Chapter 7

The sun dipped low outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting an amber glow across the marble floor. The skyline glittered beyond, but inside the penthouse, the air was heavy, tight, and filled with a silence that felt like it might crack at any second.

Kingsley sat on the edge of the leather couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the untouched glass of water on the coffee table. He heard the elevator chime.

He didn't look up.

He knew who it was.

The click of expensive heels entered first — his mother. Soft perfume, delicate, elegant. Then the sharp, heavy footsteps of his father, leather shoes striking the floor like a judge's gavel.

They were here.

And they were angry.

"Kingsley," his father's voice cut through the room, cold and precise. "We need to talk."

His mother's voice followed, softer, trembling, "Sweetheart... why didn't you answer our calls?"

Kingsley rubbed his face roughly, forcing himself to sit up straighter. His eyes flicked up, meeting theirs for the first time in months.

They looked older.

Or maybe he just hadn't really looked at them in years.

His father, towering and stern, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly groomed, dressed in a custom-tailored suit, eyes sharp behind thin glasses. His mother, graceful even now, her silk scarf wrapped delicately around her shoulders, her eyes shimmering — with worry, or frustration, or both.

"You're causing a scandal," his father snapped, not wasting time. "You're dragging this family's name through the mud."

Kingsley opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

His father pressed on, stepping closer. "Do you know how many reporters have called the office this week? How many board members are demanding explanations? Do you know how far our stocks fell in a single day after they saw you—drunk, disheveled, disappearing into God-knows-where?"

His father's voice was louder. "The company's stock has crashed twenty percent since the last earnings call. Investors are panicking. Reporters are circling like vultures, spinning every kind of story — you've run away, you've collapsed, you're in rehab, you've died."

His mother put a hand gently on her husband's arm. "Please, Michael, don't—"

But Michael Rowe pulled away.

"No. No, Anna. He needs to hear this."

Kingsley swallowed hard. His hands clenched into fists on his knees.

"You were the future of this company," his father continued, his voice rising. "You had everything. You were on the covers of business magazines. You were engaged to Beth Whitmore, and because it didn't work out, you ran. You collapsed. You drowned yourself in whiskey and pills. You humiliated this family in front of the press. Do you know how many reporters wrote you off as dead already?"

At the mention of Beth, something sharp twisted in Kingsley's chest.

He looked away.

His father kept going.

"We covered for you. For months. We patched up every headline, soothed every investor, and fought to keep the company afloat. But you..." His father's jaw tightened. "You were too busy killing yourself in some cheap little apartment." You ruined our reputation. You let yourself fall apart like some common drunk—"

"Michael, please—" Anna tried again, but Kingsley lifted his hand.

"Let him talk," Kingsley murmured. His voice was rough, low, almost a growl.

His father gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "Oh, you want me to talk? Fine. Let me tell you exactly how much damage you've done."

Kingsley sat back slowly, eyes half-lidded, listening as his father listed every broken deal, every pulled investment, every media scandal.

It was like being punched over and over again, but he didn't flinch.

He deserved it.

His mind drifted — flickers of memory rising, unwanted, unstoppable.

Beth's smile was lit by soft morning light.

The ring in his pocket, the words he'd rehearsed a thousand times.

The moment her father pulled her away, saying, "You're not marrying him. You're not marrying down."

The cold bottle, the first drink, the thousand after.

The friends who gave up trying to help. The board members who stopped calling.

The night he collapsed on the sidewalk — and the woman who found him. Katherine.

"—do you even care about this family, Kingsley?" his father's voice snapped him back. "Or have you just decided to let it all burn?"

Kingsley exhaled shakily.

"I care," he said, voice cracking.

His mother stepped forward, reaching for him. "Kingsley..."

"I care," he repeated, louder this time, standing abruptly. His fists were shaking at his sides. "I care more than you know."

His father narrowed his eyes. "Then prove it."

Kingsley stared at him — then laughed softly, bitterly.

"Prove it? How?"

"Come back," his mother whispered. "Come back to the company. We need you. We miss you."

Kingsley's throat tightened.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch a wall, or collapse into his mother's arms, or run away again — anything but stand here and face the wreckage of his own making.

But he didn't move.

He forced himself to meet his father's gaze.

"I was broken," he said, his voice raw. "I was shattered. You have no idea how hard it was to get up every morning after I lost her."

Michael's jaw tightened.

"You think I wanted to drink myself to death? Do you think I wanted to throw everything away? I didn't."

He took a step closer.

"But I'm done hiding."

His father's eyes flickered — surprise, maybe. Or doubt.

"I'm done," Kingsley said again, softer this time. "I want to come back. I want to fix this. I want to... be the son you wanted."

Anna let out a small, shaky breath, tears filling her eyes.

Michael was quiet for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he spoke.

"You have one chance."

Kingsley's chest clenched.

"One," his father repeated firmly. "No more mistakes. No more scandals. No more hiding."

Kingsley swallowed hard.

He nodded.

His father's face softened — barely.

"We'll call an emergency board meeting," he said. "We'll tell them you're returning to the helm. That you're ready to lead again."

His mother stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him tightly.

Kingsley closed his eyes.

For the first time in years, he let himself breathe.