Page 8 of Fractured Loyalties

Eight

ROMAN

“We gotta talk,” I say, standing in the doorway of my father’s study.

He’s hunched over his ledger, his pen gliding in loops and slashes. His left hand never leaves the stack of legal documents, his knuckles white.

And he acts as if he hasn’t heard me.

I clear my throat, stepping inside. “I said, we need to talk.”

Finally, and with a practiced thump of irritation, he sets the pen down. He folds his hands and lets his eyes flick up to me.

“Roman.” The word is a speed bump, nothing more—not even with the reminders of last night littered across my face.

I don’t sit. I can feel the bruises blooming across my chest and cheek and it hurts less to stand.

“Last night?—”

“It’s resolved,” he cuts me off with a heavy sigh. “I spoke with Keller. The account is squared.”

“That’s not what I fucking meant,” I snap, shaking my head. “I don’t give a flying fuck about the accounts. It’s the fact you knew . You knew exactly what would happen, and you sent me in there anyway. For what? To make a point?”

Robert’s face is as indifferent as a wax mask.

“I sent you because you can handle it. That’s how these things work, Roman.

You need to toughen up.” He picks up his pen and then nudges it back into its silver slot.

“If you want to sit at this desk one day, you need to understand the cost of doing business.”

Bullshit. I’ll never sit at his desk.

“You sent me light. I was the fucking message. They could have killed me.”

He shrugs, his face unmoving. “It appears you survived. It was a lesson of loyalty.”

A laugh bubbles up, and I can’t stop it; my tone is one of hysterics and disgust. “You think I want any part of this empire? You think beating the shit out of me is how you teach loyalty? Meanwhile, you groom Kade with your Country Club parties and yacht trips to the Caribbean?”

He steeples his hands, his dark eyes trained on mine. “I believe consequences are instructive. You’re not a child anymore, Roman. I pay you to be my hands, not my conscience.”

My chest burns. “I’ll never be your fucking hands,” I say, spitting the words across the desk. “I’m nothing like you.”

He lifts his cuff and begins to fiddle with the gold link there. “You’re exactly like me, son . You just haven’t realized it yet. Once you do, I’ll show you the pleasures of this place.”

For a moment, I might lunge at him. My body wants to, every muscle is tensed for violence. But then the rage passes, and it’s replaced by something worse, so much worse. It’s a cold, settling shame, a realization that he’s right .

Fuck, I hate myself for how true it feels.

But still, I have zero interest in learning about his pleasures.

My father glances at his phone, then at his Rolex. “If that’s all, I have a 3 o’clock with the attorneys. I think you need to pick up Ivy from school. We’re done discussing your stupidity.”

I open my mouth, but before I can say anything more, Irena Woods materializes in the doorway. She floats in on a cloud of citrus and expensive misery, her dress belted with surgical precision.

“This sounds like quite the conversation,” she says, her voice clear as glass while her eyes linger on the bruises on my face. “Some of us are preparing for the weekend. You’ll want to cover that.”

Robert’s attention veers instantly to her. “Irena, my love.”

Her eyes flick between the two of us, but there’s no emotion in them. “The Harringtons are coming on Saturday. I expect you both to conduct yourselves accordingly. Family comes first.”

“Of course, darling,” Robert says, shooting me a glare. “We will be on our absolute best behavior for you.”

I snort. “I’ll try not to bleed on the guests.”

She doesn’t smile, and her cold eyes bore into mine. “Good. Because it’s not your reputation that’s at stake—it’s mine .”

I curl a lip in disgust at her. “Noted. Anything else, mother ?”

She flinches at the word, and for a second, I’m ten years old again, watching her walk into my life as if she belonged. “That will be all,” she says, and turns her back to me.

Robert’s already buried back in his paperwork and ignoring us both.

I leave without another word, my heart pulsing acid with every step I take down the corridor. I want to set this place on fucking fire and watch it burn to ashes.

But oh yes, family comes first. However, the only family member I care about coming is Ivy. And I want her to do that all over my cock.

That thought leads me to the garage; it’s time to pick up the new addition. And hopefully, there’s no spilled milk today.

Moments later, I’m gunning the black SUV down the rain-slicked drive, its tires spitting gravel behind me. My knuckles are white against the wheel, my grip so tight I can feel the bones flexing.

All the way to the school, my mind spins on a loop—the sound of my father’s voice, the taste of dried blood on my lips, and the burn of fucking shame.

“You’re exactly like me.”

Well… Fuck you.

