I Raised Daughters

I Raised Daughters
Chapter 291: I Raised Daughters
Roman

Luck must have been on my side today. Or maybe something darker had decided I hadn’t suffered enough yet.

Luck had never been something I totally believed in. Not truly. Not in the way people spoke about fate aligning or invisible hands guiding outcomes. My life had never been shaped by fortune—only by consequence.

And yet, as I pushed open the heavy doors to my father’s office and saw Ryan standing there, I almost reconsidered because he wasn’t exactly who I had come to find. 

But he was someone I was desperate to get my hands on. 

Laptop tucked under one arm. Crisp baby-blue shirt perfectly pressed. Those same glasses perched on his nose like he was about to give a lecture instead of breathing my air. All together he looked composed and untouched. As if nothing in the world had changed. As if I hadn’t nearly died. As if he hadn’t stepped into my life like a replacement.

For a few seconds, he just stared at me. Completely still.

His eyes widened slowly, disbelief rippling across his face. He looked like he was seeing a ghost—and in that moment, I suppose I was one. A man he thought was out of the way. A problem he thought was solved.

Then the silence snapped.

Rage took over before thought could intervene. 

“Bastard!” My fist collided with his face with a force that reverberated through my bones. The crack of impact echoed sharply against the office walls. 

His head snapped back. The laptop slipped from under his arm and slammed against the polished floor with a dull, final thud. He staggered, clutching his nose as blood spilled between his fingers.

I didn’t give him time to breathe.

I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him forward, fury roaring in my ears like a storm breaking loose. “You fucking scoundrel!” I shouted, my voice raw. “I’ll kill you!”

My fist drove into his stomach. He doubled slightly, breath leaving him in a harsh grunt, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. Every ounce of anger that had built inside me over the past weeks poured into my fists.

But Ryan was never one to fold quietly. Even stunned, even bleeding, he shoved at my chest with surprising force.

I barely felt it.

He shoved me, trying to break free, but rage had turned my body into something heavier, harder. I barely moved. I struck again. And again. And again.

The world narrowed to impact and breath and heat. Then he retaliated viciously. Ryan had always been violent. Cold violence. Precise violence. The kind that didn’t waste motion.

His knee drove directly into my abdomen. Straight into the bullet wound.

The pain was instantaneous—white-hot, blinding, electric. My body reacted before pride could interfere. I released him with a sharp intake of breath, instinctively clutching my stomach as fire spread to that point.

For a split second, the world stopped existing and only pain reigned. But the distraction was short-lived. 

Rage swallowed the pain whole.

I lunged forward again—only to be held back from behind. Strong arms locked around my chest, unknowingly pressing against the wound there.

Hudson.

“Get off me!” I snarled, struggling against his grip. He held firm, immovable as a wall. I twisted free once, only for him to hold me back again, stronger this time.

Across the room, Ryan straightened slowly. Blood ran freely from his nose, streaking down over his lips and chin. 

He pulled out a handkerchief with trembling fingers and pressed it against the wound, eyes blazing behind his upside down glasses.

I pointed at him, chest heaving. “I’ll kill you for laying a hand on Savannah!” The words tore out of me like a promise I was sure I'd keep. 

Ryan laughed—a harsh, humorless sound that carried more venom than pain.

“Well then, train your bitch better,” he hissed through bloodied teeth. “If you can’t keep your animal on a tight leash, I’ll gladly do it for you when she comes sniffing around my territory.”

The world went red.

Hudson’s grip broke as I surged forward, tackling Ryan to the ground with enough force to rattle the desk beside us. 

My fists fell without rhythm, without restraint, without mercy. Bone met flesh. Flesh met fury. The burn in my chest and abdomen intensified, but it barely registered. Pain had become irrelevant.

I just needed him to feel something. Anything.

Hands grabbed at me again—Hudson trying to drag me off. I shoved him back, but he barely shifted, absorbing the force like stone.

For one wild, reckless moment, a desperate thought flashed through my mind.

Expose him. Expose everything. Tell our father that his perfect, disciplined son had impregnated a young woman outside his marriage. Drag the truth into the light and watch his empire crack.

The words hovered at the back of my throat. Then another image surfaced. 

Emily. Her adorable smile. Her innocence. Her life. The truth would not destroy Ryan alone. It would destroy her.

My fists stilled. I pushed myself off Ryan and staggered back, chest heaving.

Hudson released me cautiously, though he didn’t move far. “I said, don’t touch me,” I warned Hudson when he stepped closer again. He didn’t move. He simply stood there, silent and watchful.

Ryan remained on the floor, breathing hard, blood still slipping through his fingers.

Then my father spoke.

“Roman,” he said calmly from behind his desk, “no fighting in my office.” The normalcy of his tone stunned me more than the violence had.

I turned slowly toward him.

He sat exactly as he always did—hands clasped together, posture composed, gaze steady. Not a flicker of concern. Not a hint of surprise. Not even irritation strong enough to disrupt his composure. As if one son hadn’t just tried to beat another to death.

“That’s it?” I demanded. “That’s all you have to say?” My voice rose, filling the room. 

I pointed at both of them—father and son. “Who gave you the right to take over my office? Who gave you the right to issue orders in my name?” My voice rose, shaking with fury. “And you—” I jabbed a finger toward Ryan, who was now sitting upright on the floor — “who the hell gave you the authority to replace me?”

“I did,” my father replied evenly.

The simplicity of the answer made something inside me snap tighter.

“I made the decision because no one else was capable of handling matters with clarity,” he continued. “Zachary was too emotionally compromised. He lacks objectivity where Miss Hart is concerned. And your girlfriend…” His lips curved slightly. “Let us not discuss her incompetence. It is quite… outstanding.”

Ryan gave a quiet, blood-tinged chuckle from the floor.

I stepped forward. “Don’t you dare insult Savannah,” I said, voice low and dangerous. “She is smarter than most people in this house combined. Including you. You don't get to insult her.” 

My father did not react.

“What do you have against her?” I demanded. “What unforgivable crime did she commit to earn your contempt? What has she done to you that justifies treating her worse than servants are treated?”

“Miss Hart is not suitable for you,” he replied without hesitation. “She is beneath you. She comes from a family of liars, thieves, and people without principle.”

I laughed—a sharp, incredulous sound. “Liars, thieves and people without principles?” I repeated. “Isn’t that us?” I shot back. “Last time I checked, you are all three.”

His expression remained unchanged. So I continued.

“You and your associates destroyed my wife in my absence. Your friends violated her. Humiliated her. And she died because of you and Penelope.” My voice shook with fury. “You lost my respect the day you touched what belonged to your own son.”

Silence fell heavily across the room.

“Do you believe your crimes will remain hidden forever?” I pressed on. “A day is coming when everything you buried will surface. You speak of principles while raising animals like Randall and Ryan. You disgust me. Men like you deserve prison and worse.”

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes. Not guilt. Recognition. I waited for denial. For rage. For defense. For anything that resembled humanity.

Instead, he spoke calmly.

“I am still permitted to speak about principles, Roman,” he said. “I raised daughters. Exemplary daughters. Fine, wonderful women. Intelligent, disciplined, respectable women who understand dignity.”

The room grew colder.

“They understand,” he continued softly, “not to become mistresses, hidden away like filth.”

My blood turned to ice.

Ryan pushed himself to his feet too quickly, stumbling slightly as shock overtook his features.

My father watched us both with quiet satisfaction. “Surprised I know about little Emily Martina Hart?” he asked mildly.

His smile widened just enough to be cruel.

“Or should I say,” he added, “Emily Martina Blackwood?”