[Serena’s POV]
Something is wrong with Caspian.
I notice it over breakfast—his fork moving through eggs without lifting any to his mouth, his eyes drifting to his phone like he's expecting a message he doesn't want me to see. His coffee sits untouched.
"Aria's been practicing her spelling words," I offer. "She got 'catastrophe' right on the first try."
"That's great." Automatic. Hollow. He doesn't look up.
Aria chatters about her volcano science project while Caspian nods at appropriate intervals, jaw tight, shoulders rigid. This isn't Victoria anxiety—I've learned that tension. This is something else. Something he's hiding.
"I need to find a pen," I announce after Aria bounds off to brush her teeth. "For signing her permission slip."
"There's one in the kitchen drawer."
"That one's dead. I'll check your office."
He goes still. Just for a heartbeat—just long enough to confirm that whatever he's hiding lives in that room. But he doesn’t follow me.
I find the photographs in the second drawer. Me at graduation, seven years ago, talking to men I vaguely recognize. One shows me laughing, my hand on someone's shoulder. The typed note behind them is worse: Are you certain about the paternity? These photos suggest Ms. Vale wasn't as alone as she claimed.
My hands shake with rage so pure it feels like ice.
I'm holding the evidence when he appears in the doorway, his expression cycling through surprise, guilt, and something like relief. Like he's been waiting to be caught.
"Who sent these?"
"I don't know." He steps into the room, hands raised. "They arrived under the door. Same night as—"
"Your father." The words taste like ash. "This has Edward's fingerprints all over it."
"Probably. Yes." He exhales, and I watch his chest rise and fall with the weight of confession. "Serena, I should have told you immediately. I know that. I just—"
"Did you believe them?"
The question lands between us like a grenade. His silence stretches one beat too long, his mouth forming explanations that die before they reach air.
"Oh my God." I press my palm against the desk, steadying myself against the vertigo of betrayal. "You did. Even for a moment—"
"I had the photographs analyzed. I knew they were meaningless. The paternity test was conclusive, and I never doubted—"
"But you hesitated." My voice drops to something dangerously quiet. "After everything. After the paternity test that proved Aria is yours. After I moved into your home and let you into our lives. After I trusted you with—"
The words catch. After I trusted you with everything. After I chose you over self-preservation. After I let myself believe we were different.
"One envelope from your father and you're wondering if I fucked someone else at graduation?"
He flinches. Good.
"I wasn't wondering. Not really. It was just—" He drags a hand through his hair, destroying its careful styling. "He knows exactly where to apply pressure. He's been doing it my entire life, and sometimes I still—"
"React like his puppet? Dance to whatever tune he plays?"
"That's not fair."
"Neither is hiding photographs that imply I'm a liar." I shove the images toward him. "Neither is keeping secrets when we agreed—no surprises. No strategic omissions."
"I was going to tell you."
"When? After you'd studied them some more? After you'd decided whether the evidence warranted confrontation?"
He has no defense. I watch him search for one, watch the calculations run behind his eyes, then watch him give up. His shoulders drop with defeat.
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fix this." I grab my bag. "Sorry doesn't erase the fact that your default response to your father's manipulation is to wonder if I'm the problem."
"Where are you going?"
"Work. Where things make sense."
He moves toward me, then stops when I raise my hand. The distance between us feels like miles—not feet of hardwood, but the chasm his doubt carved into whatever we were building.
"Can we talk tonight? After Aria's asleep?"
"I don't know if I want to talk to you tonight. I don't know if I want to look at you and see the man who hid evidence because part of him believed his father over me."
I leave before the tears can fall.
The subway is crowded, which is a blessing. No space for thoughts when you're wedged between strangers. I let the motion carry me, let the rhythm of stops and starts drown out the loop in my head.
Work is a refuge. My desk, my spreadsheets, the precise logic of financial analysis. I throw myself into the Henderson projections with the focus of someone outrunning a wildfire.
"You're going to wear a hole through that keyboard."
Dominic Reyes appears at my door, two coffee cups in hand. His smile is warm without being presumptuous—an invitation, not an expectation.
"Rough morning?"
"You could say that." I accept the coffee because refusing would require explanation, and explanations require energy I don't have.
He settles into the chair across from my desk with easy confidence. "Want to talk about it, or would you prefer to pretend everything's fine while we discuss the merger implications?"
"Option B. Definitely option B."
We work through the numbers together. Dominic's insights are sharp, his questions thoughtful. He doesn't press about my obvious distress, doesn't probe the shadows under my eyes. He just offers competence and kindness without strings attached.
It's such a contrast to navigating Caspian's world—the chess moves, the strategic positioning, the weight of Rothwell expectations—that something in my chest loosens. For an hour, I'm just an analyst doing good work, not a woman drowning in someone else's family drama.
"Your methodology on the risk assessment is brilliant, by the way," he says, gathering his notes. "I've been adapting elements of it for the acquisition strategy."
"Imitation is flattery. Or theft, depending on your perspective."
"I prefer collaborative inspiration." He pauses at the door. "For what it's worth, Serena—whatever's happening outside these walls—you're handling it better than most. The work shows someone who functions under pressure."
The compliment is simple. Uncomplicated. No agenda, no subtext, no seven years of history weighing every word.
I find myself grateful, and immediately guilty for the comparison. Dominic is easy. Caspian is a maze of tripwires and family dynamics that could fuel a dissertation. With Dominic, there's no exhausting navigation required.
But easy has never been what I wanted. Even now, even furious, I don't want uncomplicated.
I want someone who sees me clearly and chooses me anyway. The question is whether Caspian can be that person—or whether his father's poison runs too deep.
My phone rings at seven-fifteen. Unknown number, same area code that's been appearing for weeks.
Something makes me answer.
"Ms. Vale?" The woman's voice is careful, measured. "My name is Caroline Davis. I was Edward Rothwell's executive assistant for twelve years."
My breath catches. "Was?"
"I left three years ago. Under circumstances I'd rather not discuss over the phone." A pause. "I've been following the news. Seeing your name in the headlines. And I think there are things you should know about the man you're dealing with, if you’re so hellbent on playing his games."
"What kind of things?"
"The kind that end careers. Destroy lives. The kind that got swept under rugs because no one was willing to pull them up."
I glance around the empty office, heart hammering. "Why are you calling me?"
"Because someone needs to stop him. And I think you might be brave enough—or desperate enough—to try."
We arrange to meet. Not tonight—I need time to process, to plan. But soon.
I hang up and stare at my phone. Edward Rothwell has been playing chess with our lives for months. Photographs, Victoria, manipulating his own son with practiced ease.
But now I have something he doesn't know about. I have Caroline Davis.
And whatever she knows might be exactly the weapon I need to burn his empire to the ground.