* Present day *
The board meeting starts as support and ends as siege.
I should have recognized the trap the moment my father's assistant sent the agenda. Family office resources. PR coordination. Legal counsel recommendations. Every bullet point a knife concealed in silk.
Father sits at the head of the table like he never left. The board members wear expressions of sympathetic concern---they've been coached to see me as a man in crisis who needs rescuing.
"The tabloid situation requires professional management," Father begins, his tone reasonable and warm. "I've taken the liberty of arranging consultations with three top-tier PR firms. Rothwell Industries can't afford amateur hour."
I keep my face neutral. "The situation is under control."
"Is it?" He slides a folder across the table—printouts of every headline from the past month. "The board has legitimate concerns about reputational damage. We're proposing resources, not interference."
The distinction is meaningless, and he knows I know it. But the board members are nodding along, grateful that someone is taking charge of the mess.
"Additionally," Father continues, "I've consulted with the family office regarding protective structures. Trust arrangements to ensure Miss Vale and the child are appropriately provided for while protecting company assets."
My jaw tightens. Appropriately provided for. Like Serena is a problem to be managed.
"We should also discuss custody considerations. A formal arrangement protects everyone. Our attorneys can ensure everything is handled discreetly, advantageously."
Every offer is a collar. Every resource is a leash. I sit through ninety minutes of my father systematically offering to solve problems in ways that would make him the solution's owner.
By the end, the board is practically applauding his generosity while I'm being positioned as an overwhelmed child who needs Daddy's help navigating his mistakes.
"I'll take everything under advisement," I say when the meeting finally adjourns, the words ash in my mouth.
Father's smile suggests that's exactly what he expected.
* * *
Sebastian catches me in the hallway outside the conference room, his grip on my elbow steering me toward an empty office. He closes the door.
"That was a masterpiece of manipulation," he says. "I almost admire it. If it weren't aimed at you."
"I noticed." My voice comes out flat, exhausted.
"Did you notice the part where every piece of 'help' comes with strings attached to his hands?" Sebastian crosses his arms. "PR firms he's already retained. Lawyers from firms that owe him favors. Trust structures that give him oversight authority. He's trying to own you, Caspian. Own your relationship, your daughter, your choices."
"I said I'd take it under advisement."
"Which buys you maybe a week before he starts implementing things 'on your behalf.'" Sebastian's gaze is steady. "You've seen him do it before. He offers help, then he takes over, then it's his."
My hands curl into fists at my sides. "What do you suggest I do? Refuse everything publicly? That makes me look ungrateful and unstable."
"I suggest you figure out which battles matter and fight those with everything you have." Sebastian pushes off from the desk. "And remember that Serena isn't a pawn in whatever chess game you're playing with Father. She trusted you enough to let you back in. Don't let him use that against her."
He leaves me standing in the empty office, his warning settling into my bones like winter cold.
* * *
The café Victoria chose is upscale but understated—the kind of place where photographers can lurk across the street without looking obvious. I texted Serena the address at seven this morning. Her response came within minutes.
Fine. If she touches you, I'm billing you for therapy.
I'd laughed, the tension in my chest loosening. She's still sharp, still fighting. Still mine.
Victoria arrives precisely on time, camera-ready in a cream silk blouse. She air-kisses both my cheeks like we're old friends, and I catch the flash of a telephoto lens from across the street.
The performance has begun.
"Caspian." She settles into the chair with practiced grace. "It's been too long. You look... well. Considering everything."
"Victoria." I signal the waiter. "Thanks for making time."
We order—espresso for me, some complicated tea blend for her—and she launches into the script. Warm. Familiar. Supportive. She touches my arm when she laughs, and I let her because the cameras are watching.
She asks about Aria with practiced interest. She mentions the tabloid coverage. She angles her body toward me in ways that will photograph as intimate.
"It must be overwhelming," she murmurs, her hand finding my forearm again. "Suddenly being a father. All those responsibilities you never planned for."
"I'm managing." My smile feels plastic. "Serena and I are finding our rhythm."
Something flickers in Victoria's expression---irritation, maybe, quickly suppressed. "Of course. She seems... capable. In her own way."
The careful condescension makes my teeth grind. Capable in her own way. Like Serena is some charity case who's done surprisingly well for someone of her background.
I think about what Serena told me---the party where Victoria dismissed her as introductory track, the study groups that mysteriously filled whenever she tried to join, the whispered comments about scholarship students.
Four years of small cruelties delivered with perfect smiles. And I'd dated her. Never saw any of it because people like Serena were invisible in my peripheral vision.
"She's extraordinary," I say, and I don't bother making it sound casual. "The most brilliant person I've ever known."
Victoria's smile doesn't falter, but her eyes go sharp. "How lovely for you both."
We talk for another thirty minutes. She laughs at nothing, performs grief over our lost connection, suggests we do this again. When we part, she hugs me just long enough for the photographers.
My phone buzzes before I've made it half a block.
Victoria's text glows on the screen: That was fun. Same time Thursday?
I forward it to Serena without adding anything. Let her see exactly what I'm dealing with.
Her response comes fast.
Thursday works. The therapy bill is growing.
I'm keeping my promise. Every meeting reported, every interaction transparent, every text forwarded. We agreed to this. She set the conditions and I'm honoring them.
It doesn't make any of this feel less dirty.
I walk back to the office through afternoon crowds that part around my expensive suit, my phone heavy in my pocket. Somewhere across the city, Serena is reading Victoria's breezy text and calculating exactly how much it costs her to let me do this.
The therapy bill is growing, she said. Joke wrapped around truth, the way she always delivers the things that hurt.
I could call it off. Could tell my father to find another strategy, tell Victoria the performances are finished. But Sebastian's warning echoes—figure out which battles matter.
This isn't the battle that matters. This is the distraction, the glittering circus while Father positions his pieces.
The real fight is coming. And when it arrives, I need to be ready to lose everything except the things that actually matter.
Thursday, I'll have coffee with Victoria again. I'll let her touch my arm and laugh at nothing and pose for cameras I'll pretend not to notice. I'll forward every text to the woman waiting at home, and she'll respond with barbed jokes that hide how much this costs her.
I'm doing this for us. For our future. For the family I never knew I wanted until it appeared in a boardroom with grey eyes and a puzzle-solving six-year-old.
But as I push through the revolving doors into Rothwell Industries' gleaming lobby, I can't shake the feeling that I'm already losing something I'll never get back.
The price of strategy is always paid in pieces of yourself.
I just hope there's enough of me left when the bill comes due.