Page 121 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

Because Marty is right—this ledger Father created doesn’t actually prove anything to these people.

They need to see it with their own eyes. Touch it with their own hands. Hear it with their own ears.

I’m theonlyone who can do this.

Lyla trembles beside me, her nerves almost worse than mine, but I can’t stop to assure her I’m all right. If I do, I might not be able to go through with this.

I remove my shirt and drape it over the back of the chair, never looking away from Uncle Marty, letting him see he doesn’t intimidate me anymore. That hecan’t.

He shakes his head. “No one wants to see your deviant art, Silas. This is completely uncalled for and unacceptable in a place of business—”

“So is abusing your nephew.”

The room goes dead still and silent with my words, and several of the board members dart their gazes to Marty, then back to me.

His jaw locks, a muscle there ticcing as he shifts slightly and adjusts his suit coat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, youdo.”

And now it’s time to show the men and women of the board who the man running Bolton Steelreallyis at his core.

I slowly make my way around the corner of the table to the first board member—Alicia Clayton, one of Father’s high society friends and biggest benefactors to our charities. A woman I met countless times growing up. I incline my head toward her. “Alicia.”

She clears her throat, looking up at me awkwardly. “Silas.”

“Give me your hand.”

Her head jerks back, her silvery hair barely budging from the tight bun wound at the base of her skull. “What?”

“Will you please give me your hand?”

She hesitantly raises it, and I take it gently in mine, then press her palm over the scar on my chest that Lyla had hers over only a few nights ago. “This was a hot fireplace poker. I was ten.”

I drag her hand over it so she can feel the shape, the warped skin. The things she may not be able to see because of the ink I tried to conceal it under.

When I release her hand, she lets it fall to her lap, her eyes wide and following me as I move to the next person.

Marty watches silently, his face reddening, hands clenched tightly around the back of his chair.

I hold out my hand, and Arnold Peck places his in it tentatively. Father’s oldest friend and confidant. I’m quite sure, of all the people here, he knows precisely what I’m going to show him.

His eyes meet mine, and I set his fingers over my left bicep. “This one was a crowbar. He actually broke my arm and told my father I fell down the stairs.”

I shift it over to the spot where a bone had protruded, and he winces and jerks his hand back, closing his eyes for a moment like he doesn’t want to process what he heard and felt.

Marty snarls as I move to the next board member. “Enough. Stop these lies!”

I shake my head as I reach Miriam Anderson, the wife of Dr. Anderson, who sits next to her. She gives me her hand, and I lower it against my back, just below my shoulder blade. “Explain this one, Uncle Marty. You can feel the lettersMandB.”

She slowly traces her fingers over them where they’re concealed by the intricate artwork.

“He literally carved his initials into my back with a fucking razor blade.”

Miriam winces as I move to her husband.

“Dr. Anderson, you, of all people, should be able to recognize abuse when you see it.”

The old man’s eyes rake over me, taking in all the ink, but I know he sees what’s underneath it. It’s impossible to miss the puckering, shiny, off-color skin when you’re looking for it.

---