Chapter 50

CH. 50

CAESAR LAURENT

The sun had gone down by the time the tires crunched over the gravel of the estate.

I gripped the leather handle of my briefcase, the weight of Hugh’s documents feeling like pressure against my palm. Looking up at the house, I pulled in a slow breath and forced my shoulders to drop.

Stay calm.

Inside, one of the staff intercepted me immediately, reaching for my bag. “Mr. Laurent, your father is waiting in his study. I’ll take this upstairs—”

“I'll take it,” I snapped, pulling it back.

She flinched and stepped aside. I climbed the stairs, the wood silent under my boots. I dropped the briefcase in my room, turned the deadbolt, and listened to the click. Only then did I head back down.

I knocked once on the study’s door.

“Come in.”

My father sat in the center of the room, eyes fixed on the newspaper in his hands. He set the paper aside, slid off his glasses, and leaned back into the deep leather of his chair.

“Anything eventful at work today?”

My pulse kicked up, but I kept my face neutral. “No. Just a meeting. I spent the afternoon digging through the Quinn documents for Project Blackwell.”

He nodded, studying me. “Sit.”

I took the chair across from him. He folded his hands on the desk, his expression unreadable. “I called you here to thank you.”

I frowned. “For?”

“The information about Aaron meeting with executives.”

The world seemed to tilt. Had Iris told him? Or was this a trap designed to see if we were speaking behind his back

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said, feigning ignorance.

He raised an eyebrow, a predatory glint in his eyes. “You didn't know?”

“Know what?”

“That Aaron's been positioning himself.”

I shook my head. “I'm just hearing this. Is it true?”

He watched me for a long, suffocating minute, weighing the lie. Then he leaned back, satisfied. He’d gotten his confirmation: either Iris was keeping secrets, or I was a very good actor.

“I thought you were aware,” he said, sliding his glasses back on. “But if not, it's no matter.”

“Is this why you asked for me?”

“Of course not.” He said, “It’s to discuss your promotion.”

I raised a brow, unsure I’d heard right. “My promotion?”

“Aaron is ambitious. But you—” He pointed at me, his finger marking the air to emphasize the point. “—you've always been strategic. Which is why I'm giving you more responsibility. European acquisitions. You start next week.”

A promotion from my father always had a cost attached to it. “Thank you,” I said, forcing a small smile.

“Of course, this comes with expectations. I trust you to not embarrass me.”

“I understand.”

He paused, seemingly remembering something. “There's something else. Margaret Quinn is becoming a problem I don’t think I can tolerate. I need you to take care of it.”

I shifted, the leather creaking under me. “I don’t understand. Did she do something?”

He tilted his head, mocking my ignorance. “Your wife didn't tell you her mother stormed in here? Caused a scene while calling me a murderer?”

That was the tension Aaron had mentioned. But how did he know? Someone in this house was definitely giving him information.

“I’m only just hearing this,” I said.

My father tsked. “Pay more attention to your wife, Caesar. Make sure nothing gets out of hand. At least until she gives me a grandchild.”

I looked at him, the disgust rising in my throat. “Why are you so intent on a child?”

He smiled faintly, and it was the most honest, terrifying thing I’d seen all day. “Because the Quinn girl won’t stay peacefully under our roof forever. I need something to bind her here. Threats to her company will only work for so long, but a mother’s love? That lasts forever.”

I stared at him. He wanted a hostage. He wanted me to put a child in her just so he could own her through it. I would never bring a life into this house. Not while he was still in my affairs.

“Now,” he continued, picking up his paper. “Convince Iris to take Margaret out of the country. The next time I’m accused of murdering Richard Quinn, I won't be so patient. You can go.”

I stood. My legs felt heavy, but I didn't move toward the door.

“Did you?” I asked.

He looked up. “Did I what?”

“Have a hand in Mr. Quinn’s death.”

His eyes went cold, the temperature in the room dropping twenty degrees. “Do you suspect me?”

“I want the truth,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Because if you did... I understand. It was necessary.”

The lie burned my tongue, but I saw the flicker of approval cross his face. He thought I was finally becoming like him.

“You're learning,” he said.

I turned and walked out before the bile in my throat could overflow. The hallway was quiet, but as I reached the stairs, I saw Iris.

She was halfway up, clutching the railing as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her knuckles were white. Her face was a ghost-pale mask, her eyes rimmed red, making it obvious she had been crying.

Neither of us spoke. We just stood there, staring at each other.

I followed her up the stairs.

She kept climbing without looking back, one white-knuckled hand anchored to the railing while the other pressed against her ribs as if she were physically holding her soul together.

When we reached the bedroom, she went straight to the bed and climbed in fully clothed. She grabbed the pillow and clutched it to her chest, curling around it.

I stood in the doorway, silence weighing on me. Part of me wanted to ask. Most of me wanted to let her be.

I walked to the closet, retrieved the envelope from my briefcase, and moved to the safe. I turned the dial and slid the documents inside. When I stepped back out, I yanked my tie loose and draped it over a chair.

It wasn't my business if she was falling apart. People cry. Besides, she wouldn't give me the truth anyway, so why waste the breath?

I shrugged off my jacket and began unbuttoning my cuffs, turning toward the bathroom to wash the day off my skin when I heard a sniffle muffled by the fabric of the pillow.

I stopped.

A stable Iris was a functional asset. An emotional, grieving, fractured Iris was a liability. And liabilities would not help me survive my father or the viper waiting in the wings named Aaron. But opening that door meant walking into a room I wasn't sure I could leave.

I let out a frustrated exhale and turned back, walking to the edge of the mattress. “Did something happen at your mother's?”

Silence. Of course she wouldn’t say anything.

I mentally kicked myself for even leaning in. I turned back toward the bathroom, ready to let it go.

“What would you do?”

Her voice stopped me cold.

She sat up slowly, the pillow still anchored in her lap. Her eyes were swollen and raw, wet with a type of defeat I hadn't seen on her before.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She studied me, her gaze lingering as if she were weighing my soul against the dark. Deciding if I was worth the truth.

“If the only person who believed in you... didn't believe you anymore,” she whispered. “If they told you to come back only when you'd done something worth coming back for. What would you do?”

I stared at her. The subtext wasn't hard to read. Her mother had cut the cord.

“I'd prove them wrong,” I said almost immediately. It was the only way I knew how to exist.

“And if you couldn't? If proving them wrong meant destroying yourself in the process?”

I didn't answer immediately.

I couldn't. I’d spent my entire life chasing a bar my father moved every time I got close. I was the expert on self-destruction in the name of approval.

“Then you decide,” I said finally, the words sounding hollow even to me. “Whether their belief is worth more than your survival.”

She looked down at the pillow, her shoulders slumping. She nodded once before she lay back down, turning her back to me and retreating into the covers. I stood there for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders.

Then I walked into the bathroom and closed the door, letting the water cool me. When I came out, she was still curled on her side, eyes shut in a way I couldn't tell if she was asleep or just pretending.

I walked to the couch, grabbed the blanket, and lay down. I couldn't stop seeing the way she’d looked at me when she asked that question.

Like she was drowning in the middle of a crowded room. And I was the only one who noticed.