Page 38 of Broken Blades

My reflection ghosted across the glass. Pale. Young. Lost.

He didn't look at me. "I expect you to protect what we've built."

The phrasing landed wrong. Settled like a stone in my chest.

Not protect yourself. Not protect your reputation. Not even protect the family.

What we've built. The company. The merger. The image. The empire that suddenly felt more important than the person sitting beside him.

I swallowed hard. "You're okay with me living with him?"

The question came smaller than I intended. Younger. Like the little girl who used to ask permission before doing anything. Who measured her worth by his approval.

He exhaled sharply. The sound harsh in the enclosed space. "I'm not okay with any of this."

But he'd agreed, anyway. Shaken the man's hand. Sealed whatever devil's bargain they'd made over my head while I sat there drowning.

I pressed. Needed to understand. "Then why agree?"

Silence stretched. Long enough for three traffic lights. Four blocks. An eternity compressed into seconds.

He finally said it. "Because he's right."

My head snapped toward him. "Right about what?"

He kept his eyes locked on the road. Shoulders rigid. Jaw set. "He probably orchestrated the entire thing."

My pulse jumped. Heart slamming against my ribs. "What?"

He nodded once. Sharp. Decisive. The gesture he used in boardrooms when confirming facts he didn't like but couldn't deny. "The timing. The photographers. The angle."

He said it like a business assessment. Strategic analysis. Clinical evaluation of a competitor's move. No emotion. No rage. Just cold recognition of someone else's superior tactics.

I felt the first true flicker of fear. Real fear. Not embarrassment. Not humiliation. Not the surface shame of bad photos and worse headlines.

This went deeper.

"Why would he do that?" The question hung between us.

Dad hesitated. Just a fraction too long. Long enough that I knew—whatever came next would be a lie. Or at least not the whole truth. "There's… history."

History. The word people used when they meant something they refused to explain. When the past had teeth and they didn't want to get bitten again.

I waited. Holding my breath. Willing him to continue. To give me something. Anything that made this make sense.

"A misunderstanding."

The word felt too small. Too thin. Like tissue paper stretched over something massive and violent underneath. Something that could tear through at any moment.

I studied his profile. The familiar lines of his face. The strong jaw. The straight nose. The way his eyes stayed fixed forward like he couldn't bear to look at me.

For the first time in my life, I saw tension in him I didn't understand. Not business stress. Not deal pressure. Not the calculated risk-taking that made him successful. This was something else. Something old. Something personal. Something that made his hands shake slightly on the wheel despite his rigid control. Something that scared him. And if it scared him, what the hell was it going to do to me?

I replayed last night in my head. The garden. The hedge catching my dress. The zipper sliding down with that whisper of fabric I'd felt more than heard. Cold air hitting my spine. His voice behind me—low, controlled, telling me to hold still.

He hadn't seemed like someone staging something. He'd seemed… deliberate. Intentional.

Every movement precise. Every word measured. Not the sloppy opportunism of someone drunk on power or champagne. Not the chaotic fumbling of chance encounters.