Page 38 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

"Vincent, please." His voice quivers, hands fidgeting with his empty tumbler. "I've been trying to tell you for months."

"Trying?" I pace across the Persian rug—probably another thing he's secretly sold behind my back. "When exactly? Between your golf outings or your charity galas?"

"Those appearances are necessary," he mumbles, suddenly finding courage. "The Beaumont name still carries weight, even if our accounts don't."

I pause, feeling a cold reality sink in. "How long?"

"Three years." He finally meets my gaze. "The market crash hit us harder than I let on. Your mother's spending drained us."

"You mean your wife, and you didn't think to tell me? I've been spending money we apparently don't have!"

"Your allowance was the last thing I wanted to cut." His shoulders slump. "I've been selling assets quietly. The summer house, the art collection, your grandmother's jewelry?—"

"Grandmother's—" I choke on the words. "Those were meant for my future wife!"

"There might not be much of a future left for any of us bearing the Beaumont name if we can't stabilize," he says with sudden clarity. "The liquid funds are gone, Vincent. All of it."

I collapse into the chair across from him, my anger momentarily stunned into silence.

"The house?" I finally manage to ask.

"Mortgaged. Twice."

"The company?"

He laughs bitterly. "Shell of what it was. I've been keeping up appearances, but we're three missed payments away from losing control to the board."

"Why didn't you ask for my help?" The question comes out softer than intended.

He lays slumped in his chair, a bored expression on his face. "What was I supposed to say? That I've failed the legacy of five generations? That I couldn't protect what your mother’s father and his father built?"

"You should have said we were in trouble," I reply, my rage cooling into something more dangerous—disappointment.

“It’s none of your business, because you were never supposed to know.” My father snarls.

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “None of my business? You bled our fortune dry, sold off my inheritance piece by piece, and now you’re telling me it’s none of my business?”

His lips press into a thin line, but the flicker of defiance in his eyes dies just as quickly as it came. He knows he has no ground to stand on.

“You were supposed to carry this, Vincent. Not worry about it.” His voice wavers, but there’s an edge of self-pity beneath it, as if he’s the victim in all of this. “I thought I could fix it before you ever had to know.”

“Fix it?” I sneer, pushing out of my chair so fast it scrapes against the floor. “You hid it. You let me live in blissful ignorance while you were selling off everything.”

“I did what I had to!” he snaps, slamming his empty tumbler onto the desk. “You think it’s easy keeping up with the people we associate with? The moment they smell weakness, you’re finished. I kept us in high standing. I kept the Beaumont name alive.”

“You kept us in ruin.” My chest heaves, the weight of his failures settling heavily on my shoulders.

He sags into his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “Vincent, please. There’s still a way out of this. If you marry well—someone with liquid funds—it would save the family.”

I go still, the air between us turning razor-sharp. “You’re joking.”

His expression remains grim. “I wish I were.”

A laugh—harsh and humorless—scrapes past my throat. “That’s your grand solution? Pimping me out like some desperate debutante?”

“Watch your tone,” he snaps, some of his old authority creeping back in. But it’s weak. Fragile. Like everything else about him now. “This isn’t about pride, Vincent. It’s about survival.”

I rake a hand through my hair, pacing again. “What about grandfather? Does he know what you and your gold-digging wife did?”

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