26. The Confrontation
The Confrontation
Aleksander
The blood on the bedsheets is dry now.
I can see it from the doorway—the rust-colored stains that the cleaners couldn't wash out, the ghost of violence that lingers in the fabric.
They changed the sheets, of course. They changed everything.
But the room still smells like her. Like Ashlynn.
Like the woman who raised my sons, who served this family for thirty years, who died because my son is a monster.
I stand in the doorway for a long time, staring at nothing.
Monika told me everything.
She told me about the night Ashlynn died. About the way Nathan held her down while the old woman bled out in the bed. About the way he fucked her while the body was still warm—her blood pooling under them, soaking into the sheets, marking Monika in ways that will never wash clean.
She told me about the way he said he loved her. The way he said it like a curse and a prayer. The way he didn't stop when she begged him to. The way he didn't stop when she screamed. How he didn't stop when she fought. How he said it was her punishment.
She told me all of it.
I didn't say anything while she spoke. I just listened—the way I've listened to confessions for forty years, the way I've heard men beg for their lives and women plead for mercy and children cry for their mothers. I listened, and I didn't move, and I didn't speak.
But something inside me broke.
Something that had been holding together for decades finally shattered.
I find him in his office.
He's sitting at his desk like nothing happened. Like he didn't murder the woman who raised him. Like he didn't rape the woman I love. Like he's still the heir to this empire, the future of this family, the son I raised to be something more than what I was.
He looks up when I enter. His eyes are calm. Unreadable. The same eyes I've seen every day for thirty years.
"Father," he says.
I close the door behind me. I don't speak. I don't have words for what I'm feeling—the rage, the grief, the guilt. It's all tangled together, a knot in my chest that I can't untie.
"I assume Monika told you," he says.
"You killed Ashlynn."
He doesn't flinch. He doesn't deny it.
"She tried to stop me," he says. "She got in the way."
"She got in the way?" My voice is quiet. Too quiet. "She was seventy years old. She weighed ninety pounds. She raised you. She loved you. And you killed her because she got in the way?"
"She was trying to help Monika escape." He stands, eyes full of what can only be described as madness. He walks around his desk, his movements slow, deliberate. "She was going to take her away from me. I couldn't let that happen."
"You raped her." The words come out like poison. "You held her down and you raped her while Ashlynn's body was still warm. While her blood was still on the bed, while her blood was under Monika."
"She's mine."
"She's not yours."
"She's always been mine." His voice is rising.
I can see the madness building behind his eyes—the thing I've been ignoring for months, the thing I've been too weak to see.
"I loved her first. I wanted her first. You just took her from me because you're the patriarch.
Because you have the power. Because you couldn't stand to see me happy. "
"You think that was happiness?" I step toward him. "You think hurting her, controlling her, breaking her—you think that's love?"
"I don't know what else to call it."
"Then you don't know what love is."
He laughs. It's a terrible sound—hollow and raw and full of something that might be madness.
"You're one to talk," he says. "You loved Mother, and look what happened. You loved Elena, and look what happened. You loved Monika, and she's still here—still trapped in this house, still sleeping with your sons, still pretending she's yours."
"She's not pretending."
"No?" He tilts his head. "Then what is she doing? Is she really choosing you? Is she really picking the aging patriarch over the two young men who want her for themselves?"
I don't answer. I can't. Because I don't know.
"You're losing her," Nathan says. "You've been losing her since the moment she set foot in this house. And you think you can keep her by playing the hero? By pretending you're any different from me?"
"I am different."
"You're a monster, Father. Just like me. Just like Gabriel. We're all monsters, and she's caught in the middle, and the only question is who's going to destroy her first."
I hit him.
It's not a calculated move. It's not a strategy. It's pure, unbridled rage—the rage of a man who has lost everything, who is about to lose everything, who has finally reached his breaking point.
My fist connects with his jaw. His head snaps to the side. He stumbles, catches himself on the desk.
And then he grins.
It's a bloody grin—his lip is split, his teeth stained red—but it's a grin nonetheless.
"There he is," he says. "There's the man who built an empire on blood. There's the father I've been trying to impress my whole life."
"You're not a man." I step toward him. "You're a thing. A broken, twisted thing that I should have killed a long time ago."
