James sat upright behind his desk, his posture immaculate, h folded. His expression was dark, a mask of authority fixed on his face—yet beneath it, unease stirred.
"Have a seat," James said, gesturing to the chair across from him.
Edward didn't move. "No, thank you."
James's lips thinned. "Very well." He shifted a folder, the motion precise to the point of ritual. "Princess wants to move the wedding forward—within a few weeks."
"No." Edward folded his arms. "I'm considering ending it entirely."
James tilted his head, letting the words hang in the air. "Ending it? Edward… this alliance is crucial. You know what it means for the company. For us."
"You always say that," Edward said quietly. "But who exactly is 'us,' Father? Because it's never felt like it includes me."
James's gaze cut to his son, sharp and assessing. "This family. This name. Everything I've built was meant to keep it standing," James said, his voice clipped.
"You built a fortress, not a family," Edward said quietly, his hands flexing at his sides.
The silence that followed was thick and alive with all the words neither man would speak. James adjusted his cufflinks, his movements stiff and mechanical. "Be careful what you say."
"I'm done living as an extension of your deals," Edward said, his voice low but steady. "Pretending it's about me when it's always been about you."
James's expression tightened. "This is about survival. Men who turn their backs on power are devoured," James said, and for the first time, he felt the sting of his own words.
Edward's response was resolute. "Maybe I'd rather be devoured than hollow."
James's voice grew sharper. "Then tell me—what do you want?"
Edward hesitated then finally spoke the words out to anyone other than himself. "I have a child. Not born yet—but it's mine."
Jaes rose, surprise crossing his features like a sudden shadow. "You do? When did this happen?"
"That's all you need to know." Edward turned toward the door, his heart heavy, but James's voice followed him. "Is that girl the mother? I knew she wouldn't leave."
Edward paused, his heartbeat stuttering. "I can't leave her," he admitted quietly. "Even when I tried to, for your sake."
James frowned. "So you're just going to throw away everything for that girl?" His tone hardened. "We can take the child. This wedding can still go on."
Edward exhaled slowly, sorrow threading through his voice. "You haven't even asked about your grandchild. But you called this a family?"
James said nothing, and in that silence, Edward saw the truth: the empire came first, even before blood.
A soft knock broke through the moment. James sighed. "Come in."
The door opened, and Viola swept in—poised and composed.
"I thought you both could use this," she said with a practiced smile. Edward watched as she set the tray down, her movements careful and graceful.
Then she leaned toward James, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek. It was tender, almost domestic, and Edward felt distaste coil in his chest.
"Thank you, Viola," James said, his voice softening in a way Edward had never heard directed at him.
She smiled faintly. "You're welcome, darling."
Her gaze shifted briefly to Edward before she turned toward the door. As she reached for the handle, he spoke deliberately. "Maybe you should marry the Princess if you care that much about the business."
Viola's hand froze on the knob. She turned her head, surprise flickering across her face. Their eyes met—hers bristling with quiet anger, his calm but mocking.
Then Edward smiled, a humorless, weary curve of the lips, before she left.
James ignored the silent exchange, continuing the conversation as if nothing had happened. "I care about my grandchild," he said, his tone clipped. "But this is bigger than you and me. This is about taking responsibility."
"No," Edward replied quietly, almost mournfully. "That's your definition of responsibility, not mine. I have a child to think about."
James's gaze wavered, the mask faltering. Panicked, he realized that something was truly lost. Edward's rejection wasn't just defiance; it was the breaking of a pattern, a refusal to be trapped in the cycle James had perfected.
He wanted to shake him, to make him see the world without the shield of the Black name. But even he knew that some things could not be forced.
He leaned back slowly, his eyes distant. James had known from a young age what power meant. He had lived through its absence—the sneers, the humiliation, and the quiet doors that shut in his face when he was nobody.
When the Black name became synonymous with power, everything changed. Respect came easily, and fear followed. He couldn't bear to watch his son throw that away, to be reduced to what he once was.
"This is who we are," he finally said. "Men in this family. This is how we survive."
"You don't get to tell me who I am," Edward shot back. "I'll decide that."
James stared at him, his eyes rimmed with despair. "You think freedom is noble? It's an illusion. You'll come back. You always do."
Edward took a step toward the door. "Not this time." James's voice was tight and low—almost a whisper to himself. "You'll regret this."
Edward smiled faintly, bitter but resolute. "I'll take my chance."
James exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. "Your mother used to say you'd find your own way," he murmured, his voice almost tender. "I didn't believe her."
"She was right," Edward said quietly. "And that's what scares you."
James stared at him for a long moment, and something in his eyes shifted—resignation tempered with reluctant respect. "You're your mother's son," he finally said. "Stubborn. Certain. Willing to burn everything for love."
It was the closest thing to a blessing James had ever given.
For a heartbeat, Edward's gaze softened. "Maybe that's the only thing worth burning for," he replied.
James's shoulders sank; the burden of empire, legacy, and loss pressed down on him. "Perhaps I underestimated you," he admitted softly. "Perhaps I always have."
A dull ache rose in Edward's chest. For years, he'd wanted this acknowledgment, but now that it had come, it felt weightless—too late and too small to matter.
The words landed between them like the final stroke of a verdict. Edward stood in the stillness, the air around him softer now—a thread of freedom woven through it.
James remained behind the desk, carved from pride and silence. He had lost a battle he hadn't realized he was fighting until his son had ended it.
And yet, buried deep beneath the disappointment, something unfamiliar flickered—pride, perhaps. Or the fragile hope that Edward might survive beyond the fortress he'd refused to inherit.
Edward turned toward the door. This time, James said nothing. He only watched.
When the door clicked shut, he didn't move. His gaze held on the space where his son had stood. Pride twisted with loss, and beneath both, something quieter bloomed—an unwilling belief that maybe, just maybe, Edward would be all right.
The hall greeted Edward with silence. The house still smelled of cigars and ghosts. Outside, the rain had eased, leaving the faint scent of gardenias and wet asphalt rising from the street.
The weight of expectation still loomed, but for the first time, it wasn't his to bear. He understood James—understood the choices, even the damage. But he wouldn't live that life.
He wasn't in someone else's shadow—not under his father's rules, not behind walls built from fear.
He was walking into his own.