[Caspian’s POV]
My father has always had impeccable timing.
It's a gift, really—knowing exactly when to appear for maximum devastation. Birthdays, graduations, board meetings where I needed his support. He's missed all of those. But the morning after I've finally built something real? He's here before the flour settles.
Father steps into my penthouse like he's conducting an inspection. Silver hair swept back with military precision, suit worth more than most people's cars, and that particular way of carrying himself that makes everyone around him feel smaller. I used to think it was charisma. Now I recognize it for what it is: practiced dominance.
His eyes sweep the kitchen—flour on the ceiling, batter dripping down cabinets, the chaos of a family morning—and his expression barely flickers. But I see it. The microscopic tightening around his mouth. Judgment catalogued for later use.
"Caspian." He doesn't offer a handshake. Never does with family. "I see domestic life agrees with you."
"Father." I keep my voice neutral. "I thought you were in Geneva."
"Plans change." His gaze lands on Aria, pressed against Serena's leg, Mr. Whiskers clutched to her chest. Something shifts in his face—interest, calculation, assessment. "And this must be the child."
The child. Not 'my granddaughter.' Not even 'your daughter.' The child, like she's an acquisition to be evaluated.
"Aria." I move between them without thinking. "Her name is Aria."
"Aria." He tastes the word like wine he's unsure about. "She has Rothwell eyes. Your grandmother's coloring, actually. Remarkable how genetics assert themselves."
It sounds like a compliment. It feels like a claim.
Serena's hand tightens on Aria's shoulder. I can feel her vibrating with the effort of staying silent, keeping the promise I extracted minutes ago.
"Aria, sweetheart." Serena's voice is carefully controlled. "Let's get you properly dressed for the courthouse. Say goodbye to... Mr. Rothwell."
"Bye, Mr. Rothwell." Aria's voice is small, uncertain. She's never met this grandfather, and her instincts are telling her to be cautious. Smart kid.
Father watches them go. Then he turns to me, and the mask slips enough for me to see the steel underneath.
"The courthouse." Not a question. "You're actually going through with this."
"With legally recognizing my daughter? Yes."
"Caspian." He says my name like I'm twelve and caught sneaking cookies. "We need to discuss this. The board has concerns about your judgment, about the optics of this situation. A secret child, a woman of... uncertain background, the tabloid coverage—"
"Serena's background isn't uncertain. She graduated top of her class from Columbia, she's brilliant at her job, and she's the mother of my child." I keep my voice level, but something hot builds in my chest. "The board's concerns are noted. And irrelevant."
Father's smile doesn't reach his eyes. It never does. "Nothing is irrelevant to the board. Everything affects perception, and perception affects stock price. Surely I taught you that."
He taught me a lot of things. How to read a room. How to identify weakness. How to use leverage. He taught me that love was a transaction, affection earned through performance and revoked at the slightest disappointment.
He taught me everything about being a Rothwell and nothing about being a person.
"The paternity filing," he continues, moving to the window like he owns the view, "should be delayed. At minimum. Ideally, we'd explore other arrangements. A trust for the child, financial support for the mother. But legal acknowledgment creates complications—"
"She's not 'the child.' She's Aria. She's my daughter. And I'm not hiding her like some shameful secret."
"No one's suggesting shame." His voice is patient, explaining something obvious to someone who should already understand. "I'm suggesting strategy. The media narrative is problematic. We need to control the story, not hand ammunition to your enemies."
Your enemies. Like Serena is the enemy. Like our daughter is a weapon against me.
The worst part—the part that makes me sick—is that I feel myself wanting to listen. Wanting to find logic in his arguments, to earn approval, to finally hear him say I've done something right.
The old pull. The desperate need I thought I'd buried.
I thought falling in love, becoming a father, building something real—I thought that would cure me. But Father walks into my home, and suddenly I'm eleven again, showing him a perfect report card while he finds the one A-minus.
"The filing happens today." My voice comes out stronger than I feel. "Non-negotiable."
Father studies me for a long moment, recalculating. He's never one to lose gracefully, but he knows when to change tactics.
"Very well." He straightens his cuffs—the same gesture I catch myself making when regrouping. "If you're determined to proceed, at least consider the public relations implications. I ran into Victoria Chase at the Hartman benefit last week."
The name lands like a grenade. Victoria. My ex. The woman my father always approved of because she came from the right family, knew the right people, understood the game.
"She asked about you fondly," he continues, watching me like a hawk tracking prey. "We discussed the unfortunate media coverage. How it might help to present a united front—old friends supporting each other publicly. Show the world the Rothwell heir has backing from established circles, not just..." He waves toward the kitchen. "This."
This. A flour-covered disaster. A child's stuffed animal. Evidence of a morning I wouldn't trade for anything his world offers.
"Victoria and I ended years ago."
"Romantic involvement isn't what I'm suggesting. Simply public appearances. Photo opportunities. A reminder that you belong to a certain world, have connections beyond this... current situation."
I should refuse immediately. But something in his tone makes me pause—certainty that he's already set pieces in motion, orchestrating something I can't see.
"I'll think about it."
The words taste like betrayal, but they buy me time. Time to figure out what he's planning. Time to protect Serena and Aria from whatever chess game this is.
Father smiles—genuine satisfaction, or his closest approximation. "That's all I ask. Think strategically, Caspian. That's what I've always taught you." He moves toward the elevator, then pauses. "The girl does have remarkable eyes. Whatever else you've done, you've certainly ensured the Rothwell genes continue."
The elevator doors close, and I stand alone in my flour-dusted kitchen, feeling like I've lost a battle I didn't know I was fighting.
Victoria Chase. The name keeps circling, a chess move I don't yet understand. Why her? Why now? Father never suggests anything without calculating three moves ahead.
Serena emerges moments later, Aria fully dressed and clinging to her hand. She takes one look at my face and her expression shifts—concern replacing the careful distance she'd maintained during Father's visit.
"What happened?" Her voice is quiet, controlled. "You look like someone walked over your grave."
"Just Father being Father." I force my voice steady. "Board concerns. Suggestions about optics. The usual attempts to control what he can't own."
It's not a lie. It's just not the whole truth.
I should tell her about Victoria. About the "united front" Father's orchestrating. But something stops me. Maybe I need to understand what he's angling for first. Maybe I'm afraid of how she'll react when she hears my ex-girlfriend's name alongside "media strategy."
Or maybe I'm already falling into old patterns. Keeping information close. Playing strategy instead of partnership.
"We should get Aria a snack," Serena says, still watching me with those eyes that miss nothing. "The courthouse can wait until after she's eaten."
She's giving me an out. Time to process whatever just happened. The consideration should make me feel grateful.
Instead, it makes the guilt worse.
Think strategically, Father's voice echoes.
I've been thinking strategically my whole life. And somehow, I always end up exactly where he wants me.