Page 77 of I'm sorry, Princess

Ashley scrambles to her feet, her cheeks stained with embarrassment. She nods at Andres as she passes him, avoiding his eyes, looking small and humiliated.

I look at Andres, leaning back in my chair, forcing my irritation into something that sounds almost controlled. “To what do I owe this fucking pleasure, brother?” I spit, my tone sharp and full of venom.

Andres steps inside, closing the door behind him with a deliberate calm that makes my skin itch. His face gives nothing away, but I’ve known him long enough to read between the lines.

There’s something he knows.

Chapter Twenty-three

Lorenzo

“We found something,” Andres says, his tone steady as he lights a cigarette.

He tosses the pack onto the table in front of me. I pick it up, sliding one out, lighting it with deliberate ease. The first drag hits my lungs like a slap, sharp and grounding.

I watch the smoke curl through the air, twisting in the light, before my eyes flick back to Andres. I say nothing, waiting for him to get to the fucking point.

“As I mentioned before,” he starts, careful now, his tone measured like he’s walking on glass, “Beaumont gave a statement the day your father died.”

I don’t move, but my entire body tenses, a cold, sharp rage brewing under my skin.

“He said…” Andres pauses, watching me too closely. “He said your father was a drug addict.”

The words hang in the air like a slap to the face. My ears start to ring, the sound drowning out everything else.

Andres doesn’t stop, though. He knows better than to hold back, even when I’m this close to breaking.

“His story was backed up by Archibald,” he continues, his jaw tight, his knuckles whitening as he grips his cigarette. “He claimed he knew Giovanni for years. Said he started having work issues, and those problems drove him to drugs.”

I’m staring at him, unblinking. My vision blurs around the edges, and the room tilts slightly.

“They also added,” Andres says, the words coming slower now, like he’s bracing for the fallout, “that they’re very sorry for his passing. That it’s a great loss for them because they were such ‘good friends.’”

Good friends. Good fucking friends.

I can barely see Andres anymore. The words hammer into my skull like nails, each one sharper than the last.

“I’m still working on decrypting the file,” Andres says, his tone steady, like he’s tiptoeing through a minefield. “I want to dig into the business your father had with Beaumont. According to him, they were good friends.”

Good friends. My grip tightens on the edge of the table, and with a sharp shove, I send it crashing against the wall.

“He didn’t even come to the fucking funeral,” I whisper, my voice low and venomous. The anger seeps through every word, a quiet storm ready to explode.

Who the fuck does Beaumont think he is? To call my father, a man ten times the man he’ll ever be, a fucking junkie?

The rage bubbles over, and I grab the nearest chair, shoving it hard into the door. The sharp crack of wood meeting metal echoes through the office, but it’s notenough. My ears are ringing, the blood pounding in my veins, screaming for me to break something else. To break someone.

This day couldn’t get better.

I take a breath, forcing the chaos back just enough to speak.

“Get that tape ready as well,” I say, my voice flat, emotionless. I’m not angry anymore. I’m focused. Controlled.

I’m going to destroy the Beaumont family. Every single one of them. It doesn’t matter who they are or what they’ve done. They’ll pay for his words. For his lies. For even daring to speak my father’s name.

Andres watches me cautiously, finishing his cigar, his eyes flicking to the mess I’ve made. “Done,” he replies simply, his tone even, knowing better than to press me further.

He stands, brushing ash from his suit. “I’ll call the cleaner,” he says before leaving my office without another word.