Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
GREGG
Ashcombe Manor
South West England
I knock on Dad’s bedroom door. A beat.
“Come in.”
I push it open slowly and slide inside, shutting it softly behind me.
Dad is propped upright in bed, pillows stacked high.
The early afternoon light falls across him from the tall sash windows in a way that makes him look much older than the man he was.
An untouched cup of tea rests on the side table, and files are neatly arranged within reach.
I can’t really tell what they are, but I suppose the inevitable has finally come, and he’s going to follow through on his promise.
“Mum said you wanted to see me.”
He grunts a response I can’t make out and pulls his glasses from the bridge of his nose.
“How're you feeling today?” I ask. He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he gestures loosely to the leather folio on his lap.
“These quarterly projections need revisiting. The figures are optimistic, but I don’t necessarily trust that.
Have legal review the revised contractual agreements.
And there’s a board member in Tokyo I want you to speak with personally about the Aria Tower remodel. ”
Of course. Orders first.
“Erm, sure,” I say as evenly as I can, reaching out for the folio. “I did already flag those projections.” He looks up at me, surprised that I was a step ahead of him. “And I’ll set up a meeting to handle Tokyo.”
Dad nods, oddly satisfied.
We fall shakily into a rhythm I’ve known my entire professional life. Conversation driven primarily by him, business as the language and strategy as affection. Then quiet, a pause stretching between us. He slides the papers aside carefully and clears his throat.
“And what of Regal Crown?”
I swallow. “What of it?”
“Is it,” he seems to be looking for the right word, “official?”
“Erm, there’s a preliminary draft the board put in place.” He doesn’t look me in the eye, and he seems not frail, but aware. “But nothing official.”
He nods, and his silence lingers just long enough that it feels incredibly intentional. But if I'm not mistaken, I think I see an unfamiliar softness in his face. He studies me for a long moment before finally speaking.
“You know,” he begins, his voice lower than I’m used to, “I built Archeon with every intention of handing it to you.”
Here it is, I think to myself. He’s going to tell me that I’m out.
“I didn't build it for prestige,” he continues. “But the prestige followed the success of it all. I built it because I wanted something enduring. Something that would outlast me. Something you could stand inside of and not have to start from zero.”
He shifts slightly, and I feel myself swallow hard.
“Every acquisition. Every late night. Every brutal negotiation.” His mouth tightens faintly.
“They were not acts of ego, but rather acts of preparation. I imagined the day I would step aside,” he goes on.
“Not because I was forced to. But because I had prepared you well enough that I no longer needed to be at the helm.”
“Dad, I—”
“And you have proven that,” he interrupts with a sharp gaze.
I must not be hiding my confusion at such a heavy and unanticipated statement.
“You handled Wilmont without faltering. You stabilized Archeon when rumors began to circulate about my abilities. You met investors while I was flat on my back in the hospital.” His jaw sets.
“You did not panic. You did not shrink.”
He reaches for another folio and holds it wistfully. “Recently,” he admits quietly, “I thought perhaps it was too late. That I had fractured something beyond repair out of my inability to see.” He holds the leather case out to me, and I take it slowly.
“But perhaps loyalty,” he says, “is not about clinging to old expectations. Perhaps it’s about standing behind the people you have chosen to build with.”
I open it slowly, and I’m shocked to see transfer documents, succession papers, and signatory authority. Everything required to place Archeon in my hands.
“I had these drafted months before my heart attack,” he explains. “They were meant for a formal announcement next spring. But I also suppose that I was scared to let go.”
He meets my eyes directly. My heart pounds.
“They are still valid,” he says plainly. “Archeon is yours.”
Silence stretches between us, and my lips part, unable to form a sentence or grasp what he’s just said. “I... I thought I had disappointed you beyond resolution.”
“At the time, yes,” he agrees. “But then I started thinking about loyalty, and…” He trails off before looking me in the eyes. “Please, don’t sign a formal agreement with Regal Crown. I assure you the choice is yours, but I want you to take Archeon into the future.”
My throat becomes impossibly tight. There’s a level of parental pleading in his voice.
“And, I have something else I’d like to say,” Dad adds. “That gentleman. Your friend, Cameron.”
I look up from the folio at the sound of Cameron’s name coming from his mouth.
“I owe him an apology.”
His words land like shattering glass. “I’m sorry?” I blink.
“If he had not acted as quickly as he did,” Dad says evenly, though his hands tighten slightly against the blanket, “I would not be here today.”
I stare at him.
“I was clinically dead for nearly four minutes,” he continues. “The doctor did not mince their words.” He looks down at his own hands for a long moment. “When you are lying there,” he says quietly, “unable to breathe… loyalty feels very different.”
My heart wrenches.
“I have built my life on loyalty,” he went on. “To this family. To this name. To the business. It has been my guiding principle.” His jaw shifts. “But somewhere along the way, I believe I confused loyalty with control.”
I don’t move. I seem to be frozen in place.
“I spoke to him with a contempt that no one deserves,” he admits, voice low. “I gave him every reason not to, and he still knelt on the floor and fought for my life.”
His eyes meet mine. “That is loyalty.”
The word hangs heavy between us.
“I can’t change what I said,” he continues. “Nor can I pretend it didn’t happen. But I can acknowledge that I was wrong.”
Wrong. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say that about anything personal.
“My… experience,” he says carefully, as though the word still tastes foreign, “clarified certain things. Mortality has a way of stripping away theatre and revealing what matters.”
He exhales slowly.
“I have spent decades protecting legacy, wealth, and standing.” His gaze sharpens. “But none of that meant anything on that floor. I wish I could change the past, but I can’t. I have a lot of work to do with myself.” He shifts in the bed, wincing slightly. “And with you.”
My chest aches and my vision blurs.
“I won’t pretend this is easy for me,” he admits. “Because it is not. But I don’t want my final memory of you to be in that study.”
I feel a warm tear roll down my face, and I wipe it away quickly with the back of my hand.
“If you will allow it,” he says, voice firm despite the vulnerability beneath it, “I would like to move forward differently. With you.”