Broken Blades (The Detroit Serpents #5)

Chastity

The snow had started to surrender that afternoon—patches of dead grass showing through like old scars. I pulled into the driveway behind my father's Mercedes, parked at precisely the same angle it always was, exactly two feet from the garage door. Some things never changed.

The wreath on the front door was new. Fresh pine and burgundy ribbon, the kind my mother ordered from that boutique in Greenwich every December. I could smell the cinnamon candles before I even turned the key—Casablanca Lily and Spice, the only scent she'd burned since I was twelve.

"Look at you." She held me at arm's length, hands on my shoulders. Her gaze traveled down, then up. "You're too thin. Are you eating?"

"Mom, I'm—"

"Your hair's longer." Her fingers caught a strand, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger like she was testing fabric quality. "It suits you."

She glanced past me toward the door. Toward the driveway. Toward nothing in particular.

"How was the drive? You didn't hit traffic, did you? When did you leave campus? You should have called from the road."

The questions came rapid-fire, her smile fixed and bright.

"I'm fine. Everything's fine."

I'd never doubted my parents. Not once. They'd always chosen each other—through Father's eighty-hour weeks, through Mother's charity galas, through every minor crisis and major decision.

I'd watched them navigate twenty-six years of marriage with the kind of steady devotion most people only pretended to have.

I'd always wanted that. "Is Dad home?"

"In his office." She smoothed my coat lapel unnecessarily. "On a call, but he knows you're—"

"Chastity."

My father stood in the doorway of his study, phone still pressed to his ear. His eyes met mine, and something shifted in his expression—the calculation dropping away into genuine warmth.

"I'll call you back." He didn't wait for a response before ending the call. His hug was firm, brief, perfect. "There's my future executive."

I grinned. "Finished a semester early."

"I know." Pride creased the corners of his eyes. "Your advisor sent me your final evaluations. Exceptional work."

The position was waiting for me—Associate Director of Strategic Development. He'd been preparing me for this since I'd declared my major. Every summer internship, every networking dinner, every carefully selected course had built toward this moment.

"We'll start you in January," he said. "Get you oriented before the quarterly review."

"I'm ready."

"I know you are."

He squeezed my shoulder once, then released me.

The dining room glowed amber. Six tapers arranged down the center of the table—beeswax, unscented, because Mother said scented candles at dinner were "gauche." The china was Wedgwood. The crystal, Baccarat. Everything in its place, everything deliberate.

Father uncorked the Bordeaux himself, poured Mother's glass first, then reached for mine.

"Just water, thanks."

His eyebrow lifted. "Special occasion."

"Early morning tomorrow. I want to review the Q4 reports before we meet."

He smiled at that—the expression he reserved for boardrooms and quarterly earnings calls. Pride, but measured. He set the bottle down and poured himself half a glass.

Mother had outdone herself. Herb-crusted lamb, roasted fingerlings, asparagus so perfectly charred it could've been photographed. She served each plate with practiced precision, angling the meat just so.

"This looks incredible," I said.

"It's nothing." But her smile said otherwise.

Father cut into his lamb. "The merger should close by Q2."

I set down my fork. "Already?"

"Ahead of schedule, actually." He chewed, swallowed, reached for his wine. "We're consolidating with a wellness and sports performance group. Exclusive facilities, high-profile clientele. They've built something impressive."

"That's ambitious."

"It's strategic." He gestured with his knife. "Their founder—exceptional businesswoman. I respect her immensely. She understands brand cultivation."

Mother's hand paused mid-reach for her water glass. Just a fraction of a second. Then she took it, sipped, set it down with care.

"What's their market position?" I asked.

"Dominant. Three locations, expansion planned. Corporate wellness contracts, athletic training, physical therapy. They've cornered the premium sector."

I leaned forward. "And my role?"

"You'll head the new community impact division." His eyes locked on mine. "You'll be the face of our commitment to health, wellness, local development. The next generation of leadership."

The words settled warm in my chest.

"Investors care about stability," he continued. "Image. Legacy. We're not just building buildings. We're building trust."

"Who's the co-CEO? After the merger?"

Father's expression didn't change. "An old business associate. Someone I've known for years."

"Let's not bore her with technicalities." Mother stood abruptly, reaching for the wine bottle even though no one's glass was empty. "Chastity just got home. Can we have one meal without merger talk?"

