POV: Jasmine
We walked in the office together.
Liam and Finn stayed just outside Asher’s office when we reached it, the unspoken understanding settling between them without discussion, while I remained a step behind Asher as he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Jackson Blackwood was sitting behind the desk with a glass of whisky and the cigar between his fingers.
Sitting in the chair as if it had always belonged to him, his posture composed, one hand resting lightly on the armrest, the other on the surface in front of him. He looked exactly as he always had — controlled and measured.
His eyes moved over the four of us, registering me at the door, then settling on Liam and Finn, and there was a flicker of surprise when he took in the fact that Asher was standing, steady, better than expected.
He didn’t stand, but he inclined his head slightly instead.
“My son,” he said, his voice smooth, carrying easily across the room. “Good to see you on your feet. I heard you were unwell. I’m sorry I did not come sooner. I was abroad.”
Asher didn’t move toward the desk.
He took a few steps into the office, stopping short of the center of the room, leaving the space between them.
Jackson continued without waiting for a response.
“We’ve reached a point where it would be wise to reconsider certain positions,” he said, his tone shifting into more purposefulness. “There is no benefit in division at a time like this. We are a family, and this company remains ours to protect. Together.”
He folded his hands loosely in front of him.
“Let us join forces,” he added. “Stabilize what needs to be stabilized. Preserve what matters.”
Asher stood still, his attention fixed on his father, not reacting or interrupting. The silence stretched just long enough to make it clear that Jackson’s opening had landed nowhere.
When Asher spoke, his voice was quiet.
“Father,” he said. Nothing in it rose, nothing sharpened. “Get out of my chair.”
Jackson didn’t move. For a moment, the room held exactly as it was, the tension contained, balanced between them without breaking.
Then footsteps sounded behind me, measured and unhurried, and Priya stepped through the doorway as if she had been expected, her briefcase in her hand, her focus already fixed on the center of the room.
She didn’t pause when she saw who was there.
She crossed directly to the desk, set her briefcase down with precise control, and looked at Jackson without hesitation.
“Mr. Blackwood,” she said. “I am Priya Mehta. I represent this family.”
Her tone was even, professional, carrying no trace of uncertainty.
“The chair you are sitting in does not belong to you,” she continued. “The ownership transfer is final, notarized, and unappealable. I drafted it myself.”
She held his gaze steadily.
“I would suggest you stand.”
Jackson looked at her. Really looked, for the first time since we had entered the room, assessing her with the same precision he applied to everything that mattered.
The room shifted—then he finally stood slowly, his hands pressed against the arms of the chair as he rose.
“Thank you,” Priya said, without breaking eye contact.
Asher didn’t move toward the desk. He stayed where he was, leaving the chair empty.
“Father,” he said again, his voice unchanged. “While I was in the hospital, you did not call once.”
Jackson said nothing.
“While I could have died,” Asher continued, “you did not come.” The words settled cleanly between them. “That is all that needs to be said.”
For a moment, Jackson’s gaze shifted past Asher, briefly landing on me at the door, taking in the full picture of the room — the structure of family that existed without him.
Something in his expression adjusted. Not a loss of control, but a recalibration.
“If that is how you wish to frame it,” he said, his tone altering subtly, moving away from familiarity into more pointed. “Then perhaps we should speak in terms that matter.”
His attention returned fully to Asher.
“You are not in a position to sustain this company without support,” he said. “Your current structure leaves vulnerabilities. Minority shares still carry influence, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not, and reputation—”
“Mr. Blackwood,” Priya said, cutting in before he could continue. She didn’t raise her voice because she didn’t need to.
“The minority share you retain has no voting weight,” she said, her tone precise. “I structured it that way.”
She rested one hand lightly against the desk, grounding the statement without emphasis.
“You can keep it,” she added. “You cannot use it.”
Jackson turned his head toward her again, slower this time, his attention narrowing in a way that suggested he was recalculating rather than reacting.
He held her gaze. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. The recognition in his face changed — the recognition of an opposition he had not accounted for.
He shifted his focus, but not back to Asher. To me standing at the door.
“You did this to him,” he said.