Page 1 of Inheritance
Gabriel
For a long moment, we sat staring at each other, unwilling to speak, unable to mask the contempt simmering between us.
The air in my father’s study felt heavy, thick with the scent of aged whiskey, leather, and stale tobacco. A single lamp glowed dimly in the corner, casting jagged shadows across the room.
Patience and anger warred in his bloodshot eyes—his fatigue a mirror of my own.
“You look great,” I said, breaking the silence with a sarcasm I knew would tip him over the edge.
He snorted, a dry, bitter sound, and leaned back in his chair. “Well, I feel better than ever. And how could I not? One of my sons has returned.”
His gaze sharpened, cutting through the space between us. “It’s just a shame that one of them never will.”
I didn’t react.
My father scoffed as he raised his glass, though his hand trembled slightly. The whiskey rippled. Small, telling waves betrayed the strain he tried to hide—the pain he blamed me for.
He steadied his hand the only way he knew: by downing his whiskey in one long gulp.
“You’ve been busy in your time away. Making my life difficult,” he said.
I grabbed the bottle and poured myself a drink, matching his steady disdain. “Refusing to go along with your delusional plans made things more difficult for you?”
His eyes narrowed. His lip twitched.
“You’ve always butted heads with me, but I never thought my own son would go so far as to start a war simply to spite me.”
“The war was inevitable,” I said calmly. “It wasn’t about spite. Though I’ll admit—it’s funny how things kicked off when I went after that oil company. Something I wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t frozen my accounts after I left.”
He didn’t answer. Just refilled his glass.
I laughed once, dull and tired.
“We’re at war, yes. But even war is better than giving your loved ones to a generational enemy.”
A flicker crossed his face. Shame. Or regret. But it vanished in an instant.
“What?” I asked, glass halfway to my lips.
He leaned back. His hand dragged over his chin like he was steeling himself. When he finally spoke, I already knew what he was going to say.
I just didn’t know who.
“After you left… your sister made her vows to Ivan Sinclair.”
I blinked.
“Who?” I snapped. “Did you fucking sell Caroline?”
The thought of either of my sisters in Ivan’s hands was too much to bear. Isabelle—maybe she could survive it. She was sharper, colder. But Caroline…
She was too young. Too trusting. Too innocent.
The glass cracked in my hand. Then shattered.
I closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. Forcing breath in. Forcing distance from what I already knew was coming.
“I didn’t sell her,” he said simply, “She willingly married him.”
