Page 39 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

He chuckles, unsteadily standing up from the desk. “Your grandfather never wanted me to marry your mother, he revels in the idea of us going broke.”

“No he loves thatyou'rebroke because you conned his daughter into a loveless marriage.” I snarl, the heat fuelled anger in my body roaring like an inferno.

“You watch your fucking mouth,” my father screams, a vein almost purple in color pops out of his neck as he scowls at me. “I am your father and you will treat me with respect.”

I snort out a laugh. “Respect? What have you done to deserve anything from me?”

His hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles paling from the force. For a second, I think he might actually take a swing at me. It wouldn't be the first time. But he reins himself in, shaking with the effort. Pathetic. He doesn’t even have the spine to follow through on his anger anymore.

Instead, he draws in a ragged breath, straightens his shoulders, and glares at me like that alone is enough to put me back in my place. Like I’m still the boy who flinched when he raised his voice.

“You ungrateful little shit,” he seethes. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for this family.”

“No,” I correct, stepping closer, my voice lower, deadlier. “Everything you’ve done, you’ve done for yourself. For your pride. For the delusion that you were ever more than a leech sucking on my grandfather’s goodwill.”

His face darkens, fury simmering beneath the surface, but he says nothing. Because he knows I’m right.

I turn on my heel and head for the door, already done with this conversation. But before I step out, I pause, looking back just long enough to twist the knife.

I shake my head, disgust curling in my gut. “You can beg and grovel all you want, but I’m not selling myself to fix your mistakes. And if you try to force my hand?” A slow, cold smirk stretches across my lips. “I’ll take this straight to Grandfather. Let him know exactly what you and your little wife have been up to behind his back.”

His breath catches. His fingers twitch. And for the first time tonight, true fear flickers across his face.

Good.

“I wonder what he’ll do when he finds out,” I muse. “Strip you of whatever scraps of power you have left? Disown you completely? Or maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally stop pretending you were ever worth saving even if you are the last thing his daughter loved.”

I take another step toward the door.

“You don’t have the upper hand, Vincent.”

His voice is quieter now, but not weak. Measured. I glance at him over my shoulder, expecting another pathetic attempt toclaw back control. But instead of anger or desperation, I find something else entirely.

Amusement.

He exhales, setting his empty tumbler on the desk with a slow, deliberate ease. “Funny things, machines,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “With the right money and connections, you can get a machine to do anything: build a building, drive a car, be a heart...” His gaze lifts to mine, dark and knowing. “Or you can make them malfunction. Fickle things really.”

“You don’t have the right money,” I snort.

“Not right now but this house would sell for a real pretty penny,” he sighs. “A penny I’d used to make a fickle machine do exactly what I want it to do.”

I turn as my eyes widen, as I snarl through my teeth. “You wouldn’t fucking dare.”

A small chuckle leaves his lips as he takes another sip from his tumbler. “You have a date with Taylor Rosado tomorrow at eight, don’t be late.”

The hospital halls are quiet at this hour, just the occasional beep of machines and the distant shuffle of nurses making their rounds. The janitor, an older man with tired eyes and a graying beard, barely looks at me as he slides me a small USB drive.

“Here,” he grumbles, looking everywhere but into my eyes.

I pocket the small drive, handing him the wad of cash that barely registers in my mind. Money doesn’t matter right now, not when it comes to this. This USB holds every technician’slog for Willow’s heart—every update, every security measure. If there’s been even a hint of tampering, I’ll find it.

That’s all I need.

“Thank you Mike,” I nod, dismissing him as I turn towards Willow’s door.

I step inside, the scent of antiseptic and faint vanilla—the soap she likes—filling my lungs. The dim light from the heart monitor casts a soft green glow over her face. She looks smaller than I remember, fragile in a way that doesn’t suit her.

Her black hair is spread over the pillow, the pink in her hair now a faded pastel, almost blonde. It contrasts sharply with the dark circles under her eyes. Even in sleep, there’s tension in her brow, as if she’s fighting battles no one else can see.

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