Page 25 of Ugly Truths
All of it was my father's way of preserving the family image, allowing Jeremy to skirt the consequences of his actions, and I resented my brother for it. I still do. Sobriety doesn't erase what came before it. It doesn't guarantee growth or accountability; it just means he stopped using. And the way he carries himself now? Entitled. Delusional. As if the world should still be handed to him on a silver platter because it always has been, and why would that change now?
Despite all of this, part of me can't shake the feeling that this wasn't even Jeremy's idea.
Throughout our entire conversation, he just kept parroting the same lines I've heard from my father, which only makes this more confusing because William didn'thandme my position.
Yes, I started as the Strategic Initiatives Manager. My father is the CEO, and there's no pretending I didn't benefit from that. I've alwaysknown exactly how privileged I am, but it never meant instant job protection. It was made clear that if I wasn't cut out for the position, William would give it to someone else.
He was ruthless. Held me to a standard so impossibly high it often felt like failure was the only way forward. He broke me down, built me back up, then did it all over again. I spent years clawing my way towardhisversion of readiness, not my own. Every promotion felt like a calculated risk he was barely willing to take.
And now he's offering my unqualified younger brother the second-highest executive position we've been hesitant to fill with barely a second thought.
Making Shaw resign as COO after catching him with his hand up Natalie's dress at that summer party wasn't enough, but it was the only justice she was comfortable with at the time. Since then, I've been deliberate—to a fault—about who I bring into the executive team. Bethany, the Director of Operations we eventually hired, has been a godsend. She's intelligent, capable, and above all, trustworthy. When I decide to nominate a COO, she'll be my first choice, but even that decision is a year or two down the road.
I glance at the clock, realizing I've been stewing for far too long.
The reprieve doesn't last. I've barely settled into the quiet of my office to finish the last of my lunch when my phone buzzes on the desk. Davey's name lights up the screen.
I pick up, pressing the phone to my ear as I stab a piece of chicken with my fork. “What now?”
“The servers.” Davey skips the pleasantries.
I release the fork back into the takeout container. “What about them?”
“The team's been digging through them for a few hours,” he begins. “Half the files are locked behind layered encryptions using different methods and structures. None of it is mine.”
I flex my fingers and he continues, “There are also safeguards built in. If we don't decrypt the files the right way, in the right order, it triggerssilent internal activity logs to be sent to the primary administrator's account.”
I ask the question I already know the answer to. “Do we know who that is?”
Davey clears his throat. “I'd assume your father.”
My skin prickles with heat. “So you're saying—?”
“I need specialists,” he admits with a sigh. “Cryptographers, specifically. Our team isn't equipped for this, and we don't have the bandwidth to figure it out while juggling the rest of the audit, especially not if we're trying to do this subtly.”
The pressure behind my eyes builds fast—tight, hot. I squeeze them shut, and the first image I see is Elena, tied up in the basement. I'd bet every cent I have that whatever she was looking for is in those files.
What the hell is my dad hiding?
“How long do you think it'll take to find someone?”
“I'm hoping a week, maybe less,” Davey replies.
“Good.” I remove my glasses to pinch the bridge, warding away the growing ache. Christ, I need a good workout to relieve some of this tension. “I want updates daily.”
“Already planned on it.”
For a moment, silence hangs between us. I glance at the clock, the nagging thought in the back of my mind surfacing. “When are you coming back to the office?”
Davey hesitates, which immediately puts me on edge. “I'm still here,” he says.
I frown, sitting up straighter in my chair. “What do you mean by 'still'?”
“I haven't left. I was handling something else.”
“What?”
“Elena.”
