The clock reads 2:47 AM. Sleep isn't coming.
I've been staring at the ceiling for hours, counting my failures instead of sheep. Beside me, Serena's breathing is shallow—the restless sleep of someone carrying too much weight.
I ease out of bed with surgical precision. The floorboards know my weight by now, and I've learned which ones creak. Aria's room is dark as I pass—the soft glow of her nightlight spilling under the door, the only evidence of the child who called me Daddy hours ago.
The word still echoes in my chest.
My study is cold. I navigate by memory to the desk drawer where I buried the manila envelope, pulling it out with hands that don't want to cooperate.
The photographs spill across the mahogany surface. I study them like evidence, because that's what they are. Evidence of my father's campaign. Evidence of my own weakness for believing, even for a moment, that they might mean something.
Serena at a graduation party. Laughing with men I don't recognize. Her hand on someone's arm. Someone's hand on her lower back.
The paternity test was definitive. Ninety-nine point nine percent certainty—the closest science gets to absolute truth.
But my father's voice slithers through the cracks anyway. How well do you really know her?
I flip through each image again, slower this time. Looking for inconsistencies, signs of manipulation. All I see is Serena, years younger, enjoying a party. Being a college student at a celebration.
The shame tastes bitter on my tongue.
I slide the photographs back into the envelope. Hide them again, deeper this time. The motion feels cowardly.
The kitchen is dark when I enter. I fill the kettle—the same motion I've watched Serena make dozens of times when stress drives her from sleep. She has rituals for this: specific temperatures, specific timing, the way she wraps her hands around the mug like it's an anchor.
I realize, standing in my designer kitchen, that I don't know how to make tea. Not properly. Not the way she does.
The water boils. I pour it over a random tea bag and watch the color bleed into the water. It looks wrong—too dark, too fast.
The mug sits on the counter, growing cold, while I confront the truth: I have no idea how to process pain without throwing money at it. No mechanism for sitting with discomfort that doesn't involve delegation.
Serena cleans when she's anxious. Maya runs. Sebastian drinks expensive whiskey and broods.
I have nothing. Just the hollow echo of my father's voice, telling me that feelings are leverage and vulnerability is weakness.
* * *
Morning arrives too quickly.
Serena looks at me over breakfast with questions in her eyes—she noticed my absence, noticed my distraction—but Aria's chatter fills the silences before they become suspicious.
The café is the same as Thursday. Same table by the window, same waiter who pretends not to recognize either of us, same photographer across the street who's gotten lazy about concealment.
Victoria is ten minutes late. Deliberate, I suspect.
"Caspian." She air-kisses my cheeks, her perfume thick enough to taste. "You look exhausted. Trouble at home?"
"Late night." I don't elaborate. "Thank you for meeting again."
She settles across from me, all careful angles and calculated warmth. The blush silk has been replaced by ivory cashmere, equally camera-ready.
"I've been thinking about our conversation," she begins, stirring honey into her cup. "About what you said regarding the media narrative."
"And?"
"Edward called me yesterday." She watches my face as she says it. Testing the reaction.
My pulse doesn't change. "My father contacted you directly?"
"He's been very helpful, actually. Coaching me on what to say when reporters approach." Victoria's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "He has quite specific ideas about which outlets to prioritize. Which angles play best for the reconciliation story."
The word lands like a blow. Reconciliation. Not performance. Not strategy.
"He's coaching you," I repeat slowly. "On how to sell the narrative that we're getting back together."
"He seems very invested in the outcome. He called twice yesterday. Three times the day before. Very detailed suggestions about body language, talking points, timeline."
The trap reveals itself with sickening clarity.
I thought I understood my father's game. Photographs to plant doubt. Victoria as a public distraction. Pressure from the board, the trust provisions, the threat of disinheritance.
But it's more elaborate than I imagined.
He's not just orchestrating my side of this. He's managing Victoria too. Feeding her lines, positioning her as a sympathetic figure in a romance narrative, coaching her on exactly how to appear.
Both sides of the chess board. Every piece moving according to his design.
"What exactly is he telling you to say?"
Victoria's composure flickers. "That you've realized your current... situation... was a mistake. That the child complicates things, but you're taking responsibility appropriately. That we've reconnected and discovered what we threw away."
She sets down her cup. "He's very specific about the phrasing. Makes me practice before interviews."
The nausea rises in my throat.
"And you're following his directions?"
"He's offered to invest in my boutique." Her voice is matter-of-fact, but I catch the desperation underneath. "Significant capital. Enough to actually compete. You know how hard the market is—how long I've been struggling to get traction."
I should be angry. Should feel betrayed by her willingness to participate.
But I see it now—the same pattern he's used on everyone. Finding the desperation. The leverage. The pressure point that makes people bend.
"He's using you, Victoria."
"I know." She meets my eyes, and the mask drops entirely. "But he's using you too. And at least this way, I get something out of it."
We sit in silence while the photographer captures whatever angles he thinks will sell.
"I'm not going back to you," I say finally. "Whatever narrative my father is constructing. This ends with me choosing Serena. Choosing Aria. There's no version of this where I walk away from my family."
Victoria nods slowly. "I figured. You looked at her the way you never looked at me."
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry. For the way things ended between us."
"Ancient history." She waves a manicured hand, but her voice is softer. "Just... be careful. Your father doesn't lose gracefully."
* * *
The penthouse is quiet when I return. Serena's at work. Aria is at school. I'm alone with the weight of what I've learned.
I pull out my phone. Type the message carefully.
Update: Edward is coaching Victoria directly. Controlling both sides of the reconciliation narrative. The trap is more elaborate than we thought. He's not just pressuring me—he's scripting her too.
My thumb hovers over the send button.
I should tell her about the photographs. Should confess to the moment of doubt, the shame of hiding evidence in a desk drawer, the corrosive secret that's been working its way under my skin since the envelope arrived.
The omission sits in my chest like a splinter—small, sharp, burrowing deeper with every breath.
I hit send without adding the confession.
Her response arrives in minutes: Fuck.
I set down the phone and stare at the city through the window. Somewhere out there, my father is orchestrating moves I haven't anticipated yet. Somewhere in this apartment, photographs hide in a drawer like evidence of my own weakness.
And somewhere between those truths, the splinter works itself deeper.
I tell myself I'm protecting her. That she doesn't need another burden.
But I know what I'm really doing.
I'm protecting the doubt I'm too ashamed to admit still lives in me.