Chapter 13 #3
“It’s not what either of us wants.” I stand abruptly, grabbing my whiskey and tossing it back before stepping behind the chair. “We enjoy each other’s company, but there is no romance there. I’m not going to treat this like some nineteenth-century arranged marriage. I refuse.”
“You are terribly mistaken there, boy!” he roars as he jumps to his feet. Then he lowers his voice to a hiss. “It is what she wants.”
I feel heat rise in my chest. Anger, disbelief, and something sharper. But he presses on.
“You’re thirty-five,” he says. “It’s time you put aside distractions and prioritize your future. Your family’s future. Our circle wants stability, and Celeste gives you, and us, strength.”
I shake my head, the heat of champagne and whiskey rising in my chest. I was just shy of drunk, enough to feel my emotions slipping their leash. “You want me to secure your image? That’s not a marriage. That’s a merger.”
“Watch your tone with me, Greggory,” he taunts, stepping closer. “I am talking about what is best for you, and what is best for this family.”
I meet his stare and shoot back, “With all due respect, Dad, I will not marry someone I don’t love, and you can’t make me.”
He moves before I even register the shift and crosses the room to me in two strides, his fists grab the front of my shirt, and he slams me backward into a tall bookshelf. Leather-bound volumes rattle, and a silver picture frame topples and shatters at our feet.
“You’re drunk,” he hisses, his face inches from mine. “So I’m going to assume you’ve forgotten how respect works here in this dynamic.” His grip grows tighter, my collar biting into my throat.
“Let go of me!” My voice high, uneven.
He ignores me.
“Your mother and I have worked your entire life to ensure the right alliances, to put you where you belong. The Thornes aren’t just a good match, they are the only match.” His words are pure venom. “Our families will be connected. It’s already been decided.”
“I’m not asking Celeste to marry me,” I say, my breath sharp and shaking.
His jaw flexes and his eyes narrow. “You have a fortnight,” he says, voice like steel being drug over stone. “That’s two weeks to do the right thing.”
“Or what?” I spit.
“Or I’ll strip you from the Wilmont project, from Archeon entirely. And if you think I won’t disinherit you…” He let the threat hang between us, heavy and certain. “Test me.”
We stand there, locked in a tense, ragged silence.
Then, as abruptly as he’d grabbed me, he releases me, shoving me aside like I was nothing more than an ill-behaved dog.
He straightens his jacket as though my existence had rumpled it, never once looking at me.
His footsteps are slow and deliberate as he moves across the polished wood floor.
At the door, the brass handle catches the light as his hand rests on it for a moment, long enough to make me think, irrationally, that he might turn back.
He doesn’t.
The door opens with a low creak, the hallway light silhouetting him for a heartbeat. Then he steps through and shuts it behind him with a quiet, final click, louder than any slam.
The study is still, save for the relentless ticking of the clock on the fireplace mantel.
I stay where I am, back pressed against the bookshelf, my collar still askew.
My breath comes shallow as the air settles heavily around me.
When I look down, I see the picture frame that had fallen.
I pick it up gingerly, turning it over. I touch the photo lightly, careful not to cut myself on the jagged edges of shattered glass.
Me and Dad on my graduation day. Him stiff, unimpressed.
Me trying not to shrink beside him. Neither of us smiling.
I set the frame back on the shelf and sniff, wiping my nose with the back of my hand.
I help myself to more whisky from his desk, and as I take a long drink, my eyes rise to the portrait looming over the fireplace.
Harrison Harwell. Dad. He’s immortalized in oil paint, chin raised, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the frame, like some kind of grand duke.
A man whose will shaped the world around him, the man I was never permitted to deviate from.
A bitter, sharp, and humorless laugh escapes me. “Of course,” I mutter, the weight of the last few minutes burning in my chest. My grip tightens around the tumbler until the cut glass digs into my palm.
It boils over. All of it.
With a low, furious growl, I wind back and throw the whisky and glass hard at the portrait.
Crystal shatters against the gilded frame in an eruption of sound, fragments scattering across the hearthstone.
Amber liquid streaks down the canvas in uneven streams, slicing through the image like a fresh wound.
For a moment, I stand there, chest heaving, savoring the violent satisfaction of the impact. The air crackled around me, defiant and electric. I don’t know how long I stand there before I finally walk out and find myself in the darkened upstairs corridor.
I rap on Julian’s door, the sound barely carrying through the dark. A moment later, he opens it, eyebrows pinched together as soon as he sees me. He steps aside without a word, and I shuffle in.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, shutting the door with a muted click.
I can’t answer. The words won’t come. Instead, I lean back against the wall, my shoulders sagging, and I slide down until I’m on the floor, knees drawn up.
Everything, the evening, the years, the expectations, it all crashes down around me in one unguarded moment.
My chest hitches once, then again, until the dam finally gives way.
Julian stares for a beat, startled to see me unravel like this, then crouches beside me without hesitation.
I cover my face with one hand, the other splays against the carpet as if I needed it to hold me to the earth. My breath is ragged between sobs, tears hot against my face and palm.
“Alright,” Julian murmurs, voice low and steady. “You’re not doing this alone.”
He sits down shoulder to shoulder with me, letting the silence stretch. No questions. No demands. Just presence.
And for once, I let myself lean into it.