44. Roman
ROMAN
“ W hy are you willing to help Juliette and me?”
I don’t waste time mincing words, because I need to know that Frederick will help us. There’s a charity gala tonight, one that the entire town is going to be at, and one that my father has requested I attend.
It will be my last hurrah. And Juliette’s. After she agreed to my reckless plan, we worked on logistics.
“When will we go?”
“The VU Founders’ Gala is this weekend. Let’s play our parts until then. Give time for you to talk to Freddy. And then we’ll slip away.”
Frederick rubs his chin. “Because I believe you two are the key. The match that will light the flame and burn down the feud, or perhaps…the balm to finally end it.”
I scoff, slouching deeper in the chair across from him. “I don’t care about the feud. Let them fucking kill each other and bleed out in the streets as long as they leave Juliette and me the hell alone.”
It sounds crass, but I mean every word. Juliette might feel differently, but that’s because she loves deeply, even those who don’t deserve it. Not that she’d admit that fact, because the guard she holds around herself is ten thousand feet tall and made of stone.
Frederick looks battle worn and weary. “When I first came to this town twenty-five years ago, I thought I’d stumbled into an old money type of elegance.” He laughs. “But what I walked into was a war masquerading as civility.”
He leans forward, elbows braced on the edge of his desk.
“Every day since, I’ve had to play diplomat.
Remember I told you that being a master of the game meant you controlled it, and that’s true, but it’s goddamn tiring.
It’s never-ending. Bribes. Council seats.
Land grabs. Calloway and Montgomery both using people as currency. ”
“So, you’re tired,” I deduce. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“This isn’t tired , this is bigger than that. I’ve prayed for something to end it. Maybe not with fire, or blood, or a handshake. But if it comes because of love…” He smiles faintly. “Who am I to stand in the way?”
I cross my arms, grinding my teeth. “So you’re saying my father is just as corrupt as Craig Calloway, and yet somehow, you think Juliette and me are the answer?”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t insult either of us by pretending you didn’t already know that.”
I don’t answer, because he’s right.
“Both of your families have built empires on exploitation,” Frederick says. “You think that money grows from honest soil? Wake up, Roman.”
I rake a hand through my hair. “None of this shit matters to me, Frederick. I’m not asking about morality, I’m asking if you can help me and Juliette disappear.”
Frederick nods, and there’s something almost too smooth about the motion.
“It’s what I’ve wanted since I’ve seen that picture of the two of you together.
The son of a Montgomery and the daughter of a Calloway.
Two houses alike in dignity, bound by legacy, divided by greed.
What better way to end a blood feud than with the two children they need vanishing from the board entirely? ”
“You make it sound so tragic.” My chest tightens.
He pauses, eyes gleaming. “Sometimes, the world needs a little tragedy to move forward.”
My brow furrows.
“Besides,” he continues. “You’ll be safer if you’re away from here. I don’t know what Marcus was thinking allowing you to stir up public outrage for the Calloways when they’re tied together with the Badon Hill Gang.”
My heart falters and I lean forward. “It was just me painting some conspiracies on the wall.”
Frederick looks at me like I’ve grown three heads. “He really didn’t tell you much, did he? Every painting you put up is a slap in their faces, and the Badon Hill crew? Those men don’t care who holds the brush.”
My stomach drops like a lead weight. “He told me that was done. That Brutus guy is dead.”
His face pinches. “He lied.”
A hollow ache blooms in my chest.
I had thought we were making progress, that in the end, my father had started to see me as something more than what he’s made me feel my entire life.
But this? This is proof that even the good moments were built on bad intentions.
He’s been using me, pulling strings behind my back like I’m a puppet in motion.
My thumb spins the ring on my finger like I can unscrew the past from my skin, but it still clings on.
Somewhere deep inside, that kid staring outside of a window looking in breaks all over again.
Because how could I have been so stupid to think that this time would be different.
I blow out a breath, beating down the hurt. “If I leave…what happens to my mother?”
Frederick’s face softens. “She’ll be safe. Taken care of. Your departure doesn’t change what’s already in motion for her.”
I study his face. There’s no hesitation. No flicker of doubt. Just a polished calm, almost as if he expected me to ask.
The words should comfort me, but they don’t.
Still…I’m done sacrificing everything for a woman who expects me to always be there to pick up the pieces.
I love her, and I’m hopeful that one day I’ll get to feel that returned in a way that doesn’t hurt. But I won’t give up my greatest love for a woman who’s never been willing to give up hers. And my mother’s greatest love has always been the high.
“She understands more than you think,” he adds, his voice quieter now. “She would understand.”
Something about the way he says it…
I shake off the feeling and give a short nod.
Frederick clears his throat. “I feel like I should remind you that by leaving, you’ll be forfeiting your inheritance.”
“You can have it. I only want Juliette.”
A fire lights up in Frederick’s eyes, and it looks a lot like hope.
“Good.”
Staring at my father is different when I know he might be dead soon.
Does it really matter when he’s using you for his gain?
He took it upon himself to not be in my life for the first twenty-three years of it, and now that I’m here, now that he’s helped my sister and our mother, does that mean I have to rearrange all of my feelings to fit his narrative?
I don’t think it does. In fact, I think it might make me hate him more.
It’s selfish on his part to force me to feel something other than resentment and then rip it away when I’ve finally had a taste.
I showed up to Montgomery Manor like the dutiful son I’m pretending to be, and found him in the sitting area, hooked up to an IV with a hospice nurse in the room across the hall. I stand in the doorway for a minute, my eyes drinking him in, trying to find the evil on his skin.
