Chapter 81 Father and Son
David’s POV
The spotlight passed, but the image remained burned into my retinas like a brand. I saw him at the same moment Brittany did. I felt her go entirely still under my hand, a microscopic freezing of her muscles that would have been invisible to anyone else. It was the stillness of a bird sensing a hawk. My father was there. Harrison Blackwell was sitting in box four, a ghost appearing in a room full of people who had toasted to his memory for seven years.
I did not look at the balcony directly. I didn't even tilt my head. I spent my entire childhood being dissected by that man, learning how he read micro-expressions like other people read headlines. If I gave him the satisfaction of a direct look, I was giving him the lead. Instead, I kept my eyes on a passing waiter, my face a mask of bored billionaire grace. I leaned close to Brittany, my lips barely moving, my voice a ghost of a sound.
"I see him," I whispered.
"He's watching me, not you," she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of the tremor I expected. She was staring straight ahead at the stage, but I could feel her focus pulling toward that dark glass.
I processed that. Harrison hadn't come to see the son he had tried to mold into his own image. He hadn't come to see his brothers fail or to see the company he built. He came to watch Brittany. Specifically. He was watching her the way he would watch a new predator that had entered his territory, a threat he had not fully assessed yet. It meant Harrison was not here to intervene tonight, at least not yet. He was here to evaluate whether intervention was necessary or if he could let the brothers do his dirty work for him.
"Let him watch," I said, my hand shifting slightly on her back to offer a pulse of reassurance. "He wants to see if you'll break under the weight of the room. Don't give him the show he paid for."
I reached into my pocket, my thumb finding the small, custom remote Leo had rigged. I pressed the button in a specific rhythm. A single, sharp vibration. It was the preset code for Judge Crane. Target confirmed in the venue. The judge was sitting three tables away, nursing a glass of water and looking every bit like the pillar of the legal community he was. I watched him subtly reach for his jacket pocket.
The room was a deafening roar of small talk and clinking crystal, but in our small circle, the air was heavy enough to choke on. I saw Adam approaching from the left, his face flushed with the kind of excitement that usually preceded a disaster. He looked like he wanted to make a scene, to claim the moment before the runway show began.
"David! Brittany!" Adam shouted, his voice cutting through the ambient noise. "I was just telling the reporter from the Times that this collection is the boldest thing Blackwell has ever put its name on. Truly a family effort, wouldn't you say?"
I looked at my brother, seeing the puppet strings he couldn't even feel. He had no idea our father was sitting thirty feet above him, watching him act like a clown. "The effort is exactly where it needs to be, Adam," I said. "I suggest you focus on the board members. They're looking for stability tonight, not a press release."
Adam’s smile faltered for a second, his eyes darting to Brittany. "And the wife in the signature piece? A bit much, isn't it? A bit loud for a Blackwell?"
"It’s a Phoenix, Adam," Brittany said, her voice cutting through his posturing like a razor. "They're supposed to be loud. It’s the silence that should worry you."
Adam scoffed and moved on, but the interaction felt like a shadow play. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. Two pulses. Crane’s response. Understood. Filing initiated.
The federal submission was already in motion. At this very moment, the servers were being hit by the Department of Justice, and the injunctions were being prepared. By tomorrow morning, the Blackwell trust would be under a microscope that Harrison couldn't hide from. We were winning. The trap was closing.
But then, the secondary device on my wrist gave a different kind of signal. It was a sharp, frantic series of taps. This wasn't the judge. This was Leo. He was monitored from the walls of the venue, perched in a crawlspace above the rigging where he had been in position since noon. He had access to every security feed, including the ones Harrison thought he had encrypted.
I looked down at the small screen concealed in my palm. My jaw tightened so hard I felt a dull ache in my teeth. The feed was grainy, shot from a pinhole camera Leo had managed to slide into the ventilation of box four. It showed my father, leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled. But he wasn't alone.
There was a second person in Harrison's balcony box. They were sitting in the shadows, partially obscured by a heavy velvet curtain. At first, I couldn't identify them from the feed angle. I watched the screen, my heart rate climbing as Leo adjusted the lens, fighting for a clear shot. I expected to see a bodyguard. I expected to see Richard or maybe even a high-ranking official whom Harrison had bought years ago.
The silhouette shifted. The person leaned forward to pick up a glass of scotch from the small table between the chairs. The light from the ballroom below caught their profile, illuminating a face I knew as well as my own. My breath hitched.
Leo finally got a camera angle on their face, and I felt the world tilt on its axis. It turned out to be Marcus. But this wasn't the Marcus from the mansion. This wasn't the quiet, slightly nervous assistant who had been performing his role unaware of the larger storm. This was a Marcus who was relaxed and authoritative in a way I had never seen before. He was sitting beside Harrison Blackwell like an equal, his legs crossed, a look of calm predatory intelligence on his face as they both looked down at us.
There is a second person in Harrison's balcony box. Someone David cannot identify from the feed angle. Someone Harrison brought with him. Someone who, when Leo finally gets a camera angle on their face, turns out to be Marcus — not the Marcus from the mansion, not the assistant who has been performing his role unaware — but a Marcus who is relaxed and authoritative in a way David has never seen, sitting beside Harrison Blackwell like an equal.