Page 151 of Lush

Hell, I didn’t want to have this conversation, but there was no way I was letting him walk out of there without facing the truth. Without facing me. I sat in the back of the car, flipping through the document that Nathan sent, all fucking there in black and white.

Page after page, the numbers bled together—fractions of a million here, a couple hundred thousand there. But adding it up? It was a fucking fortune:$32.7 million.

That was how much had disappeared under Harold’s watch over the years. He wasn’t just gambling; the man was a fucking addict.

The bastards had been bleeding Ashbourne Capital dry.

Harold and Conrad had been taking money separately. Harold hadn’t done it alone. The board. The very people who were supposed to protect the company, had been funneling funds, shuffling numbers, masking withdrawals under bullshit expense reports.

Conrad’s theft went further. He’d been taking money and sending it to this sperate account. Harold hadn’t known nor did I. The money had been going to this account up until I cut off funds.

Nathan was looking into information on this account and how this person had access.

Anyone who helped Harold had been fired, and I planned to ruin all their damn careers and reputations. They wouldn’t be able to work at the fucking liquor store when I was done with them.

“Mr. Ashbourne,” my driver said.

I looked up as the door creaked open, a grating sound that sliced through the air. And there he was—Harold.

He looked smaller somehow, like the weight of the last few days had chipped away at him, but there was still that damn arrogance he carried.

The bastard had ruined everything, and for what? A few high-stakes poker games?

I set the tablet down, stepping out of the car.

“Reese.” His voice was rough, like he’d been chewing on gravel. “I’m surprised you got me out of here. Least you can do.”

“Don’t,” I snapped.

He stopped a few feet away from me, and he must have seen my expression, because this time he tried to look sheepish. “I know you’re upset?—”

Before he could finish, I punched him. He stumbled back,eyes wide with pain. He clutched his jaw, his face twisted in a mix of surprise and anger.

“Reese, what the hell—” he started, but I didn’t let him finish.

“You’re a horrible father, husband, and overall fucking lousy human being,” I said calmly.

His hand dropped from his face, and I could see the anger flaring in his eyes now. “I’m your father?—”

My fist slammed into him again, the force of the blow sending a jolt up my arm. Harder. This time, the bone shifted beneath my knuckles with a sickening crunch; I felt the give of cartilage as he staggered, crumpling to his knees. A steady stream of blood dripped from his mouth, staining his chin.

He spat to the side on the pavement.

Conrad’s journal explained everything. Reading on the plane, I learned Conrad had been just as overwhelmed with Harold’s ridiculous expectations. He’d wanted to get away from the family for a long time. So he planned to take the money and run.

“That all you got, boy?” His voice was taunting. “You think this makes you a man? Hitting your old man like that?” He sneered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re just like me. No better. No different.”

That was the thing about men like Harold.

They never took responsibility. Never admitted they were the problem.

I thought about Conrad. About the way he crumbled under the weight of Harold’s expectations, the way he broke, and instead of fighting back, he chose to save himself.

No, I didn’t forgive Conrad. But I understood him now.

And Harold—Harold was the reason for all of it.

Crack.

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