Liam’s POV
My father chose the kind of restaurant where the wine list came in its own leather-bound bible and the food arrived looking like art you were supposed to feel bad about eating.
I didn’t feel bad.
I took a sip of my scotch, letting it burn down my throat as I watched the door. The hostess smiled too long at me when I walked in. I didn’t smile back.
Arthur Duarte was already at the table. Silver-haired, steel-spined, and swathed in a Tom Ford suit that was probably tailored by virgins. He stood when I approached, which would’ve shocked me if I hadn’t noticed the shift in him over the past couple years. The old Arthur never stood. You stood for him.
“Liam.” He smiled, warm. Practiced. Fake.
“Arthur.” I sat without waiting for an invitation.
His smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Good. I lived for those cracks in his perfect, polished exterior.
He poured himself a glass of something overpriced and leaned back. “You look tired.”
“I run a billion-dollar company. You know what that’s like.”
His mouth twitched. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
We both sipped. The silence was a third guest at the table—sharp, intimate, and carrying years of barely-buried resentment.
“You’ve done well with Duarte Tech,” he said finally. “I didn’t think it would work, but you proved me wrong.”
“I usually do.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he forced a chuckle. “Still got that fire in you. That’s good. That’ll keep you sharp. And it’s exactly why you need someone to ground you.”
Here we go.
“You need someone to bore me into submission?” I asked, swirling my glass. “Someone to pop out heirs and smile politely at galas?”
“I said ground you, not kill you.”
I snorted. “You’re bad at this. Playing matchmaker. Remember Cassandra? She asked if software was made of actual fabric.”
Arthur chuckled. “She was sweet.”
“She was an idiot.”
He gave me a pointed look. “She was from a good family.”
“Which means nothing.”
“It means legacy. Stability. Connections. Qualities you’ll care about when your dick isn’t doing the talking.”
I leaned in, elbows on the table. “You think there’s a woman on earth who could change my mind?”
“She might.”
“There’s no trick, Arthur. No corset tight enough, no face pretty enough, no bank account big enough.”
He smiled like he knew something I didn’t, and I hated that.
“She’s the daughter of Athena Sinclaire.”
That stopped me.
I blinked. “The Athena Sinclaire?”
He nodded, smug now. “The political broker. The woman who practically chooses the next president from her phone while doing yoga.”
“I thought she didn’t have kids.”
“She has one. And she’s...spicy.”
I raised a brow. “Spicy?”
“You’ll see.”
I shook my head slowly. “No, I won’t. Because I won’t like her. You know why? Because you picked her.”
Arthur leaned forward, voice low. “You’re not a boy anymore, Liam. You can stop punishing me for what happened with Lindsey.”
My jaw clenched so tight I could hear my teeth grind. “I’m not punishing you. I just don’t trust you.”
“Fair enough.” He glanced at the door, then his watch. “She’s late.”
I arched a brow. “Late? That’s new.”
The women he picked were always early. Always desperate. Always interchangeable.
Arthur’s phone buzzed. He looked down, frowned, and then answered. “Yes?”
His face changed. Confusion. Then disbelief. Then full-blown fury.
“What do you mean she ran away?!”
Every head in the restaurant turned. I smiled behind my glass.
Now this was interesting.