"They were thieves." His perfect control slips for just a moment, voice sharp as broken glass. "And that incident was handled with more mercy than they deserved. The evidence—"
"Was manufactured." The words taste like freedom and fear all at once. "Just like everything else in this family."
He moves then, closing the distance between us with measured steps. His cologne—the same scent he's worn my entire life—hits me like a time machine. My hands curl into fists, fighting the urge to step back, to submit to that carefully cultivated authority.
"You think you understand how this world works?" He moves closer, looming over me like he did when I was a child. His voice drops lower, each word precise as a surgeon's blade. "One word from me, and your precious artist's career vanishes like smoke. No more commissions, no more exhibitions, no more glowing reviews. She'll be blacklisted from every respectable institution on the East Coast."
I clench my jaw, refusing to flinch from the threat. "You'd destroy an innocent woman's livelihood? Overwhat—my refusal to play puppet to your ambitions?"
"Innocent?" His laugh is silk over steel. "That girl has been orchestrating this since the moment we cast her out. Waiting, watching, plotting her revenge through art and false innocence. And you—" his voice drops to a dangerous whisper, "my own son, the heir I sculpted with my own hands—you're throwing away an empire for her pretty paintings and manufactured victimhood."
The casual cruelty in his voice makes my blood freeze. This is the man who molded me, who taught me about power and legacy through calculated lessons in control. Who shaped me into his perfect heir while systematically destroying anyone who threatened his carefully constructed world.
"Mother ordered Isabella to fetch those necklaces." The memory burns fresh—Isabella's face when she told me, pain etched into every line, raw even after fifteen years. "She set her up deliberately, created the perfect trap—"
"And you believe her?" His smile is all teeth, a predator's warning. "Your mother doesn't allow housekeepers' granddaughters to handle family heirlooms worth more than they'd earn in a lifetime." He sets his glass down with precise control, each movement calibrated for maximum impact. "Really, Ares, has this girl's influence made you forget everything about who we are? What the Saint name represents? The responsibilities it carries?"
"Oh, I remember exactly who we are." I step closer, close enough to see the cold calculation in his eyes, the absolute certainty of a man who's never questioned his right to power. "We're the family that destroys lives to protect our image. That buys loyalty with threats and bribes. That teaches children love comes with conditions, that approval must be earned through perfect obedience."
Something flickers in his eyes—not guilt, Theodore Saint doesn't experience guilt—but a glimmer of something almost human. Grief, perhaps, over the son he's losing. Or fear that the empire he's spent a lifetime building on secrets and manipulation might finally crumble beneath the weight of truth.
"Everything I've done," he says softly, dangerously, each word precise as a surgeon's cut, "has been for this family. For you." He moves to the window, Boston spread before him like his personal kingdom, a chessboard where he's played king for too long. "And now you'd throw it all away for some artist living in a converted warehouse? Playing with paint while we build empires? Creating pretty pictures while we shape the future?"
The dismissal in his voice ignites something primal in my chest. "She's built more than you could possibly understand. Created beauty from the wreckage you left her with. Despite everything you did to destroy her, she rose stronger."
"Destroy her?" He turns back, and now there's something almost pitying in his smile, the look he gives opponents before crushing them. "We merely dealt with a thief as any respectable family would. If she chose to stay in Boston and build her little career here instead of slinking away in shame, that's hardly our concern." His eyes narrow to calculating slits. "Though it does make one wonder about her... true motivations."
The implication hits like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. "Don't."
"Don't what? Question why a woman who claims to hate our family would build her entire career in the very city where we supposedly ruined her?" He moves closer, voice dropping to a deadly whisper that slithers down my spine. "That maybe this woman has been patiently waiting for her chance at revenge? Or perhaps she saw a golden opportunity when my son came running back to Boston, his heart on his sleeve and billions in his bank account?"
"You don't know her." My voice comes out rough, raw with emotion I can no longer contain. "You never bothered to see beyond your prejudice and assumptions."
"No?" He reaches for the scotch again, the gesture deliberately casual. "I know her type. Social climbers, opportunists—they see the Saint name and dollar signs flash before their eyes. At least Jessica already has her own fortune, her own status. She understands the responsibilities that come with our position."
"Jessica?" I can't help the harsh laugh that escapes. "Your perfectly crafted corporate wife? Another piece in your dynastic chess game?"
Something lethal flashes in his eyes, a glimpse of the ruthlessness that built his empire. "The Westwood merger isn't just about marriage." His voice takes on that familiar tone—the one he uses in boardrooms before destroying competitors who dare challenge him. "It's about uniting two family legacies, two empires. Together, the Saints and Westwoods would create the kind of power dynasty that could control markets, shape industries, command the respect and fear our name deserves."
"Control?" My stomach turns as pieces click into place like a lock finally opening. "That's what this is really about, isn't it? Not family, not legacy—just more power. More control. More empire-building at any cost."
He steps closer, and I see the fanatic gleam in his eyes—the same look he gets when closing a hostile takeover, when crushing a competitor who dared challenge him. "This is about legacy, son. About building something eternal, something that will outlast us all." His hand lands on my shoulder, heavy with expectation and the weight of generations. "And you want to throw it away for some girl who finger-paints for a living? Who'll never understand what it means to build something that changes the world?"
The weight of his hand, once so desperately sought after, now feels like a burning brand against my skin. I shake it off, stepping back from the suffocating pull of his expectations. "That 'girl' has more talent and integrity in her little finger than our entire dynasty has accumulated in generations. She creates beauty that speaks to the soul. What do we create except fear and obedience?"
His face transforms—the careful mask of control cracking to reveal something darker underneath, something almost primal.
"Listen carefully." His voice drops to a whisper that makes my blood run cold, that makes the child I once was want to retreat, to apologize, to beg forgiveness. "You have twenty-four hours to end this foolishness. Return to Los Angeles, announce your reconciliation with Jessica and commitment to the family, and we'll generously forget this temporary insanity."
"Or what?" I wrench free from his grip, refusing to be that scared child anymore. The compass tattoo over my heart seems to burn against my skin, a reminder of the direction I've chosen.
"Or you'll learn exactly how far I'll go to protect what I've built." The temperature in the room seems to drop with each word, frost forming around his perfect control. "Your carefully cultivated independence? Gone. Every contact you've made, every deal you've arranged—erased with a phone call." His smile turns predatory, a shark scenting blood. "And Isabella? She'll find out how easily galleries can change their minds about exhibitions. How frequently... accidents occur in this city."
He lets the words hang, like smoke curling in the air. "Especially to those without proper protection."
The threat hangs in the air between us, crystal clear and utterly terrifying. Not for myself—I've been preparing for financial warfare since I walked away from Los Angeles—but for Isabella. The memory of her grandmother's struggle after being blacklisted rises like bile in my throat. The thought of Isabella facing that same systematic destruction makes my hands shake with barely controlled rage.
"You're threatening her." Ice spreads through my veins, replacing the fire of anger with something colder, more dangerous, more focused. Something that could burn everything to the ground and walk away without looking back.
