Chapter 15
Silas lasted longer than Cassian expected.
Not in power.
In denial.
He kept insisting my father’s recordings belonged to Westbrook history.
Meaning him.
I visited once.
Neutral house.
No entourage except Rafe outside.
Silas looked older without people standing when he entered.
“You destroyed some tapes.”
“Yes.”
His face twisted.
“You had no right.”
I almost laughed.
“My father made them for me.”
“They contained history.”
“They contained gossip too.”
“You’re careless.”
“No.”
I leaned forward.
“I’m refusing to let dead men govern every dinner.”
He hated that.
Because Silas’s authority came from remembering who owed whom twenty years ago.
History was his weapon.
I asked why he recruited Scarlett instead of simply stealing the recordings sooner.
He admitted the engagement gave him something rare.
Predictable choreography.
Everyone seated.
Guards distributed.
Music timed.
Service routes busy.
A mansion becomes easiest to breach when tradition tells everyone where to stand.
Good insight.
Misused.
Then:
“You would have become what your father feared anyway.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Soft.”
There it was.
The inevitable insult.
I thought of Iris’s bruised hand.
Scarlett’s father.
Cassian’s guilt.
Men outside my east door.
Then answered:
“If soft means I notice the people you trained yourself not to see, I can live with that.”
He laughed.
But weaker.
We were done.
Silas lost every Westbrook privilege.
No meetings.
No honorary seat.
No anniversary invitation.
May you like
Nothing dramatic.
For an old man who survived through relevance, silence became exile enough.
