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“You don’t understand, son,” he finally says, voice low. “You were never meant to be involved. I did what I had to do to protect you. To secure your future. I never wanted you to know about Eastbrook, about the things I did to make sure you had a good life.”
My hands curl into fists. “Protect me? You used me. You made me a pawn in your sick little game. You dragged me into your corruption and told yourself it was love. How dare you, Dad. How fucking dare you.”
The realization hits harder than any lawsuit ever could. The man I once idolized—the man I built myself in reaction to—is nothing but a well-dressed ghost of greed and power.
“You can’t sweep this under the rug,” I say. “You can’t pretend this didn’t happen. People’s lives were destroyed. And I won’t be part of it. Not anymore.”
His voice lowers. “I know I can’t undo the past. I know I’ve made mistakes I can’t take back. But please, try to understand—everything I did, I did for you, for Liam, for your mother.”
“For me?” I repeat, almost laughing. “You didn’t do it for us. Not for Liam. Not for Mom. You did it for you. For your greed. It’s people like you that make people hate the super rich.”
I’m breathing hard now, fists clenched at my sides, rage coiled tight in my chest like a spring ready to snap.
“You sit in your glass tower and make decisions that ruin people’s lives—and call it strategy. You sleep at night because you’ve convinced yourself it was business. That they were just numbers. Spreadsheets. But they were families, Dad.”
He doesn’t respond. Because he can’t.
He’s not used to hearing me like this. He’s not used to hearing me at all when it comes to him.
But I’m done pretending.
I’ve always known there were shady parts of the business. I’m not naïve. Sometimes, tough decisions have to be made. Not everyone wins.
But deliberately targeting people? Destroying homes? When you’re already one of the richest men in the country?
That’s not business. That’s inhumane.
“You’re angry,” he finally says, trying to stay measured. “I get that.”
“No. You don’t get anything.”
“I do. More than you think. But this is bigger than feelings, Carter. This is about power. And if you want to keep yours, you need to start thinking like a Volcor.”
I laugh. Bitter. Broken.
“That’s the problem,” I say. “I don’t want to think like a Volcor. Not if it means becoming you.”
He doesn’t argue.
“You dragged me into something I didn’t understand. And now I’m the face of a scandal I had no part in. You made this mess. And I’m the one cleaning it up while Ivy—” I catch myself. Grind my teeth. “While people I care about start thinking I’m exactly like you.”
“Then control the story,” he says. “Get ahead of it.”
“You still don’t get it,” I whisper. “I don’t care about optics. I care about the truth.”
“And the truth is ugly,” he replies. “The truth doesn’t preserve legacies. It doesn’t buy silence. But power does. And you have it now—unless you throw it away chasing some naïve sense of justice. Things were different back then.”
I’m quiet for a beat. Then I say what I know he won’t be able to stomach.
“Maybe I don’t want the legacy anymore.”
“Carter—”
“I’m done.”
I end the call before he can say another word. Before he can twist it. Before he can reel me back in with guilt or strategy.
My hand is still shaking. But my head has never been clearer.