"If Miss Jenkins doesn't wish to be painted in an unfavorable light," Mother's voice turns glacial, "perhaps she should remember her place and stop inserting herself into worlds she doesn't belong in."
"Her place?" The words come out like bullets. "Did you know Evelyn passed away?"
Mother's perfect mask slips for just a fraction of a second. "That woman? Really, darling, why would we—"
"That woman practically raised me," I cut in. "She was more of a mother than—" I stop myself, but the damage is done.
Mother's eyes narrow. "That girl has always been manipulative, Ares. Using her tragic circumstances to gain sympathy. I thought I raised you better than this."
My voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "You have no idea what she's been through."
"Because of her own actions," Father cuts in smoothly. "The theft—"
"Why didn't you go to the police with the security video?" I lean closer to the screen, studying their faces like I've never allowed myself to before.
Mother's laugh tinkles like ice in crystal. "Oh darling, like we said before, we were being merciful." Her fingers smooth an invisible wrinkle from her silk blouse. "We could have pressed charges, ruined their lives completely. Instead, we simply dismissed them. Really, they should have been grateful for our discretion."
"Grateful?" My voice drops lower, dangerous. "Or was the reason you didn't want the police involved because you were afraid they'd find something. Discrepancies. Questions you couldn't answer."
For a split second, something flashes in Mother's eyes, but before I can interpret it Father steps into frame, placing himself between Mother and the camera. His movement is subtle, practiced—the same way he shields her during hostile takeovers and board meetings.
"You're letting your imagination run wild, son. Perhaps Boston isn't agreeing with you."
"Speaking of business matters," his voice takes on that deceptively casual tone that always precedes a strike, "IT flagged some concerning activity in our HR records. External access from Boston."
My pulse kicks up, but I keep my expression neutral. "Oh?"
"Mm." He swirls his scotch, studying me over the rim. "Someone accessing personnel files from fifteen years ago." His eyes lock onto mine. "Care to explain why you're suddenly interested in ancient history, son?"
I keep my face carefully blank. "Just tying up loose ends."
"Loose ends?" His smile is razor sharp. "Then perhaps you can explain your particular interest in Jacob Wells's personnel file?"
The casual mention of Wells's name makes the hairs on my arms rise. I force myself to shrug. "Just being thorough."
"Thorough." He tests the word like wine on his tongue. "Well, since you're being... unreasonable about your return to Los Angeles, I blocked your access. Just until you're thinking more clearly."
Fuck.
"I need to protect company interests." He straightens his cuffs. "Though I find it interesting that of all the files you could access, you looked into a dead man's history."
His gaze pierces mine.
"If you need information about anything, son, just ask me." He leans forward, voice dripping with false concern. "I know everything you need to know."
Wells's payments flash through my mind—the twenty thousand, the two million later. The way he'd interrogated Evelyn in his office. The questions burn on my tongue, but I swallow them back. "Nothing I need to know."
"Come now." His tone softens to that manipulative gentleness I remember from childhood. "This rebellion has gone on long enough. It's time to come home, take your rightful place. I spoke with Gregory Westwood yesterday." Father's voice shifts to that smooth, practiced tone he uses to close billion-dollar deals. "Despite your... theatrical exit from Jessica's life, he's willing to be reasonable."
My jaw clenches. "The Westwoods aren't my concern."
"Business is business, son." He moves to the bar, pouring another scotch with deliberate precision. "Gregory understands that. The merger still makes sense, regardless of personal feelings. The potential for both companies is..." He lets the sentence hang, weighted with possibility.
"You mean the potential for your empire."
"Our empire, Ares." He turns, fixing me with that penetrating stare that used to make me squirm. "Think about it. Saint-Westwood Industries. A global powerhouse that would dominate markets across three continents. The kind of legacy most men can only dream of leaving their children."
"And all it costs is my soul, right?" The words come out sharper than intended.
