Chapter 9
My father left one thing in that room nobody outside immediate family was supposed to know about.
Not a ledger.
Not cash.
His recorded testimony.
Hours of private audio made during his final months.
He distrusted written records.
He believed paper could be copied too easily.
So he spoke.
Names.
Decisions.
Regrets.
Confessions.
I had listened to only part.
Then sealed the room because grief made the rest impossible.
Silas knew.
He had helped my father record some of it.
Cassian did not.
Scarlett certainly did not.
The engagement dinner gave Silas the perfect house full of distraction.
While Cassian opened the east corridor, two men entered the north wing through the servants’ staircase.
Rafe caught one.
The other escaped into the garden without the recordings.
Good.
I turned toward Silas.
“What did my father say about you?”
His smile vanished.
Enough.
Cassian stared.
“You used me.”
Silas laughed.
“Yes.”
No shame.
My father had discovered Cassian’s private payment scheme before Anthony Vaughn did.
He confronted Silas because Silas had originally recommended Cassian years earlier.
Silas promised to handle it.
He did not.
Why?
Because Cassian’s corruption benefited several old Westbrook men Silas believed I would eventually remove.
Small privileges.
Private routes.
Old protections.
Cassian was useful.
Anthony threatened to expose him.
Silas encouraged Cassian to “solve” the problem.
Not explicitly kill Anthony.
Same cowardice.
Make consequences obvious.
Let younger men perform them.
Then hide behind ambiguity.
My father recorded the entire chain later.
Silas learned the recording existed.
For four years, he tried to reach it.
Could not.
Tonight was his best chance.
I looked at Scarlett.
“You were revenge.”
Then Cassian.
“You were access.”
Then Silas.
“And you were the only one who knew the real target.”
He said nothing.
The engagement coup had never been meant to last.
If it succeeded, Silas got the recordings while we fought each other.
If it failed, Cassian and Scarlett took the blame.
Old men love conspiracies where younger people bleed first.
I asked Rafe:
“Did we recover the man from the north wing?”
“One.”
“Name?”
Rafe hesitated.
“Scarlett’s uncle.”
She closed her eyes.
May you like
Her family had not merely come to support her.
Someone had recruited them for another job entirely.