He’s flipping through a paperback, his eyes half lidded from whatever cocktail they’re giving him to keep the pain at bay, and he’s propped up in one of those stiff, pretentious chairs he seems to love, like even when he’s dying, he needs to feel like he’s holding court.
But he isn’t dressed for the gala.
And he looks the same as he always does, a little pale and a little frail. Still the man I’ve watched from a distance my entire life through lenses and newspaper clippings.
My polished shoes clack on the hardwood, and I swipe a hand down the stiff tuxedo as I make my way toward him.
I know he can hear me, but he doesn’t look my way. Just stares vacantly in the distance, like he’s watching ghosts walk the corridor.
“You ready?” he asks. “For the gala tonight.”
“More than you seem to be,” I reply.
He looks at me now, his brow furrowed like the secrets of the world are being whispered into his ear. “The papers are already calling it the event of the season.”
I glance at the fireplace. “They would, I guess.”
A beat of silence passes between us.
He shifts slightly, grimacing. He’s obviously in pain, and my middle pulls tight, aching somewhere deep. I hate that after everything I know now, I still feel it.
“You’re not coming,” I say in a monotonous tone.
He shakes his head. “No point in putting on a suit just to bleed through it.”
“You could’ve told me.” Anger pulses through my veins. “I wouldn’t have wasted the trip out here.”
“I didn’t know I needed permission to stay in my own house.” He goes back to staring vacantly into the hall. “I figured Freddy would’ve told you.”
“What’s he got to do with this?”
“Freddy said the press would eat it up, me being too weak to stand and arriving in a wheelchair. That it would overshadow the event.”
Of course he did.
“Since when do you care about being overshadowed?” I ask.
“I don’t, but Freddy knows what’s best.”
“You trust him a lot,” I murmur, guilt hitting me. If he knew Frederick was helping me leave everything, he may not feel the same way.
He looks at me with tired eyes. “He’s never given me a reason not to.”
My gut twists, but I push it down.
I exhale, forcing a calm tone into my voice. “I just thought you’d want to be there with me. To see me at the biggest gala of the year, representing our name.”
He watches me closely, and for just a second, I think I see something. Remorse, maybe. But it’s gone before I can catch it.
“I’ve seen you plenty, Roman.”
“You haven’t,” I argue. “I don’t think you’ve ever really seen me. You’ve only always seen what I can do for you with the Calloways.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “It was never about them, son. It was about ensuring there’d be something left when I was gone.”
“But you never let me be part of that,” I snap.
His eyes flick up. “I didn’t want to lose you to it.”
“And now here we are.”
The silence stretches.
“I’ve been angry at you for a long time, you know? And I had thought that finally maybe I’d be able to stop carrying it.”
He frowns. “But that’s changed.”
“I know the truth,” I spit out. “About the Badon Hill Gang. About that guy Brutus not really being dead.”
He doesn’t react.
“You used me.”
He nods once, like he’s accepting all of the accusations I’m hurling his way.
“I’ve never known how to be a father,” he says after a while. “Barely know how to really be a man. This empire that I inherited…it’s all I’ve ever known how to control.”
There’s a melancholy hint to his tone, and I want to hold on to the anger, but I’m just… tired .
“I’m leaving,” I say.
I move closer, stop at the edge of the rug.
“For good. I won’t be back.”
His fingers twitch slightly on the armrest. “Is that supposed to pain me?”
“No,” I say, quieter now. “I think I stopped trying to hurt you a long time ago. The only thing I care about is figuring out how to have you stop hurting me .”
Finally, he glances at me. His eyes are sunken, rimmed in shadow.
We sit in the silence for a moment, and then he says, “You think walking away makes you better than me?”
“No,” I say. “I think it makes me free of you.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “And what will you do without all of this?”
“Live,” I say. “Love someone without lying to her. Be someone my sister can look up to.”
He leans back slowly, like the weight of his bones has finally caught up to him. “There’s no redemption in this world, Roman.”
“Maybe not for you,” I say. “But I’m done carrying your sins on my back.”
“Freddy thought you’d stay. That this would be enough.”
My brows shoot to my hairline, confusion racing through me like a river breaking a dam. “What do you mean, Frederick thought I’d stay ?”
He shrugs. “This whole thing, me letting you come back, he’s the one who pushed for it. I thought it was too risky and was willing to just die and have everything in your name, hoping that one day, you’d be safe enough to come home and claim it.”
That doesn’t make any sense.
His words circle in my head and then drop to my feet, and I step closer to him, my voice low. “Are you telling me that Frederick Lawrence convinced you to have me come home, and then had me sign a piece of paper the moment I arrived saying if I left, it all would go to him?”
My father’s face shows a hint of recognition. Of wariness. Of betrayal.
The weight of it hits me in slow, suffocating waves. My chest pulls taut and my throat dries.
Every step I thought I was taking toward us , toward Juliette and me, is steeped in someone else’s agenda.
The realization is a punch to my gut.
“He said he’d help us leave,” I murmur, more to myself than him. “Juliette and me.”
I swallow the burn raging through me, my hands falling limp at my sides. My body’s still, but inside, something breaks.
“Who made sure Brooklynn’s trust went through?” I ask, my lungs seizing tight.
My father says nothing, but his eyes harden, suddenly alert and sharp as glass.
Fuck.
“She has it already,” I plead, half telling him and half asking. “She has a house, insurance, the money in her bank.”
My father swallows harshly.
“Tell me you looked over the papers. Tell me that there’s not a loophole, something that would be triggered if I disappeared.”
“I can’t tell you that, son. I’m not the man who writes the fine print.”
My heart shatters, blood pounding in my ears.