Woods Private looms out of the weather like a haunted cathedral.

The front lot is a grid of luxury sedans, with not a single vehicle worth under a hundred grand.

The rain beads and slides in sheets off the mirrored windows before pooling in gutters and spilling over onto the walk.

I pull the SUV up under the portico, the engine idling and the wipers hammering out a rhythm of rage.

I don’t get out.

The last thing I want is all the fucking vultures to see me like this. Instead, I sink lower into my seat and scan the entryway through the glass, watching the kids spill out in cliques and knots, each trying too hard not to care.

Pathetic.

Eventually, I spot her… My little lamb, her hair damp and her cheeks flushed, laughing as she darts beneath the overhang. I almost smile, but then realize…

She’s not alone. Some fuckwit in a hoodie is shadowing her steps, grinning as if he’s just discovered pussy for the first time. I can’t make out his face as he jogs to keep pace with her, his hand reaching out to brush her elbow as they talk.

My blood pressure spikes.

Ivy leans away slightly… but not enough.

The two of them stop beneath the covered walk, just beyond the blast radius of the front doors.

The boy leans in, saying something that makes her smile again.

Her mouth moves, wide and unguarded, a genuine fucking smile.

She’s never smiled like that in my presence.

And I have never hated anyone so instantly.

I realize I’m staring, so I look away. I count to ten.

I breathe, but all it does is stoke the engine inside my ribs.

I look back, and the bastard is still talking to her, thumb flicking through his phone.

He holds it out, angling it so they both fit in the screen.

Ivy’s face freezes at the intrusion, but she recovers, and then she tilts her head just enough for the selfie.

Fucking perfect. I still can’t see who the fuck it is.

I hold my breath as I watch the horror show proceed. They exchange numbers. He holds out his phone, she taps in her info, then hands it back, biting her lower lip as she does. There’s a piece of her hair stuck to her cheek, and I wonder if he wants to reach out and move it.

I hope he does. I hope he tries it, so I can rip his fucking throat out…

Family comes first. My fists curl tighter.

The boy says something else and shrugs. Then he heads for the parking lot. He turns at the last second, giving Ivy a wave and a final smile.

Meanwhile, Ivy watches him go, and then checks her phone. I wonder if he’s already texting her, or if she’s looking up his Instagram, seeing whether he has a girlfriend or an arrest record or whatever else eighteen-year-old girls care about.

Fuck, I wanna destroy that phone.

Ivy tucks her phone away and scans the drop-off area. She spots the SUV and jogs over, her backpack bouncing against her hip. She pulls the passenger door open with a swift yank before I can lean over.

“Hey,” she says, sliding in. Her hair is wet and she smells like rain. For a moment, I forget why I’m so angry. Then I remember because of the fucking smile that’s still on her face.

I clench my jaw. “Making friends? What’s his name?”

She shrugs and rubs the goosebumps on her arm. “Just a guy from my class. He’s like the only nice person here.”

I grunt, slam the car into gear, and peel away from the curb. “You know, Ivy, you shouldn’t trust people who smile too much. It’s a sign of brain damage.”

She laughs, but it’s thin, as if she’s not sure if I’m joking. I don’t clarify. I let the silence stretch, punctuated only by the shudder of the wipers and the rumble of the road.

After a minute, she tilts her head at me. “Are you… okay? You still look…” She trails off, searching for a word.

“As if I got the shit kicked out of me?” I finish for her.

She winces, turns back to the window. “Sorry. I just…was hoping you’d feel better or something.”

Or something. Right. Like dead, probably.

I grit my teeth and focus on the road, trying not to get hard at the scent of her sitting in the seat beside me.

Fuck her for ruining what happened between us last night.

When we hit the turn for the estate, Ivy sighs, and the whole atmosphere in the car shifts as she frowns. “Do you ever wish you could just… go somewhere else? Like, anywhere but here?”

It’s a naive question. But I take the bait. I need her to come to me, not him.

I flick my eyes over to her. “All the fucking time.”

She gives me one of those fake Ivy smiles, and I punch the damn gas, jarring her back into the seat.

“Buckle up,” I say, even though she already is. “It’s going to be a hell of a weekend.”

She looks at me, her hair wild and her face flushed. For a second, I think she may understand.

But she’s never been to a Woods’ party.

I expect her to ask what I mean, but just then her phone dings, and she’s lost to it, already texting with her new friend.

I glance down at my knuckles, where the blood is still caked under my nails, and I wonder what it would take to get her to look at me the way she just looked at him.

Fucking hell.