CH- 13

CH- 13
Nathan’s POV

I couldn’t wait to get home, peel off this suffocating suit, and collapse onto my bed.

Developing a product was one thing—marketing it was an entirely different beast. The stress of the past few days had pushed me to my limits. I was grateful for the rare afternoon reprieve.

Earlier, I’d cleared my schedule as much as possible, postponing some meetings and moving others forward. For once, I appreciated the silence.

I parked my car in the garage and walked into the house uninterrupted. That was one perk of being wealthy—my doors didn’t open for anyone but me. Fixing myself a quick cup of tea, I sat at the kitchen counter with my laptop, going over a few last-minute details.

Tonight, though, I craved something hearty—a proper home-cooked meal. I left instructions for my live-in cook to prepare something indulgent before grabbing the brown file from my desk and heading upstairs.

If there was one thing I’d learned in business, it was this: to win a war, you need to know your opponent inside out. And that’s exactly what I intended to do this evening.

I settled onto the couch and began poring over the file my secretary had compiled on Andre Iguodala.

At first glance, nothing about him seemed particularly remarkable—but then again, he wasn’t just any man. He excelled at everything he touched; he was relentless, brilliant, and ruthless.

I’d always wondered how someone his age could be so passionate about technology when most people his age struggled to operate simple devices.

According to the file, Andre had been among the pioneers of cybersecurity in Europe, making waves long before I was even born.

Flipping to the next page, I discovered that Andre was fiercely protective of his empire and would stop at nothing to crush his competition.

A part of me wondered if I should have accepted his earlier offer now that I understood how deeply personal this industry was to him.

Maybe that’s what he meant by “taking back his company.” But then, something caught my eye—a photograph tucked between the pages.

My heart stopped. I stared at the image, unable to believe what I was seeing. It couldn’t be real.

My hands trembled as I set down the nearly empty teacup, anger surging through me. Punching the air in frustration, I threw the brown file across the room and stormed upstairs to change.

Within minutes, I was dressed in blue jeans and a navy-blue shirt, pacing toward the garage.

Standing amidst my collection of luxury cars, I hesitated only briefly before settling on the Mercedes. Information like this couldn’t wait—it gnawed at me, demanding answers.

With a determined grip on the steering wheel, I sped east toward Haven Estate, where my childhood home still stood.

Even among the sprawling estates in our neighborhood, our family house remained the largest.

Wealth had never been foreign to me, which might explain why becoming a billionaire felt less monumental than it did inevitable.

Now, though, the house looked old and worn, its once-pristine facade weathered by time.

Still, the grass on the front porch was immaculately maintained, a testament to someone’s care. If memory served me right, my dad had always taken pride in keeping it that way.

But nostalgia wasn’t welcome here. Memories of this place were painful reminders of a life I’d tried hard to leave behind.

I didn’t bother parking in the garage—I wasn’t planning to stay long. All I wanted were answers. This visit wasn’t about reconciliation or reminiscing; it was about uncovering the truth.

The heavy brass knocker on the door brought back memories I wasn’t ready to face. Frustration bubbling beneath the surface, I knocked twice, firmly.

Three minutes passed in silence, and I wondered if anyone was even home. Impatience clawed at me.

Harder this time, I knocked again—and finally, I heard movement inside. Taking a deep breath, I braced myself without realizing it. It had been over two years since I’d last seen my parents.

When the door opened, I wasn’t prepared for the wave of emotion that hit me like a freight train.

My mom gasped, tears already streaming down her face as she looked at me.

She was tall like me, elegant even at fifty-eight. People used to say I inherited her genes—and they weren’t wrong.

Her beauty turned heads wherever she went, though time had softened her edges with gray hairs and faint wrinkles around her eyes.

“Can I come in, Mum?” I asked, my voice sharp despite the pang of longing I felt.

“Of course you can. Please come in,” she said softly, stepping aside to let me enter.

She wore a luxurious silk drape tied elegantly at the back. Inside, the house felt like a cabin in the woods—the same cozy atmosphere I remembered from rainy evenings spent listening to her read stories by the fireplace.

“Why is the house so quiet? Where’s Mrs. Murdock?” I asked abruptly. Mrs. Murdock had been more than just a nanny and later a housekeeper; she’d been a constant presence throughout my childhood.

“We let her go. Her daughter had a baby, and she wanted to be closer to her family,” Mom replied quietly. She paused, clearly wanting to say more, but I cut her off.

“Where’s Dad? This isn’t a social call. I’m here to ask him some questions.”

For a moment, I saw a flicker of hurt, sadness, and disappointment flash across her face—all intertwined in a single expression that made guilt twist in my stomach. “He’s out back. Let me get him for you.” She disappeared through the kitchen, her steps slower than I remembered.

Despite the changes time had wrought, she was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever known.

While waiting, I wandered around the house, my gaze landing on familiar photographs lining the walls.

One picture in particular drew me in. It was me and my little sister, taken when she was just four.

I’d almost forgotten her face until now. Pain seared through me as I stared at her smiling image, frozen in time.

“Son.” My dad’s voice broke through my thoughts. Slow and slightly sharp, it hadn’t changed.

Neither had his appearance—he still wore those glasses with one missing lens, a quirk I’d teased him about endlessly as a child.

“Dad, sorry to drop by unannounced,” I said awkwardly. My mom reappeared beside him, her presence somehow grounding yet unsettling all at once.

“Nonsense. This is your home, and I don’t care what you think. But I’m not answering any questions unless you sit down and have a cup of coffee first,” Dad insisted firmly.

Resigned, I took a seat and accepted the steaming mug thrust into my hands. One sip confirmed that Mom hadn’t forgotten how I liked it: dark, no sugar, heavily laced with milk.

Without preamble, I pulled out the photograph and dropped it onto the table.

“What can you tell me about this man?”