Page 38 of October
I blinked. "I didn't know he—"
"Of course you didn't. He didn't want you to. He didn't wantanyoneto know he was vulnerable. So he brought me into the fold—quietly. Gave me power of attorney, full access to the trust, the company holdings, all of it. I was supposed to be the contingency plan."
She gave a small, bitter laugh.
"And then he recovered. Just like that. Got back to his empire. Never looked back. Never changed a thing. He forgot, or maybe just assumed I'd never use it. That I was too loyal. Too small. Too dependent to bite the hand that fed me. And he was right, I never thought of using it."
"Now you just keep pretending," Langley said. "Go with them. Stay close. The Portugal trip is crucial. Final step. Once we file, we'll make it hurt."
I swallowed. Something didn't sit right. It hadn't for a while, but now it twisted.
"About that, I am not going," I said.
Langley looked up, sharp. "What?"
"I'm not going," I repeated, my voice steady but resolute.
"You need to," he replied, annoyance creeping into his tone. "You're the key to the whole thing. They won't see it coming if you play your part."
"I said no. I can't believe I already hurt my wife this much. I won't do anything more." My voice didn't rise, but the room shifted—colder now. Heavier. Like even the air understood something sacred was breaking.
Langley blinked, like he couldn't compute the words. His brows furrowed, a mix of confusion and irritation pinching his face.
"She's divorcing you, Thomas. You said it yourself."
"She is." I nodded slowly, each syllable scraping its way up my throat. The weight of the truth didn't feel lighter for being spoken aloud. If anything, it sunk deeper into my chest like stones in water. "But does that mean I get to hurt her more? Just because she's leaving?"
Langley scoffed under his breath and shook his head. "This isn't about her. It's about your father. About your future. Your name. Your legacy."
"Screw that," I muttered, but my voice came out small, fractured, like the rest of me. It wasn't anger anymore. It was grief in disguise.
"I already lost my family," I said, barely above a whisper. "And half the time, I still can't believe it's real. Like maybe if I just do better, say the right things, show up enough times... I can undo it somehow."
I paused, swallowing hard.
"But if I go there, if I take that step, cross that line, it's not just betrayal anymore. It's final. There's no coming back from that. No apology big enough. No explanation that doesn't sound like a lie. It would make everything I've ruined... permanent."
I sank into the chair like it might keep me from collapsing entirely. Langley opened his mouth to speak, to fire off another strategic point, another rational reason why I should play the role and sacrifice what little soul I had left. But I raised a hand. Not in anger. Not to silence him with force. Just enough to say:Enough.
"I can't do it anymore," I said, the words tumbling out before I could soften them. "I can't keep banking on October's kindness. On her patience. On the way she used to look at me like I was still worth something."
Langley leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn't speak at first, just stared at me like I was a liability now instead of an ally. Finally, he exhaled sharply through his nose.
"So what do you propose now?" he asked, clipped, annoyed. I turned to him, something bitter curling behind my teeth. "I don't know. You're the lawyer, aren't you?" I gestured broadly at the file-strewn table between us. "You tell me what the hell we're supposed to do now. But I've got more pressing things to handle."
I don't even remember how I ended up there, just that I was suddenly standing behind a row of parents at the edge of a soccer field, half-shadowed by the late afternoon sun, watching my son.
Jimmy.
His name echoed through me like a prayer I'd stopped saying, familiar, sacred, and heavy with guilt. There he was. Running across the field in that scrappy red uniform, weaving between defenders, calling for the ball with a sharp confidence I hadn't realized he'd grown into. His movements were fluid, self-assured, like the field was a second home.
When was the last time I came to one of these?I couldn't remember, and that in itself was damning. October had always handled the practices, the tournaments, the little day-to-day things that built memories and trust. She'd text me photos, Jimmy mid-kick, sweaty and smiling, sometimes with a medal around his neck. She'd send me videos when I asked, even though she'd be the one recording, cheering, clapping with real pride in the background.
And me? I'd show up later, never for the whole game, never for the early mornings or the muddy jerseys or the post-match tears—but just long enough to be seen. Just long enough to say I was there. I'd hand him a new pair of cleats, still smelling of rubber and untouched grass. Maybe a soccer ball signed by some mid-tier player I barely knew, but figured he might like. Or a cake from that overpriced bakery he once said was his favorite, back when he was eight and everything I brought home still felt like magic.
I'd pat him on the back, tousle his hair like a commercial-dad caricature, and say I was proud, and I believed it—God, I believed it. I told myself that was love. That was fatherhood. That showing up once in a while with a gift in one hand and a distracted smile on my face counted. That I'd earned something. That I was doing enough.
Because I worked hard. I kept the lights on. I paid for everything. I built a name. I brought home the trophies, the promotions, the investments. That had to mean something, didn't it?