"Of course." Father's tone was smooth, apologetic. He turned to me. "Your mother's right. Tell us about graduation. Your roommate—Madison, was it?"

I picked up my fork again, let the conversation shift. But I'd caught it. That fractional hesitation. The way Mother's fingers had tightened on the bottle's neck.

I told myself I was imagining things.

The conversation had drifted—finals, Madison's post-grad plans, Mother's upcoming luncheon for the Literacy Council—when Father's expression transformed. Not the measured warmth I was used to. Something brighter. Unguarded.

"Did you catch Sunday's game?"

I blinked. "The Serpents?"

"Overtime victory. Incredible." He set down his knife, fully engaged now. "Ryker Kane pulled off a hat trick in the third period. Three goals in eight minutes. The stats are phenomenal—he's averaging point-nine-four goals per game this season. Best in the league."

Mother's fork scraped against her plate. "Even after all this time, your father still follows the Serpents."

"Follow?" He laughed—an actual laugh, not the controlled chuckle he used at business dinners.

"I've had season tickets since the franchise started.

Club level, right behind the bench. You can hear everything.

The strategy, the play calls." He leaned back, wine glass forgotten.

"Last month they let me into the locker room after the playoff game. Met the whole roster."

"Really?"

"Kane signed a puck for me. Personalized." Pride colored his voice. "I sponsor their youth training program—inner-city kids, equipment grants, ice time. The outreach director says we've enrolled two hundred kids this year alone."

I'd never seen him like this. Even when he'd closed the hospital deal last spring—the one that made the Times—he'd remained composed. Satisfied, but measured.

This was different. This was passion.

"They're hosting a masquerade next weekend," he continued. "Annual charity event. Black tie. The entire roster attends, plus major donors, media, potential investors." He met my eyes. "You should come with me."

"To a hockey event?"

"To a networking opportunity." The business tone slipped back in, but the enthusiasm remained. "Good for your visibility. Time people see you as part of the company, part of the community. The Serpents organization does incredible philanthropy work. These are the connections that matter."

He wanted me there. Not just for appearances—he genuinely wanted to share this with me.

"Okay." I nodded. "I'll go."

His smile widened. "Excellent. I'll have Marissa add you to the RSVP list."

Mother reached for her water glass again. Her hand was steady, her expression pleasant.

"You'll look stunning," she said.

But she was looking at her plate when she said it.

I pushed the thought away. This was important to Father. That was what mattered. I could network, make connections, show him I belonged in the world he'd built for me.

Father swirled the wine in his glass, studying the legs as they slid down the crystal. "When we're there, I'd caution you to avoid Wyatt Garrison."

I paused mid-reach for my water. "I thought he was your favorite player."

"Was." The word came sharp. "Trouble on the ice now. Temper. Used to be better before—" He stopped. Set the glass down with precision. "Before things fell apart."

But his jaw had tightened. That muscle near his ear, the one that only flexed during difficult negotiations.

"What happened to him?"

"He made poor choices."

The answer came too fast. Too flat. Like a door slamming shut.

Mother's fork clinked against her plate. She didn't look up, just pushed an asparagus spear from one side to the other, then back again.

The silence stretched. One breath. Two.

Father cleared his throat. "Anyway. The event will be excellent networking. I've invited several board members—"

"Is there dessert?" Mother stood, already gathering plates even though Father hadn't finished. "I made that chocolate torte you used to love."

"Mom, I can help—"

"No, no. You sit." Her smile was radiant. Perfect. "You just got home."

She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Father and the weight of whatever had just passed between them.

Sports drama, I thought. Ego. Men being men.

I laughed—light, dismissive. "Sounds like every athlete I've ever met. Big talent, bigger head."

Father picked up his wine again but didn't drink. "Something like that."

"Well, I'll steer clear. Promise." I grinned at him. "Wouldn't want to damage the company image by association with a hothead."

"Good." He nodded once. "That's smart thinking."

But he was looking past me now, toward the kitchen doorway. Toward the sound of my mother opening cabinets, the gentle clink of dessert plates being stacked.

I'd seen my father negotiate hundred-million-dollar deals without breaking composure. I'd watched him face down hostile boards, aggressive competitors, skeptical investors—always steady, always in control.

This wasn't that.

This was something else.