CHAPTER HUNDRED & SEVENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER HUNDRED & SEVENTY-FIVE
KYLE

The house hadn’t changed.

Still towering. Still sterile. Still pretending to be something it wasn’t—like the man who lived inside.

Five years.

That’s how long it had been since I last stood on this land. Since I last looked Jonathan Blackwood in the eyes and tried to convince myself that the man who raised me wasn’t completely hollow inside.

Back then, I still called him Dad. Still chased pieces of approval he dangled like rewards—conditional, calculated, cold.

But then the empire crumbled.

Blackwood Enterprises collapsed under the weight of its own lies, and Jonathan? He didn’t fight. He didn’t try to fix it. He folded in on himself. Became a shadow in that great glass tower he once ruled.

Stricken. Alone. Silent.

And the worst part?

He didn’t just stop fighting for the company.
He stopped fighting for me.

Stopped seeing me.

Stopped caring.

I had watched the man who once crafted legacies with iron hands reduce himself to a ghost—too proud to ask for help, too bitter to accept it even when it was offered. When I stepped up and began rebuilding Blackwood from the ashes, he didn’t say a word.

Nothing.

So I cut him off.

Not out of spite.
Out of survival.

Because I couldn’t rebuild a kingdom while dragging around the corpse of a fallen king who blamed everyone but himself.

I buried my father long before I buried the idea of family.

But some ghosts don’t stay buried.

Some names come back to haunt you—especially the ones you were born with.

The car was quiet as we pulled up the long winding path. Not peaceful. Just still. Like every breath we held was waiting to shatter.

Lucian sat to my left, arms folded across his chest, jaw locked in that same stone-cold fury I recognized too well—because I’d felt it too. Ashley was behind me, her hand brushing the edge of my coat. Not gripping, not clinging—just there.

Grounding me.

I don’t think I would’ve made it here without her.

I parked in the same spot Jonathan always made us use—aligned perfectly with the marble columns. Everything always had to be symmetrical. Everything always had to be his way.

Lucian got out first.

Then Ashley.

And I stayed there a second longer, gripping the wheel, staring at the place that raised me—and razed me.

This house taught me how to dress, how to speak, how to lead, how to win.

But it never taught me how to feel. How to love. How to live.

It was all performance.

And now?
Now I wasn’t here to perform.

I was here to confront the man who orchestrated our ruin.

The gates had opened slowly. Like even they weren’t sure if we should be let in.

But this wasn’t about permission anymore.

This was reckoning.

Five years ago, I walked away from Jonathan Blackwood and promised I never would again. I burned that bridge with my own hands.

But some bridges don’t stay burned.

Some things demand to be finished.

And today—I wasn’t walking in as his son.

I was walking in as his consequence.

The doors didn’t creak when they opened. Of course not. Everything in this house worked too perfectly—too cleanly. No room for flaws, no cracks to let truth in.

The Blackwood estate had always been like that. Polished and hollow.

Like its owner.

The foyer stretched ahead of us, cold and cavernous. Nothing had changed. Same high ceilings, same soulless art, same floors that echoed your steps like they wanted to remind you how small you were in this place.

I’d grown up here and never once felt at home.

The air still smelled the same—like waxed wood, old money, and silence. A silence that used to crush me as a kid. Now it just made me mad.

Lucian’s boots made the loudest sound as we walked. He wasn’t afraid of being heard. He wasn’t afraid of anything anymore.

Ashley walked beside me, a few steps behind. She didn’t say a word, but her hand brushed the back of my coat again—like she knew I needed something grounding. I didn’t look at her. I didn’t have to. I felt her there.

This was a house of ghosts, and we were walking into the heart of it.

My heart thundered as we passed the hallway I used to sneak through as a kid. I could still see six-year-old me peeking around corners, hoping to catch my father’s attention, hoping for a nod or a glance or anything that resembled love.

Now I didn’t want anything from him but truth.

And maybe a little blood.

He was already standing there in the sunroom when we arrived.

The bastard.

He looked like he was expecting royalty, not his broken family come to confront him.

Same sharp suit. Same posture. Same air of control. Like he hadn’t aged a day.

