Chapter 34
Chapter thirty-four
Arthur
Ican hear them before I see them. The front door opening. Voices low, subdued. Footsteps on marble—Henry's quick and light, Lindsay's hesitant. I stand by the door, hands clasped behind my back.
Security called the moment they found them. Then called again with updates on their journey home.
I know every detail of what happened today. The timeline. The outcome.
I don't need to hear it again.
I wait until Henry's footsteps fade down the hall before I move. My steps are measured, deliberate. Each one carefully placed as I descend the stairs.
Lindsay is standing in the entryway, still clutching that ridiculous sparkly bag. She looks up when she hears me, and something in her expression shifts—not fear exactly, but recognition. Like she already knows what I'm thinking.
"Henry's fine," she says immediately. The defensive edge in her voice tells me she's been rehearsing this.
I say nothing. I simply stand there.
"I should have called," she adds. "I know. But we were just—"
"In my office. Now."
She follows without argument.
Once inside, I close the door and turn to face her. Lindsay stands in the center of the room, shoulders squared, chin lifted slightly. Braced for impact.
"I can't believe you took Henry to CAMICon," I say, voice steady. "No security detail. No advance notice."
"It was supposed to be fun," she says. "He wanted to go, and I—"
"You were recognized as the lottery winner."
She swallows. "Yes."
"And then Henry got separated from you."
"Only for a few minutes."
"Long enough to require an announcement over the PA system," I continue. "Long enough to matter."
Lindsay's eyes flash. "I didn't lose him. He wandered off to see a friend. For two minutes."
"Two minutes," I repeat. The number hangs between us, deceptively small. "Security intervened."
"After I asked them to," she counters. "Nothing happened to him."
"That's not the metric," I snap.
"The metric isn't whether disaster occurs," I continue. "It's whether the risk was acceptable in the first place. It wasn't."
I pace the length of the office once, then again.
This isn't just about today. It's about trust. Responsibility.
"Do you have any idea what could have happened?" My voice drops lower, colder. "Not just to Henry, but to you? To us? How many eyes were watching? How quickly a situation like that escalates?"
"I was careful—"
"No."
My palm lands on the desk.
"If you were careful, you would have consulted me first. You would have arranged proper security. You would have had protocols in place for what happens if you get separated."
Lindsay's jaw tightens. "I'm not one of your employees anymore, Arthur. You don't get to dictate my every move."
"This isn't about your independence," I say. "This is about my son's safety."
"He was safe with me!"
"He wasn't," I reply immediately. "That's the point. You put him in an environment you couldn't control, without the proper support, and then you lost track of him."
Lindsay crosses her arms, defensive now. "You make everything about risk and management instead of actually living. You're controlling. This is exactly what my mother was talking about."
The mention of the podcast hits like a slap. I go very still, anger hardening into something colder, more resolved.
"This is exactly why I didn't want this," I say, the words sharp and unfiltered now. "Why this was a mistake."
Her breath catches.
I see it—and push anyway.
"You don't understand the world you're in," I continue. "You don't understand how fast things go wrong. I should never have agreed to this arrangement. I should have known better."
Lindsay goes very still. "You mean me," she says quietly. "You should've known better than to choose me."
"That's not—"
"And now you're saying I'm the problem," she cuts in.
I don't correct her.
The silence stretches, heavy with implications neither of us wants to voice. I'm too angry to backtrack. Too furious to soften the blow. Everything I've worked for—every careful structure I've built to keep Henry safe—feels threatened by her impulsiveness.
"You asked for me," she says, voice shaking now but steady underneath it. "From the beginning. You don't get to throw that in my face when I don't perform the way you want."
"I'm his father," I say. "That responsibility outweighs—"
"Everything?" she finishes. "I get it. I just thought—" She stops herself, shaking her head. "Nevermind."
The fight drains out of her, replaced by a quiet certainty that unsettles me more than her anger did.
"I won't be a bother for you anymore," she says.
She turns and walks out. The door closes softly behind her.
I stand there, the echo of it lingering in the air.
Part of me wants to follow her. To explain. To make her understand that this isn't about her, it's about keeping everyone safe. That the structure matters. That control matters.
But I don't.
I stay exactly where I am.
This is necessary.
Removing the complication will restore order.
I tell myself this is what peace feels like. What clear boundaries create.
I tell myself I didn't want her to stay.
But as I stand alone in my perfectly ordered house, watching the night settle over grounds too large for two people, I realize—
I'm lying to myself.