"No, son. I'm promising consequences." He straightens his cuffs, the gesture deliberately casual, another power move in a lifetime of manipulation. "Think about it, Ares. Really think. Is she worth losing everything?" His voice softens, almost gentle, the most dangerous version of Theodore Saint. "Worth seeing her career, her dreams, her future systematically destroyed because you couldn't accept your responsibilities? Because you chose emotion over duty?"
For a moment, I see it all—the weight of his threats, the carefully woven web of influence and control. Every business contact, every gallery owner, every critic who might review Isabella's work. The Saint influence reaches far beyond Boston or Los Angeles, tentacles of power stretching across continents. One word from him could...
But then another image surfaces: Isabella in my arms last night, her fingers tracing my compass tattoo, eyes fierce with determination. "Let them try," she'd whispered against my skin. "We're stronger together than they could ever imagine."
"You know what I think, Father?" Calm settles over me like armor, like certainty. "I think you're terrified."
"Excuse me?" The word comes out sharp, a hairline crack in his perfect control.
"Terrified that I might choose love over power. That I might be stronger than the puppet you tried to create." I step closer, watching his eyes widen slightly at the challenge. "That I might discover exactly what Wells was looking for or knew that lead to his accident."
His hand shoots out, grabbing my jaw with bruising force. "You ungrateful—"
I knock his arm away, the movement decisive, final. A breaking of chains. "Don't touch me. Ever again."
For a moment, we stand there, both breathing hard, the air between us electric with decades of unspoken truths. Then his face smooths back into that perfect corporate mask, emotion locked away behind walls of control.
"Twenty-four hours, Ares." He moves to the door, every inch the powerful CEO again, the momentary loss of control buried beneath layers of practiced authority. "Choose wisely. Because some decisions..." He pauses, hand on the doorknob, "some decisions have consequences that echo through generations. That destroy more than just the one who makes them."
The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds like a prison gate slamming shut.
I stand alone in the penthouse, the city sprawling below like a chessboard where my father has played king for too long. My pulse pounds in my ears, his threats replaying on an endless loop. Isabella's career, her reputation, her dreams—all of it balanced on the knife-edge of my father's power. The thought of her suffering because of me, of losing everything she's worked for, makes my chest constrict with a pain sharper than anything I've felt before.
My reflection fragments across the glass—suit, tie, posture, every detail meticulously crafted to his specifications. The perfect heir, the obedient son. But beneath this carefully constructed facade, something wild and unfamiliar stirs. Something that tastes like freedom, like possibility, like the future Isabella and I could build together if we survive this war.
Suddenly a memory hits me like a thunderbolt, electric with possibility. Me, standing in Father's office after hours. The heavy oak desk, polished to mirror shine. His computer hummed softly as I searched for acquisition records, for information I needed for a presentation.
By accident I found a hidden directory, locked behind security so tight it might as well have had armed guards. I asked Father what it contained, pressed him to share the password, only to have him brush it off with practiced casualness. "Some things are for the CEO's eyes only, son. When you take over, we'll discuss it further." His tone had been light, almost teasing, but his eyes were cold steel—a warning wrapped in fatherly condescension.
My pulse quickens as pieces suddenly align. That hidden directory—what if that's what Wells was after? What if Evelyn caught him trying to breach it? What if Wells discovered something in those files worth blackmailing my father over, worth risking everything for...
My hands steady as I pull out my phone, muscle memory dialing Ethan's number before conscious thought can intervene.
"And?" His voice is grim, knowing me too well to ask unnecessary questions.
I turn from the window, decision crystallizing in my chest like ice forming over deep water. "I need you to start moving assets. Everything in my personal accounts, everything I've built independently of Saint Industries. We need to fortify our position immediately."
"Already on it." Papers rustle in the background, Ethan's efficiency a balm to my frayed nerves. "But?"
"But we need more." I close my eyes, seeing Isabella's face, hearing her laugh, feeling her fingers trace patterns on my skin in the darkness. "Contact Heath. Tell him I need his help, again."
The rustling stops abruptly. "With what?"
"I need him to get into my father's private server. There's a directory—something he keeps locked down tighter than a maximum-security prison."
"You realize what you're doing?" Ethan's voice drops to barely above a whisper, tension vibrating through each word. "You're declaring nuclear war on Theodore fucking Saint."
I press my palm against the cold window, watching my reflection fracture across the glass. The perfect heir finally shattering, becoming something new, something of my own making. "War's already coming. Twenty-four hours, Ethan. That's what he gave me to fall back in line, to abandon Isabella, to become his puppet again."
"Jesus." He exhales sharply. "And you want to spend those hours breaking into his digital fortress?"
"Whatever's in those files—" My fingers curl against the glass, remembering the desperate way he'd protected that directory, the flash of something like fear in his eyes when I asked about it. "He's guarding them for a reason. And I bet that reason is exactly what I need to protect Isabella. To protect our future."
Silence stretches between us, heavy with possibility and danger, with choices that can't be unmade. I hear the familiar sound of Ethan pouring a drink. "Ares? If we do this—"
"There's no going back. I know. Make the call."
Walking out of the building feels like shedding a skin I've worn too long, like breaking chains I've carried since childhood. Behind me lies the weight of the Saint legacy, the suffocating expectations, the perfectly constructed lies. Ahead lies uncertainty, danger, the very real possibility of losing everything I've built.
