Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
GREGG
Sunday
Ashcombe Manor
South West England
The faint light filtering through the tall sash windows does little to soften the pounding in my head.
My eyes feel raw, swollen from the tears that finally drug me into a restless sleep.
This bedroom has changed so much over the years.
Gone are the faded football and rugby posters, replaced with a sleek, curated version of what my parents deem appropriate for a man of my age.
The antique headboard gleams from fresh polish, and the scent of the lavender sachet in the wardrobe clings faintly to the air.
Yet for all its refinement, it still carries the bones of the space where I first learned to feel both safe and caged.
I sit propped against the headboard, sweatshirt hanging loose on my frame, my glasses perched low on my nose.
My laptop is balanced on my thighs, the bluish glow of the screen casts tired shadows across my face.
My fingers hover over the trackpad, moving through work emails more out of habit than focus, and every now and then I pause to rub my temple, and glance at the untouched glass of water on the nightstand.
Outside the window, the manicured lawn stretches toward hedgerows, but I barely register it.
Here, in the quiet, Dad’s voice and the weight of his hands, the sharpness of threats disguised as “family duty,” still weigh on me.
For now, I hide behind the thin shield of work, my expression unreadable to anyone who may knock on the door.
But the ache in my chest makes it clear that the conversation from last night hasn’t been left downstairs.
It has followed me into the morning, curling in the corners of the room like a ghost.
I open Daniel Cho’s email, realizing I never responded.
To: Daniel Cho
From: Greggory Harwell
Subject: Re: Wilmont Ideas
Hello Daniel,
My apologies for the late reply as I’ve been out of London visiting family. I’m glad to hear you enjoyed the presentation and I’d be very interested to hear your ideas and see how we may bring them into fruition.
As it turns out, I do have some time this next week, happy to meet if our schedules align. Feel free to send me some of your ideas to get the momentum going!
Best,
Greggory
A soft knock breaks through the silence, and I lift my head, eyes narrowing at the intrusion. Before I can answer, Julian steps in, kicking the door shut behind him.
“Brought you some coffee,” he says, holding up two mugs, steam curling into the air.
“Thanks,” I mutter, pushing my laptop aside. My eyes burn, and the warmth of the mug in my hands feels like the first good thing all morning.
Julian drops into the armchair opposite the bed, crossing a leg over the other. He doesn’t say anything at first. And neither do I.
“So, last night.” He finally sighs, taking a sip of coffee.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, shaking my head.
“Sorry? Sorry for what? I was only going to say…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “Gregg, I’ve never seen you like that before. I didn’t know what to do other than put my arm around you.”
I swallow. “Thank you for that. Truly. It’s just—”
“You know I’m not one to pry,” he interrupts gently. “But mate, what happened?”
I draw a long breath, hesitating. Keeping it in isn’t helping, and letting it out feels dangerous. “Dad cornered me in the study. And he told me I’ve got two weeks to propose to Celeste.”
Julian blinks, then he shakes his head like he was trying to clear water from his ears.
“Beg pardon? What the fuck did you just say?”
“Exactly what you think I just said,” I reply flatly. “I’m to propose to Celeste in a fortnight. And if I don’t…” My voice thins, going cold. “He’ll pull me from Wilmont, maybe from Archeon altogether. He even dangled disinheritance.”
Julian lets out a sharp exhale and leans forward. “Bloody hell, Gregg, that isn’t an ultimatum. That’s blackmail.”
Silence settles between us again. The only sound is the faint ticking of a clock, steady and indifferent.
“So what do you want, really?” he asks, cocking his head toward me.
I stare into my coffee, feeling my chest tighten around the admission. “I want to see Cameron again. He’s all I can think about. I could go to San Francisco, one of my investors is there.”
“Then go,” Julian states without hesitation. “Screw the ultimatum. If he’s giving you two weeks, make them yours. Go to San Francisco. Hear the investor, sure, but more importantly, see Cameron. Don’t let your father’s prison dictate your life.”
I look up. I must’ve still looked exhausted and hollowed out, but there is something sparking beneath it, something I don’t think I’ve ever felt. “You really think I should?”
“I think you’d be an idiot not to,” he insists, grinning. “Text him. Now.”
I smiled and I reach for my phone. There are several unread messages from Cameron, all updates about Bangkok. I read every word carefully before typing my reply, apologizing for going quiet, telling him being home had been… a lot.
“Listen to me, Gregg.” Julian leans in, elbows on his knees. “You could go after him. Maybe not even come back. Maybe not bend to your father’s threats.”
I lift my eyes to him.
“I think you’d be happy with Cameron,” he claims softly. “I can see it in you already.”
I shake my head, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “It’s not that simple, mate.”
“Of course it’s not simple,” Julian says, firmly but not unkind.
“But simple and right aren’t the same thing.
If you stay here, let your father dictate your every step, you’ll waste your life trying to fill shoes that were never meant to fit you.
But if you go to San Francisco, you see Cameron again, you let yourself choose. At least then it’s yours.”
I let out a long breath and stare down into the dark swirl of my coffee. “I don’t know if I could do that. Walk away from all of it. From my family. From everything I’ve been groomed to inherit. Everything I know. And I know that seems incredibly selfish.”
“Were you not telling me how that man in New York was trying to poach you for another company and project?” Julian countered. Then his tone softens. “Besides, ask yourself this, and I know it’s mad, can you live with never trying? With never seeing where this thing with Cameron could take you?”
I lean back against the headboard, letting my eyes drift over the familiar walls of my childhood room. For a moment, I just listen to the low hum of the house.
Then something shifts. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, small at first, then sly. A smile that feels like rebellion blooms behind my ribs.
I reach forward, pulling my laptop closer, and wake the screen. My fingers hover for only a heartbeat before I type into the browser, and hit enter.
A few clicks later, I lean back, satisfaction curling through me. “There’s a flight that lands in San Francisco at 10:50 Wednesday morning,” I state, glancing at Julian.
He nods, lifting his coffee to me. “There’s a good lad.”