Walter's cane tapped against the marble floor as he cornered Ethan near the restaurant's exit. His voice was low, his eyes sharp enough to cut steel.
"You slipped," Walter muttered. "That smile. That remark. Adrian Arden does not speak like a poet to women. Least of all Isabella Whitmore."
Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. "She was—different. I just—"
Walter leaned closer. "I don't care what you felt. Feelings are a luxury you cannot afford. Isabella must remain where Adrian kept her—at arm's length. Cold. Controlled. If she senses warmth, she'll dig. And digging gets us both buried."
Ethan swallowed, nodding. "I'll… do better."
"You must," Walter said firmly. "Because tonight you dine with the family. And if Isabella made your heart skip, Richard Arden will make it stop."
---
The Arden dining hall was a cathedral of silence. A long mahogany table stretched between them like a battlefield. At its head sat Richard Arden, a man carved from stone, his silver hair neatly combed, his gaze sharp with unyielding authority. Beside him, Lily—his second wife—glowed with artificial warmth, her smile too polished, her jewels catching every flicker of chandelier light.
Victor sat across from Ethan, posture perfect, fork moving with surgical precision. His eyes, however, flicked constantly toward Ethan, curious, calculating.
Ethan lowered himself into his seat, every movement slow, measured. Walter had warned him: Family dinner is not a gathering. It is a stage.
"Adrian," Richard's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "You're late."
"My apologies, Father," Ethan replied evenly, channeling Walter's rehearsed tone. "The board demanded more of my time today."
Richard said nothing, merely cut into his steak with the authority of a man who ruled through silence. Lily filled the void with light chatter about a charity gala, her voice smooth and airy, though Ethan noticed Richard didn't bother responding.
The food tasted of salt and steel. Every clink of silverware echoed. Ethan felt the weight of eyes on him—Victor's sharp, Richard's heavier still. He forced his jaw to stay firm, his mask unbroken.
At last, Richard set down his fork, eyes narrowing across the table. "The Japan merger. What's the status?"
Ethan's pulse jumped. Walter had drilled the details into him for hours. He drew a slow breath, steadying himself. "Negotiations are in motion. Their board is… cautious, but the terms we've structured leave little room for refusal. Expansion into Tokyo should be secured by quarter's end."
Richard's gaze didn't soften. " 'Cautious'? Adrian, we don't use timid words in this house. Either they'll sign, or they won't. Which is it?"
Ethan froze. His instinct, the human part of him, wanted to admit the truth: that business was never black and white, that people hesitated, weighed, faltered. But Adrian Arden never admitted doubt.
He lifted his chin. "They'll sign."
The silence that followed stretched taut. At last, Richard nodded once, curtly, as if stamping approval onto a contract.
Victor leaned back, smirking faintly. "Confident, aren't we, brother?"
Ethan's jaw tensed. "Confidence is necessary, isn't it?"
Victor's smile widened, but his eyes glittered with suspicion.
The rest of dinner passed in stiff exchanges, Lily's chatter papering over the cracks in silence. Ethan played the role as best he could—short words, clipped tone, careful mask. Yet under the weight of Richard's gaze, he felt cracks forming.
When the plates were cleared, Richard rose. "Adrian. With me."
Ethan followed him down the corridor, his pulse pounding. The study door closed with a heavy thud, muting the world beyond. The room smelled of leather and aged scotch, shelves lined with tomes no one had touched in years.
Richard stood by the fire, pouring two glasses of whisky. He handed one to Ethan.
"Drink," Richard ordered.
Ethan took it, the amber liquid burning down his throat.
For a long while, Richard said nothing. Then he spoke, his voice quieter than it had been at dinner. "You've been different."
Ethan froze.
Richard turned, his gaze heavy but not sharp. "Since the accident, I mean. The doctors warned me of memory loss. Personality shifts. But I've seen something else in you. Not weakness. Not yet. But… something."
Ethan forced a neutral expression. "Trauma changes people."
"Yes." Richard swirled his glass, staring into the fire. "Your mother's death changed me." His voice dipped, almost too quiet. "I was harsher with you than I should have been. Thought discipline would make you unbreakable. Perhaps I was wrong."
The words struck Ethan harder than he expected. He hadn't prepared for this—the glimpse of regret in Richard's voice, the faint, hidden care behind the steel. Adrian, Walter had said, never saw it. Never looked for it. But Ethan did.
Before he could stop himself, Ethan spoke—not as Adrian, but as himself. "You weren't wrong to want strength. But maybe… unbreakable isn't the same as strong."
Richard's eyes flicked toward him, sharp, studying. For a long moment, the silence between them wasn't cold—it was heavy with something unspoken, something real.
Then Richard looked away, finishing his drink. "Get some rest. Tomorrow you'll need your strength for the board."
Ethan nodded, masking his thoughts, but as he left the study, his chest ached with something he couldn't name.
For the first time, he wondered if beneath Adrian's world of steel and silence, there was a father who had cared all along—just never found the words.
And for the first time, Ethan wanted to be more than a mask.