Page 41 of Broken Blades

My stomach twisted. Would he shout? Would he intimidate? Would he corner me in hallways and dare me to run?

Or worse…

Would he stay calm? Would he deliver threats in that low, controlled voice? Would he make me feel trapped without ever raising his hand? Would he prove that calculated cruelty cut deeper than fists?

I shuddered. Hated myself for even considering it. For comparing. For letting old wounds bleed into new fears.

I set the picture face down. Left it there. Didn't pack it.

"Chastity." My father's voice carried up the stairs. Not urgent. Not angry. Just steady. Final.

I zipped the suitcase shut. The sound sharp in the quiet. Definitive.

One last look around my room.

Childhood photos scattered across the dresser. Me gap-toothed at six. Halloween costumes. Birthday parties. First day of kindergarten with my backpack bigger than my body. Awards lined the shelf above my desk. Academic excellence. Debate team captain. Community service recognition. Each one representing hours of work. Proof I'd earned my place. Proof I mattered beyond my last name.

Memories everywhere I looked.

This room had been mine since I was eight. Pink walls I'd begged to paint teal at thirteen. The reading nook Dad built by the window. The closet where I'd hidden during thunderstorms. Where I'd cried after breakups. Where I'd dreamed about futures that looked nothing like this.

Thirty days shouldn't feel this big. Shouldn't feel like leaving permanently. Like crossing some invisible line I wouldn't be able to uncross.

But it did.

I grabbed my bag. Lifted the suitcase off the bed. The weight of it felt wrong. Too light for a month. Too heavy for temporary.

My feet moved toward the stairs. Each step echoing. Counting down.

Dad stood in the foyer when I reached the bottom. Coat already on. Keys in hand. Ready. Efficient. Like this was just another appointment on his calendar. Another obligation to check off before moving to the next.

Mom lingered in the background. Hovering near the living room doorway. Hands twisted together. Face pale. Eyes wet but not crying. Like she was holding everything in by force of will alone.

Dad's voice came firm but softer now. "This is temporary."

I nodded. Wanted to believe him.

"Follow his lead."

My stomach tightened.

"Don't provoke him."

That word landed like a slap.

Provoke.

As if Wyatt's behavior—whatever it might be—would be my fault. My responsibility to manage. My job to navigate carefully enough that nothing went wrong. As if I was the variable. The risk. The problem. Not the man who'd orchestrated this entire nightmare.

I nodded again. Because what else could I do? What choice did I have?

The merger. The investors. The reputation. The empire we'd built. Everything bigger than me. Everything more important.

I stepped toward the door. And for the first time in my life, I didn't feel like I was leaving for networking. Didn't feel like I was representing the family. Didn't feel like the confident daughter stepping into leadership.

I felt like I was being handed over.

Chapter 8