"Then kill me." He straightens. He spreads his arms wide. "Kill me, Father. Prove that you're better than me. Prove that you're different."
I reach for him.
He's faster than I expected—younger, stronger, quicker. He dodges my grip and lands a punch to my stomach. I double over, gasping, and he follows with a knee to my face.
The world spins. I feel blood on my face—my lip, my nose, something broken.
And then I feel something else.
Rage. Pure, animalistic rage.
I lunge for him. I catch him around the waist and slam him into the bookshelf. Books rain down around us. The wood cracks. He grunts, struggles, tries to break free.
But I'm stronger than I look. I've been fighting my whole life—fighting for power, for control, for everything this empire represents. And I'm not going to lose to my own son. My own horrible, disgusting, monstrous son.
I throw him to the ground. I'm on top of him before he can move, my hands around his throat, my weight pinning him down.
"You killed her," I growl. "You killed Ashlynn. You hurt Monika beyond fixing. You've destroyed everything I've ever built."
He chokes. His hands claw at mine. But he's not afraid. Even now, even with my hands around his throat, he's not afraid.
"Do it," he gasps. "Kill me. You know you want to."
I do. I want to. I want to squeeze until there's nothing left, until his body goes limp, until he's gone and the world is clean.
But something stops me.
Not mercy. Not love. Something else.
Guilt.
Because I made him. I raised him. I taught him that power is the only thing that matters, that the world is divided into predators and prey, that the only way to survive is to take what you want and never look back.
I taught him to be a monster.
And now I have to live with what I've created.
The fight continues.
We're both bleeding now—me from my nose, my lip, the gash on my forehead where he slammed me into the desk. Him from his split lip, the cut above his eye, the bruises blooming on his ribs.
We don't speak. We just fight—fists and elbows and knees and the desperate, animal need to destroy.
I hit him. He hits me. I throw him into the wall. He grabs a lamp and swings it at my head. I duck, and the lamp shatters against the bookshelf, sending glass flying everywhere.
I'm old. I'm tired. I'm not as fast as I used to be.
But I'm not going to lose. Not to him. Not to the monster I created.
We crash through the door. We tumble into the hallway. The sound of our fight echoes through the mansion—the grunts, the crashes, the sickening thud of fists meeting flesh.
And then, suddenly, we stop.
Not because we want to. Not because we've had enough.
Because Monika is standing in front of us.
She's in the hallway.
She's wearing a nightgown—thin, white, the kind of thing that makes her look fragile and small. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. Her eyes are wide, her face pale.
Her hand is pressed to her mouth.
She's been watching.
She's seen everything.
"What are you doing?" she whispers. "What are you doing?"
Neither of us answers. We're both frozen—Nathan on the floor, me standing over him, both of us breathing hard, both of us covered in blood.
"Stop," she says. "Please. Stop."
"It's not your decision." Nathan's voice is hoarse. "This is between me and him."
"No." She steps toward us. "This is between all of us. This is about me. This is about the family. This is about everything I've been trying to hold together."
"Monika—" I start.
"No." She looks at me. Her eyes are fierce. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to kill him. You don't get to destroy everything."
"He raped you. He—"
"I know what he did." Her voice is shaking. "I know. I was there. I was under him while he—" She stops. Swallows. "I know."
"Then you understand why I have to do this."
"No." She steps between us. Her back is to Nathan, her face to me. "I understand why you want to. But I'm not going to let you."
"He has to pay."
"He will." She holds my gaze. "But not like this. Not by your hands. Not while I'm watching."
I stare at her. The rage is still boiling in my chest, the need for violence still humming in my veins. I want to push her aside. I want to finish this. I want to make him pay for what he's done.
But I can't.
Because she's right.
Because killing him won't bring Ashlynn back. It won't heal Monika. It won't fix anything.
It will just make me the monster I've always been.
I step back.
My hands are shaking. My breath is coming in ragged gasps. I look at Nathan, still on the floor, and I feel something I never thought I'd feel for him.
Pity.
He's broken. He's monstrous. He's everything I hate.
But he's also my son.
I walk away.
I don't go to my room.
I can't. I can't face the silence, the emptiness, the weight of what just happened. So I walk—through the mansion, past the portraits, past the doors that lead to rooms I haven't entered in years.
I find myself in the greenhouse.