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“Probably schmoozing some investors,” Cynthia said, dismissive, her eyes not leaving the small crowd she ruled over.
I grunted, noncommittal. We weaved through the throng, the laughter, the endless drone of wealth and power. But it was Darius’s absence that screamed loudest in my ears—the space where he should have been, the void no amount of money could fill.
I continued with the clown show, my jaw tight from the fake smile I had to plaster across my lips. It was like the conversations never ended and every turn I made, another emptied soul, a hollow-eyed person, was staring into my face. I glanced at my watch. An hour had slunk by, each minute a lead weight. Cynthia had vanished from my side, her absence as inconsequential as it was curious. The sea of gowns and tuxedos parted momentarily, and I caught no glimpse of my mother’s glittering jewels either. I pushed through the crowd, my shoulders stiff with an urge to flee. The choking scent of too many expensive perfumes and aftershaves suffocated me—I needed air, space, freedom from this shit.
A chuckle escaped me as I spotted Darius by the bar, his hand deftly tilting the bottle of champagne, pouring pink liquid into a glass. Unfettered, unbothered. His dark hair a stark contrast to the crisp, white shirt hugging his lean frame.
“Weston.” The voice cut through the hum of conversations. I turned. A burly man in a security uniform gestured with a nod that brooked no argument. “Need you to come with me.”
My heart thudded like a judge’s gavel as I trailed the security man up the winding stairwell. The plush carpet swallowed our steps, but the silence screamed louder than any accusation.
“Right in here, Mr. Ashbourne,” he grumbled, his hand heavy on the door handle.
A chill slithered down my spine. The click of the latch felt final, a verdict about to be delivered. The door swung open, and I stepped into the trap. There they were—four pillars of the family empire. Mother, lips pressed thin, eyes ablaze with aristocratic fury. Cynthia, the wife who wore her disdain like the pearls at her throat. Cole, with that smug tilt to his chin, and Kent, whose eyes darted everywhere but at me.
“What the fuck is this?” My voice was a blade, slicing through the tension.
Mother drew a breath as Cynthia’s palm crashed against my cheek. Pain bloomed, hot and raw.
“How could you do this to me, Weston? After everything?” Her words were whips, each syllable a lash cutting deeper than skin.
I held my cheek, the sting from Cynthia’s hand lingering like a shameful brand. She flipped open a folder with a flourish of manicured fingers, and there they were—snapshots of betrayal. Darius and me, lips locked in reckless abandon. Us laughing over sandwiches, our secret smiles at a neighborhood bar, soft touches captured in grainy caffeine haze, both of us ensnared within the confines of my BMW. Each image, a sharpened blade twisting in the gut of our sham marriage.
“How could you? How could you ruin me? Ruin us?” Cynthia’s voice cut through the air, her finger accusingly jabbing towards Cole and Kent.
My eyes flicked to our mother, her posture rigid, face etched with high-society scorn. Then to Kent, his gaze hollow, distant. Nothing inside me stirred. No apologies formed on my tongue. No remorse teetered on the edge of my conscience.
Cynthia whirled on Cole, her spitfire anger far from extinguished. “You said it would work. Obviously, it didn’t.”
“What would work?” The words tumbled out, my brow knitted in confusion and suspicion.
Cole shifted, discomfort oozing from every pore of his being.
The room fell into a heavy silence, every eye hanging on the tension threading through the air like wire. Cole exhaled a shaky breath, the sound grating against my nerves. “The photo I sent to Darius,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper but cutting through the stillness with the precision of a blade. “The one with you and Parker.”
Rage ignited within me. My steps toward him were deliberate, the fury in my stride echoing off the walls. I lunged, hands finding the lapels of his dinner jacket and pulling him close enough to feel the heat of my anger. “You conniving little shit,” I spat, the words laced with venom.
Our mother’s sob shattered the moment, her cry slicing through the thickness of my wrath. Kent, ever the peacekeeper, moved to her side, murmuring comforts, as though they could stitch the gaping wound tonight had become.
I released Cole, the fabric of his jacket crumpled in my fist, and turned back to him, my stare drilling holes. “You knew about Parker?” I demanded, the question more an accusation than anything else.
Cole rolled his eyes, a gesture so flippant it made me want to smash his face in. “How could I not?” His tone was dismissive, mocking even. “You should have seen the way you looked at him. It was fucked! You sick bastard.”
Unspoken lines were crossed, territories breached, and there was no going back. Only forward. My knuckles collided with Cole’s jaw, the crack of bone a symphony to my ears. He stumbled back, his scream slicing through the tension-choked air. “How dare you do that to him!” I roared, the words tearing from my throat.
Cole clutched his face, eyes watering, voice thin and sharp. “Dare? How dare you ruin us! Ruin our reputation for a piece of ass that’s related to you. He’s your…” His words died, and he licked his lips. “Your nephew.”
The room spun. I stepped back, my chest heaving, my gaze locking onto Cynthia. Her image blurred by the heat of my anger. “Fuck the reputation. Fuck you, Cole. Fuck all of this,” I spat out each word, punctuating the air between us. My fingers clawed at my neck, tearing off the bowtie in a swift, defiant gesture. It fluttered to the ground, a fallen flag on a lost battlefield.
I raked my fingers through my hair, gel and sweat mingling, a perfect style ruined. “Mother, call the lawyer. Draw up the papers. I’ll go quietly for your sake. But I want out of this family.”
My heel ground into the plush carpet, a pivot sharp enough to sever all ties. I didn’t look back; their gazes burned into my spine, but I was already past caring. The door loomed ahead—a sweet escape.
“Weston,” Kent called out.
I turned slowly, every muscle coiled tight as a drum.
“For what it’s worth, Cynthia is fucking Cole.”
