Chapter 10
Warren did not know Isolde had returned until she walked into the room.
I wanted to see his face.
Maybe petty.
I accepted that.
He stood slowly.
“Isolde.”
She looked at him without warmth.
“Warren.”
No collapse.
No melodrama.
Twenty-nine years of marriage and sixteen years apart reduced to names.
He asked:
“Why are you here?”
She almost smiled.
“Our son.”
There.
Not him.
Warren looked at Preston.
Something possessive crossed his face.
Preston saw it now.
That mattered.
Isolde asked one question.
“Why did you destroy my letters?”
Warren said:
“To protect him.”
Preston laughed.
Not kind.
“From what?”
“From being manipulated.”
“By Mom?”
“By Marconi.”
There.
Even now.
Every relationship translated into power.
I asked:
“Did you plan Preston’s marriage into a stronger family?”
Warren looked at me.
“No.”
Isolde said:
“Yes.”
He ignored her.
Bad choice.
She named the women.
Mercer.
Vale.
Then me.
Preston stared.
Warren finally admitted:
“I wanted him well positioned.”
“For what?”
“To lead Hale.”
Preston’s face tightened.
“I already did work for Hale.”
“Not enough.”
There.
The wound.
Warren did not merely want his son successful.
He wanted his son attached to power Warren could not create himself.
Then Preston asked:
“When I told you I loved Giulietta, what did you think?”
Warren answered too slowly.
Finally:
“That it was fortunate.”
Preston laughed bitterly.
Not joy.
Fortunate.
A useful romance.
A perfect acquisition.
Then he looked at me.
“I swear I loved you.”
“I believe you.”
His eyes filled.
Belief hurt more.
May you like
Because the problem was never whether love existed.
It was what he believed love entitled him to do.
