I Spared Them
I Spared Them
Chapter 292: I Spared Them
Roman
He knew.
The realization did not come all at once. It unfolded slowly, spreading through my veins, each second carrying the truth deeper until it settled in my bones.
This old, calculating bastard had known about Emily all along. And none of us had seen it coming.
My thoughts spiraled, colliding with each other in a storm I could neither calm nor escape.
Since when had he known? How long had Emily existed under the shadow of his awareness? And if he truly knew… Why had he not already acted?
That was what frightened me most. Not ignorance. Not cruelty. But his patience.
Ryan stepped forward first, voice strained, the composure he so carefully maintained finally beginning to crack. “Let me explain—”
Reginald lifted one hand. That was all it took.The air itself seemed to obey him. Ryan stopped mid-step, mid-breath, like a puppet whose strings had been pulled tight.
“You think there is something left to explain?” Reginald’s voice was calm, almost conversational. “If there truly were… you would have told me long ago that you had a living, breathing child, Ryan. But you didn't.”
Ryan’s gaze dropped to the floor. Shame settled heavily over his features, dragging his shoulders downward. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
The words fell flat. They meant nothing in this room.
Reginald did not acknowledge them. Instead, his attention shifted to me, his eyes sharp and assessing, like a man examining a specimen rather than his own son.
“What is it about the Hart women,” he said slowly, “that drives you both into such irrationality? I genuinely fail to see what you find so captivating. They are… unremarkable. Empty-headed. Weak. Forgettable.”
Something inside me snapped.
I stepped forward, every muscle in my body tightening. “So what now?” My voice came out harsher than I intended. “You’re going to hurt Emily? Kill her too? It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve murdered a child, would it?”
For the first time since I had begun throwing his sins in his face, he did not deflect.
He smiled. A faint, almost thoughtful curve of the lips. “No,” he said. “It would not.”
The confession landed like a hammer striking bone.
I glanced sideways at Ryan and Hudson, expecting outrage, disbelief—something. But neither of them looked surprised. Neither of them reacted.
That silence said more than any words ever could.
My hands curled into fists so tight my nails bit into my palms. “Why?” My voice trembled despite my effort to steady it. “Why are you like this? How can you murder your own grandchild? That is a child. Your first grandchild. What could she possibly have done to deserve death?”
Reginald met my gaze without hesitation. “Existing,” he said.
The word echoed inside my skull, hollow and obscene. “You would kill your own blood… simply for existing?” I asked, struggling to reconcile the man before me with any definition of humanity I understood. “Did she ask to be born? Hell no! Why didn't you train your son better?!”
He rose slowly from his chair, movements measured, controlled. “You still do not understand.”
I looked at Ryan. He looked just as lost as I felt. “Understand what?” I demanded.
Reginald walked toward the window, clasping his hands behind his back. He stared out as though the world beyond the glass mattered more than the people standing in this room.
“I have only ever tried to protect you all from me,” he said. “Everything I have done—every decision, every sacrifice—has been for your future. You may choose to believe otherwise. That is your right. But it does not change the truth.”
Rage surged through me, hot and violent.
“Protect us?” I barked. “By murdering your offspring? By orchestrating the assault and death of your daughter-in-law? By humiliating my fiancée? By destroying innocent children? By forcing a pregnant woman into doing things she never wanted? By keeping your own son in a coma? By sucking the life out of your eldest son’s marriage?”
My voice rose with each accusation, years of pain erupting at once.
“You call that protection? Are you delusional or just simply insane?”
He did not react. Not to my anger. Not to my accusations. “I never laid a hand on your late wife, Dahlia,” he said calmly. “Surely even you are not foolish enough to believe otherwise. Even I have lines I dare not cross.”
“Says the man who married his own son's girlfriend.” I laughed bitterly. “But, no. You didn't do it, you simply ensured your friends did it for you.”
“Yes,” he replied without hesitation.
The room tilted. Sound receded. Breath became difficult. My chest tightened as if an invisible hand had closed around my heart.
“And you admit that,” I whispered. “You admit it so easily? That was my wife. My wife!”
“You asked for the truth,” he said. “Is it now too heavy for you to bear?”
I did not answer. I feared if I spoke, he would stop. And I desperately needed him to continue.
“To be a man,” he began, “is to make difficult choices. To be powerful is to make unforgivable ones.”
My fists clenched again.
“I required leverage,” he continued. “Influence over men who would not otherwise bow. I had a different plan when I invited them—each of them—separately. Believe what you wish, but Dahlia was not the original bait.”
The words scraped against my nerves.
“But plans evolve,” he said. “Circumstances shift. When they saw her… the situation changed.”
I felt exhaustion wash over me, heavy and suffocating. “And you allowed it,” I said hoarsely.
“Yes.” No hesitation. No remorse. “Because control,” he continued, “requires sacrifice. But matters escalated beyond expectation. Certain… complications arose. And difficult decisions became unavoidable.”
My voice sounded distant even to my own ears. “One of them got her pregnant. That’s why you killed her, isn’t it?”
“As I said—”
“Which one?” My hands trembled violently. “Which one of them did that to her?! Tell me the bastard's name and I'll squeeze the life out of him!”
He stared out the window, unmoved. “You'd kill the man who got her pregnant?”
“Yes! Now fucking spit it out!” I screamed. “Who was it?!”
“Does it truly matter?” He asked calmly.
My body moved before thought could intervene. I seized his collar, dragging him toward me. “Tell me who it was!”
He did not resist. He did not fear me. Instead, he raised one hand subtly, signaling Hudson to remain where he was and not interfere.
“Would you have preferred,” he asked quietly, “to raise a child conceived through betrayal?”
“You left her no choice!” I shouted. “Dahlia never betrayed me. She was raped. She was broken!”
He studied my face calmly. “You see me as a monster,” he said.
“No,” I replied. “Monster is too small a word for what you are. You destroyed Dahlia. You destroyed Reese. You destroyed River. You tried to destroy Savannah. You fucked up every child you ever had.”
He nodded slightly, as though considering my words rather than rejecting them.
“I have only ever protected you,” he said again. “Shielded you from pain. From exposure. From consequences the world would gladly impose upon you.”
“You murdered your wife and your unborn child,” I said through clenched teeth. “You murdered your own grandchildren.”
He gave a low, thoughtful chuckle. “You still misunderstand.”
His hand came to rest on my shoulder. I felt revulsion crawl across my skin, but I did not move.
“I was not killing my grandchildren,” he said softly. “I was saving my granddaughters.”
My breath stalled.
“I spared them,” he continued, “from the inevitable consequence of my past actions. From suffering the same horrors I inflicted upon others. I ensured they would never endure what Dahlia endured.”
The words struck something deep inside me—something fragile and terrifying.
“What are you saying?” My voice came out barely audible.
He watched me carefully, measuring my reaction. “Dahlia was pregnant,” he said. “Yes. The pregnancy contributed to the necessity of her removal. But the child she carried… was not conceived through my associates.”
My heart pounded so violently I could hear it. Every nerve in my body screamed in anticipation of what he would say next.
He spoke without hesitation.
“The child was yours, Roman. Dahlia was truly pregnant for you.”