm due."

Across the room, Harrington's voice rose fractionally. "I said I'm handling it. The optics will—Yes. Fine. Tomorrow."

He ended the call. Stood there with his back to us for three long seconds. Shoulders rising and falling with controlled breaths. A man trying to compose himself before turning around and facing what he'd already lost.

When he finally walked back, he looked ten years older. Lines deeper around his eyes. Mouth carved into something grim and hollow. The expression of someone who'd just run through every possible outcome and realized they all ended the same way.

Ruin.

If this scandal grew. If investors started digging. If they uncovered the affair buried beneath years of carefully managed PR and legal NDAs and his wife's willingness to stay quiet for the right price. If Isabel's board panicked. If they pulled out of the merger citing "concerns about leadership stability." If everything collapsed.

He'd lose it all.

The company. The legacy. The empire he'd spent decades building.

He met my eyes. Long. Searching. Looking for some crack. Some weakness. Some angle he could exploit to turn this around. Found nothing.

His shoulders sagged fractionally. Defeated. Then he turned to his daughter. Voice flat. Empty. Already decided. "You'll do it."

She spun toward him. Eyes wide. Disbelieving. "Dad⁠—"

He didn't look at her. Couldn't. Just stared at some point past her shoulder. Voice mechanical. "It's for the family."

That word again.

Family.

I smiled. Small. Cold. Satisfied.

Perfect.

Chapter 7

Chastity

Wyatt nodded once. "I'll issue a statement by noon." His voice carried the same casual certainty he'd use ordering coffee. Discussing the weather. Arranging something that didn't involve destroying my entire life. "We've been seeing each other quietly." He straightened his cuffs. Precise. Methodical. "The garden moment was private."

Dad said nothing. Just sat there with his jaw locked and his eyes empty. Looking at Wyatt like he was staring at something that had crawled up from a grave. Something dead that refused to stay buried.

I felt like I'd been slapped. Like the air had been sucked from the room and replaced with something thick and poisonous that burned going down.

This couldn't be happening. This wasn't real.

Wyatt stood finally. Slowly. Taking his time. Every movement deliberate. He buttoned his jacket with careful precision. Smoothed the lapels. Like he had all the time in the world. Like we weren't sitting here drowning while he decided whether to throw us a rope or watch us sink.

He extended a hand toward my father. The gesture obscene. Casual. A business transaction concluded to everyone's satisfaction.

Dad stared at it. Jaw working. Hands flexing at his sides. I could see the war happening behind his eyes. Pride versus pragmatism. Rage versus survival. Everything he'd built balanced against everything he stood to lose.