Chapter 45 Break His Arm
"Ryker, hold on."
My father's voice cut through the hallway, stopping me mid‑stride.
I was halfway to my office, desperate for a moment of quiet after that circus of a meeting earlier. But Mr Holland never did know when to let a man breathe.
His footsteps echoed behind me until he stopped, eyes locked on mine.
"What was that about?"
I raised a brow. "What do you mean?"
"The showdown with your brother. In front of everyone?"
I wasn't sure where he got the idea that I cared about appearances. If he thought I gave half a damn about keeping some reputation intact and not calling out my brother or those crusty old men in oversized shoes, I was happy for his optimism.
"Please tell me that's not why you stopped me," I said flatly, hands slipping into my pockets while resisting the urge to rub my temple.
He sighed, stepping closer. "Look, I don't care what you have going on with that woman—"
"Vanessa," I cut in sharply. "Her name is Vanessa."
"Right. Vanessa." He lowered his voice, leaning in like we were sharing a secret. "I don't care if this is about that ultimatum, but does it really have to be the reason you're always fighting with your brother?"
Fighting with Derek?
Hardly. I put him in his place and that's not the same thing.
"Is that what you think?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Don't play dumb, Ryker. You beat up your brother at his own engagement party. You think I wouldn't find out?"
"No, I figured you would."
"Yet you don't see anything wrong with that?" he asked, half‑angry, half‑shocked.
"Beating up a man who left scars on Vanessa?" I said evenly. "I'd call that a good course. Sometimes repaying people in their own coin is the best kind of relaxation. You might like it just as much as I do."
His eyes widened. Clearly, that little detail had been left out of his household gossip. Catherine knew, but of course, she'd done nothing.
He just stood there, unmoving for a second. Like the words hadn't fully reached his brain yet. Then his jaw tightened, like something bitter was stuck in his throat.
"Scars?" he finally asked, his voice quieter now. "What do you mean, scars?"
I looked him dead in the eye.
"Your golden boy Derek is a woman‑beater. He treats domestic violence like a sport. Physical, emotional—take your pick. That's what he left Vanessa with."
He blinked, stunned. The silence stretched long and heavy.
"I didn't know," he muttered, almost to himself.
"You didn't. Catherine made damn sure of it."
He stared past me, like he was trying to put together a puzzle. Then he dragged a hand down his face, looking suddenly older.
"She could've come to me."
"What would you have done?" I asked, sharper than I meant to. "Called a meeting? Sent him to therapy? Bought him a boat to calm his temper?"
He didn't answer.
Exactly.
He never did have the guts to deal with Derek.
"I'm handling it," I said, my voice gone cold. "Vanessa's safe with me. And if Derek so much as looks her way again, it'll end badly for him."
"So that's it?" my father asked. "You're trying to make things right by controlling everything and hurting your brother?"
I laughed under my breath. "No," I said, smirking. "I'm making sure no one ever touches what's mine again."
He sighed and straightened up, trying to bury the tension. "Enough of this topic. You've done enough damage for one morning."
I didn't respond. Just watched him.
He cleared his throat. "Next week, we're leaving for Napa Valley. Derek's wedding to another Miss Thomas. I expect you to be there. The family needs to show up."
I raised a brow. "You really think he wants me there? Aren't you afraid I'll break his arm before the ceremony?"
"You won't do that."
"I wouldn't bet on that if I were you."
His brows furrowed. "Ryker, I mean it."
"I'm sure you know that I meant what I said too."