Page 47 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

Papa chuckles, “Is that the story they're going with now? Well more imaginative than what my father told me. He said Taylor Beaumont made the coffee lid.”

I stare at him, confusion written across my face. This isn't the family history I was taught, the carefully curated legacy that's been drilled into me since childhood.

"Neither story is true," Papa continues, setting the teapot down with deliberate precision. His blue eyes—the same shade as mine—gleam with a strange pride. "The Beaumonts were never inventors, Vincent. We were never creators. Wewere something far more effective." He leans forward. "We were thieves."

My throat tightens. "What are you talking about?"

"Your great-grandfather, the illustrious Thomas Beaumont, was nothing more than a con man with expensive taste and excellent timing. He didn't invent a single thing in his miserable life." Papa takes a sip of his tea, watching me over the rim. "What he did do was marry the daughter of the Cooliage household maid."

I shake my head slightly, trying to make sense of what he's saying. "The Cooliages? The Boston family?"

"Old money," Papa confirms. "Very old money. Shipping magnates, railroad investors, all that boring legitimate wealth that takes generations to build." His lips curl into a sneer. "The kind of wealth that makes people soft and trusting."

A cold feeling starts to spread through my chest. "What did Thomas do?"

"He seduced their maid's daughter, married her, and gained access to the household. Over the course of five years, he systematically emptied their accounts, forged documents, redirected investments, and ultimately, when the timing was right—" Papa snaps his fingers, "—he vanished with the entirety of the Cooliage fortune."

I sit back, stunned. "That's impossible. Someone would have noticed."

"Oh, they noticed," Papa says with a wave of his hand. "But by then, Thomas had created an entirely new identity, complete with a fabricated family history going back generations. He moved across the country, established himself as a respectedbusinessman with his 'inherited' wealth, and the Beaumont dynasty was born."

The sandwich in my hand suddenly feels heavy. I set it down untouched.

"The Cooliages were ruined," Papa continues, a note of admiration in his voice. "Three generations of wealth, gone overnight. The patriarch shot himself. The rest of the family scattered, trying to escape the shame."

"And no one ever connected it to us?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Papa's smile widens. "There were suspicions, of course. But money buys excellent lawyers and even better silence. Besides, this was before the days of telephones and telegraphs. By the time anyone thought to look westward, Thomas Beaumont was already halfway to becoming the respected patriarch of a newly minted dynasty."

I struggle to process this information. Everything I thought I knew about my family, about my legacy, is a carefully constructed lie.

"Every generation of Beaumonts since has continued the tradition," Papa says, leaning back in his chair. "We find wealth, we take it, we reinvent ourselves. Your grandfather was particularly skilled at it. The Robinson fortune in the fifties, the Miller estate in the sixties... All absorbed into the Beaumont coffers through various creative means."

"We're thieves," I say flatly.

"We're survivors," Papa corrects sharply. "And survivors understand that wealth isn't created, Vincent. It's taken."

I stare at him, seeing him clearly for perhaps the first time. "And you? Whose fortune did you steal?"

Papa chuckles to himself like it's a fond memory. "I stole the fortune from my father, shot him dead in the middle of our dining room."

The words hang between us like smoke. I search his face for any sign of deception, but his eyes hold only that cold, familiar pride.

"You killed your own father," I whisper, the teacup trembling slightly in my hand.

"I liberated his assets," Papa corrects, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his napkin. "And secured my future. In this very room, as a matter of fact." He glances at the polished wooden floors. "The bloodstains were such a nuisance to remove."

"Jesus Christ," I breathe.

"Don't act so shocked, Vincent." Papa's voice hardens. "The world runs on bloodshed and betrayal. The Beaumonts simply acknowledge what others pretend not to see."

I set down my cup, afraid I might drop it. "Why are you telling me this?"

Papa leans forward, his eyes suddenly sharp and focused. "Because it's time you understood your birthright. Your true inheritance." He points a bony finger at me. "The Beaumont fortune isn't gone—it's simply waiting for someone with the courage to claim it."

"What are you suggesting?" But I already know. The sickness rising in my throat tells me I've understood perfectly.

“Your father,” Papa says the word with undisguised contempt, “sits on resources he doesn't deserve and wouldn't know howto protect. He's a leech, Vincent. Always has been. He doesn’t know how to make a dynasty, only how to drain it dry.”

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