But his face—his eyes—looked a little more sunken than I remembered. Still cold, but more hollow now. More tired.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at us, one by one, like we were numbers he had to solve.

Lucian stopped three feet from him, tension rolling off him in waves.

Ashley was quiet. Still. But I could feel the emotion coming off her—anger, betrayal, even pity.

And me? I didn’t know what I felt.

Rage. Disgust. Confusion. All of it.

Jonathan’s gaze finally settled on me.

“You came back,” he said.

I didn’t respond. Not right away.

His voice didn’t have the weight it used to. It didn’t knock me off balance like it had for years. Now it just sounded like what it was—hollow noise dressed in authority.

“You look well,” he added, like we were strangers at a dinner party. “Oh well, I suppose this istna reunion”. 

Jonathan turned to Lucian slowly, but even then, not a flicker of emotion crossed his face. “Lucian.You look well,” he said finally, voice light, almost mocking. “I suppose vanishing for two decades does wonders for the complexion.”

Lucian didn’t bite.

“That’s it?” I asked.

Jonathan tilted his head like he was considering it. “I assumed you wouldn’t want pleasantries.”

“I want truth,” I cut in. My voice was lower than I expected. Steadier, too. “For once in your life, speak to me without trying to control the story.”

Jonathan studied me for a beat too long. “You already believe what you want to believe. I raised you to be strong Kyle.To lead. That’s what I gave him.”

“No,” I snapped. “You programmed me. Like one of your damned reports. You told me who to be, what to believe, who to cut out—and I did it. I erased my own brother because you said he was a monster. I spent my whole life fighting to restore a name you already poisoned.”

His jaw tightened. Just barely. But I saw it.

“You gave me fear,” I continud. “Silence. A legacy built on manipulation and shame. You trained me like an asset, not a son. And when the company crumbled, you disappeared. You stopped being a father long before I stopped calling you one.”

He flinched. Slight. Barely there.

Lucian stepped forward now, shoulders squared like he’d been waiting years to finally breathe in this moment.

“Ezra was real,” he said. “And you killed him.”

Jonathan blinked.

Lucian’s voice was steady, but behind it was grief I knew too well. “He died in that lab. You made me think it was my fault. You made everyone think I was unstable when I was just mourning. When I escaped, I didn’t run. I burned the east wing because I wanted to burn the truth. But not even that could erase what you did.”

I felt Ashley’s breath hitch behind me.

Jonathan’s expression didn’t shift, but his silence was a confession.

And then Lucian added quietly, “And Mom…”

Jonathan arched a brow then he turned to me again.

“I told you what you needed to hear at the time,” he said. “You were a child. Fragile. Emotional. Impressionable.”

“You told me Lucian killed Mom.”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink.

“I told you what you saw.”

My throat tightened. “I was six.”

“Exactly.” His voice sharpened like the tip of a knife. “You were six. You saw your mother fall. You saw your brother standing at the top of the stairs. Your brain made its own conclusions. I only confirmed what you already feared.”

“You confirmed it because you wanted me to believe it.”

“Because you needed to believe it,” he said. “You think I wanted to watch you unravel? That I wanted to see you suffer? I gave you order. Stability. Direction. And look what it made you.”

I laughed—quiet and bitter. “It made me numb.”

“It made you a leader,” he corrected. “You rebuilt Blackwood. You carried on our legacy. You’re sitting in a chair I once held, with more control than I ever gave you. And yet here you are—demanding answers like a boy who still doesn’t understand what it means to protect something bigger than himself.”

Lucian stepped forward, but I held out a hand. Not yet.

“I protected a lie,” I said. “I protected you.”

“You protected yourself,” Jonathan said coolly. “From grief. From pain. From the burden of truth.”

“No,” I snapped. “I protected your version of truth. I lived your story for years and never asked who wrote it.”

His expression finally twitched—just slightly. Something under the surface cracked. But it didn’t bleed.

Instead, he sat up straighter. His voice lowered. “You wouldn’t have handled it, Kyle. You were too soft back then. Too emotional. You would’ve fallen apart.”

My voice broke slightly when I spoke again. “You killed her.”

Jonathan’s face didn’t move.

And I couldn’t understand how he could stand there—so calm, so composed—after destroying everything.