Page 32 of The Breakup Broker

They weren’t wrong. I was running—from Henry, from James’s revelations, from how I crumbled every time Henry looked at me with those eyes that still saw straight to my soul.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Henry

When I walked into my grandfather’s room at Madison Center, the evening light filtered through the blinds, casting striped patterns across the medical equipment he despised. He sat in his usual chair by the window, but something about his posture was different—more alert, more present.

“You missed her,” he said without turning around.

“I know.” I sank into the chair beside him. “She made it clear she needed space.”

“Can’t blame her.” He looked at me, his eyes sharp with one of his good moments. “Finding out why you left ... that’s quite a burden to process.”

My stomach dropped. “What did you tell her?”

“The truth. All of it. Your father’s threats, the choice you made, everything.” No apology in his voice, just calm certainty.

“That wasn’t your story to tell.” The words came out harder than I intended.

“You had five years to tell it yourself.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Five years and you chose silence.”

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed.Father. Again.I sent it to voicemail, but it immediately rang again. Something cold settled in my stomach as I answered.

“Henry.” My father’s voice held that infuriating edge that signaled he’d won whatever game he’d played. “I trust you’ve heard about River Bend Books?”

My head snapped up. “What about it?”

“Such a shame. All those building code violations suddenly came to light. The inspector’s report landed on my desk. Foundation issues, electrical problems, potential fire hazards...” He paused for effect. “They’ll have to close immediately, of course. Safety first.” He chuckled. “And that little apartment above the store? Also, uninhabitable. Savvy will need to find new accommodations. Immediately.”

The room tilted. “You can’t?—”

“I can, and I have. Consider it a warning shot.” There was a pause, followed by the distinct sound of ice cubes clinking against crystal. Henry knew his father’s habits well enough—he’d be in his study now, drinking that 50-year-old Macallan he saved for moments of triumph. “The marina deal is next. Unless...”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you fix things with Caroline. Immediately.” Another pause. “The Ashworths can be persuaded back to the table. Make her see reason, Henry. Get that ring on her finger. Whatever it takes.”

My grandfather’s hand found my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. I covered the phone. “He’s going after the bookstore first.”

Understanding flashed in his eyes. He reachedfor his tablet on the side table, fingers moving with surprising speed across the screen. “Linda,” he called to his nurse. “I need you to call Charles Barrett at Morrison Trust. Tell him it’s urgent.”

I uncovered the phone. “I’ll call you back.”

“You have one hour to decide,” my father said. “Before I file those inspection reports.”

The line went dead as Linda stepped out to make the call. Not even thirty seconds later, my phone buzzed.

Mason

Warning—your father’s prepped the inspection reports. They’re queued to file.

My grandfather continued working on his tablet, his face set in lines of concentration I hadn’t seen in months.

“You can’t access your accounts,” I said. “Father made sure of that after your diagnosis.”

“Your father,” he said without looking up, “forgets who taught him how to build an empire.” He handed me the tablet. “Look.”

On the screen was a trust document I’d never seen before, dated after my grandmother died. It included properties, accounts, and, most importantly, allies. The document also listed the names of people who owed James Morrison favors, people my father had overlooked or dismissed.

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