He no doubt knows my obsession with Fae; Mum has probably informed him on multiple occasions, but I don’t need to play all my cards and give away exactly how little I intend to entertain Quinn.
“This is not supervision,” Dad replies softly. “It’s networking. The Harlow contract strengthens The Company’s medical division by thirty percent, and that is not insignificant.”
Translation: she is not optional. What he doesn’t say is that Fae is inadequate and he doesn’t need to. It’s written all over his face, in the words he won’t say. To him, Quinn is profitable and Fae is just a Swallow. Raising an eyebrow, I wait as I read the look in his eyes and realise he hasn’t finished.
“The men are granted two women for a reason, and all of it leads to strengthening our bloodlines and empires. Having a choice is a privilege, son, one that not many of your cohort can claim. Do not make me regret giving you that freedom.”
“Fine,” I finally relent, knowing I’ll complicate matters if I don’t. “I’ll attend.”
“Good.” He gives a firm nod.
I bite my lip as I look at him. It’s been eating away at me ever since that fat fuck was in my dungeon. I’ve replayed the prisoner’s words,we all have one,over and over in my head. Something about it doesn’t sit right.
If there is something moving beneath The Company, my dad should have caught it already. He misses nothing. But what if he did? What if he was so consumed by Mum and my graduation that he missed this and I’m sitting on it doing nothing about it? My jaw tightens as I catalogue every memory I have of him over the last year, from the board meetings to our private discussions and the increased shipments throughour pharmaceutical company. Has he been distracted, or have I made him distracted? Am I… distracted?
Fae flashes through my mind as I feel my irritation spike. Not at her, but at the vulnerability of loving her. Dad always told me that distraction was a weakness, and I have been. I can’t allow that to become a problem. My dad needs to know.
I feel him studying me, waiting for whatever it is I’m about to say.
“Dad, there’s something else…”
“Yes?” His perfectly groomed eyebrow raises again as I look around the room, take a step towards him, and his eyes narrow in suspicion.
“I’ve been seeing a particular symbol circulating,” I say carefully. “It’s a small red cross on personal keychains.”
“I’m not familiar,” he replies after a small pause.
I cut a glance over to Mr. Ackworth and I feel my teeth grind. I know one person here who has that keyring, and he happens to be standing and laughing right next to a man who abused his daughter for a decade.
“And why,” he asks calmly, bringing my focus back to him, “are you interested in a keyring?”
“Curiosity,” I reply, a little too quickly, noting where we are.
“Curiosity,” he repeats, studying me the way he used to when I was fifteen and dismantling rifles faster than the instructors, “is only useful if you have the tools for the answers you find.”
“Noted,” I incline my head slightly.
His gaze drifts over my shoulder, I don’t need to turn to know he’s looking at Fae.
“She is not Quinn.”
The way he says it isn’t cruel or even dismissive, but it still gets my back up. For him, this is just fact, just business. But to me, Fae is anything but business.
“I’m aware,” I respond, not rising to the bait he is putting in front of me.
“Do not confuse intensity with permanence, Roman.” I roll my eyes as my fingers curl slightly at my sides.
Across the room, Fae laughs at something my mother says. It’s brief, but I can see the happiness radiating from her. Her shoulders are no longer hitched up by her ears and her eyes twinkle with something mischievous.
Is what I have with Fae intense? Yes. But our intensity comes from two souls who recognise one another, like storms meeting and realising they are the same ocean. We may be intense, but our permanence is the ocean itself, vast and immovable, and powerful enough to swallow anything that tries to stand against it.
“She will not interfere with the Harlow arrangement,” my dad continues, pulling me out of my musings. It’s not a question, it’s a boundary, and I meet his gaze evenly.
“I don’t allow interference,” I respond and something flickers in his eyes. Approval, maybe?
The irony is that it’s not the type of interference he is hoping for. If she wanted to burn down the Harlow arrangement tomorrow, I would do it, and if she wanted to destroy my life’s work, I’d let her. The only type of interference I won’t allow is someone coming between us, my family included.
“Good,” he says again. The conversation is clearly over as he places a hand briefly on my shoulder before stepping away, already shifting into another interaction with a donor near the bar.
