Page 25 of The Beast's Broken Angel

RIVAL CLAIMS

ADRIAN

T he quarterly Calloway Holdings board meeting dragged on like a funeral procession, each minute spent listening to profit margins and market projections a minute wasted. But the legitimate face of my empire required maintenance, however mind-numbing the performance of normality.

Harrison stood at the front of the boardroom, laser pointer dancing across projected charts with practised showmanship.

His silver hair caught the light, perfectly styled despite the early hour, his bespoke suit worth more than what most of these board members earned in a month.

The very picture of corporate success, the mask so convincing most forgot it was just that—though I'd begun to suspect what lay beneath might be far darker than mere financial ambition.

“The Camden property acquisitions have been finalised,” Harrison announced—referring to the new retail development, not the residential project from my father's era.

He slid glossy reports across the polished mahogany table, his manicured fingers lingering unnecessarily on the documents.

The signet ring on his left hand caught the light, the same ring I'd seen that night—gleaming as he pulled me from the flames, the memory now tainted by growing suspicions about his true loyalties.

Dominic had been investigating Harrison's possible connection to Thomas's betrayal, but the results remained frustratingly inconclusive.

Harrison was too careful, too practised at covering his tracks.

Twenty years as my family's financial advisor had taught him exactly how we operated, including how we detected rats in our organisation.

“As you can see from the third-quarter projections,” Harrison continued, “the Docklands development is showing a fifteen percent increase in expected return, largely due to the rezoning approval we secured last month.”

Secured through bribes and blackmail of the planning commission, though none of the board members needed to know those details. The beauty of Harrison's role was his ability to translate blood and violence into sterile corporate outcomes. The suit who made brutality look like business.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, a welcome distraction. Dominic's text message glowed on the screen:

Dominic

Nurse checked Isabelle out of hospital against protocol. Taking her to gallery showing in Mayfair. Halcyon Gallery.

A bolt of irritation shot through me, followed immediately by something warmer, more interesting.

Noah's disobedience should anger me, should trigger the cold calculation of appropriate punishment.

Instead, I felt a spike of anticipation.

The healer challenging the monster once again, despite witnessing the consequences of defiance firsthand.

“If you'll excuse me, gentlemen,” I interrupted Harrison mid-projection, rising abruptly from my seat at the head of the table. “Mr. Blackwood will complete the presentation.”

The board members shifted uncomfortably, unused to disruptions in the carefully choreographed ritual of corporate governance.

I caught the flicker of calculation in Harrison's eyes as he processed my departure, too quick for others to notice, but unmistakable to someone who'd spent decades watching for betrayal in every glance.

“We'll email the complete portfolio analysis this afternoon,” Harrison smoothly covered the awkward moment, transitioning back to his presentation with practised ease.

I was nearly to the door when he appeared at my side, moving with remarkable speed for a man his age.

“Everything alright?” Harrison inquired with perfectly modulated concern. “The Vega situation is contained, but perhaps I should accompany you.”

I studied him for a moment, noting the eager offering. Harrison's surveillance attempts had grown increasingly transparent since Noah's arrival at Ravenswood. His sudden interest in my movements suggested deeper concerns than mere professional attention.

“A personal matter,” I replied vaguely. “Continue without me.”

A flash of frustration crossed his features before disappearing behind his corporate mask. “Of course. I'll have Dominic bring the car around.”

“No need. He's handling another situation for me.”

The lie came easily, another small test. If Harrison truly had connections to the Vegas or other rivals, monitoring which of my men accompanied me could provide valuable intelligence on my movements.

His slight hesitation before nodding confirmed my suspicion that he was tracking my security arrangements.

“Very well. I'll brief you on the outcome this evening.”

I left him standing in the hallway, already dialling Viktor to bring the car around. Noah had chosen an interesting moment to test his boundaries, one that couldn't have been better timed to pull me from Harrison's watchful presence.

Dominic called as my Bentley pulled into Mayfair traffic, his voice tight with barely controlled anger.

“I've got eyes on them inside the gallery,” he reported. “Arrived ten minutes ago. The sister's in a wheelchair, but mobile. Doesn't look like a medical emergency.”

“Stay back,” I instructed. “Observe only.”

“Boss,” Dominic's voice dropped lower, “he's taking the piss. After what happened with Parker, he goes and pulls this? You want me to remind him of the rules?”

The offer was typical Dominic, direct and physical.

He'd been with me since we were teenagers running small-time protection rackets in East London, his loyalty forged in blood and shared violence.

While Viktor approached security with cold professionalism, Dominic took breaches personally, each one an affront to his protective instincts.

“I'll handle this myself,” I replied, watching Halcyon Gallery come into view. “How did they get there?”

“Taxi from Westminster Memorial. He signed her out AMA, against medical advice. Doctors weren't happy about it.”

I could hear Dominic's disapproval through the line.

He didn't understand my interest in Noah, viewing him as just another acquisition who needed breaking.

Dominic categorised people simply: loyal or disloyal, useful or expendable.

Noah's continued resistance registered as disrespect that demanded correction.

“What's her artwork like?” I asked, surprising myself with the question .

Dominic paused, clearly thrown by the unexpected inquiry. “What?”

“Her paintings. Are they any good?”

Another pause. “Yeah, actually. Dark stuff. People tangled up in medical tubes, but beautiful somehow. Got a bunch of posh types clustering around them.”

An interesting assessment from a man whose artistic appreciation usually extended no further than tattoo designs and weapon craftsmanship. If Dominic found Isabelle's work compelling, it suggested genuine talent beyond my initial research.

“Stay where you are. I'm pulling up now.”

The Bentley stopped outside Halcyon Gallery, where a modest crowd mingled for the “Emerging Artists” exhibition.

Through the window, I immediately spotted Noah and Isabelle among the attendees, her wheelchair positioned before one of her haunting medical-themed canvases.

Even from a distance, the sibling resemblance was striking, same determined jawline, same intense focus, though illness had hollowed Isabelle's features where Noah remained lean but solid.

I watched them for a moment, noting Noah's protective hover behind his sister's chair. They shared identical expressions of pride examining the small red “SOLD” dot newly placed beside Isabelle's largest canvas, a moment of normalcy I found myself strangely reluctant to shatter.

What was it about Noah that made me hesitate? I'd broken men for far less significant transgressions, yet I sat watching him steal this moment of freedom with a feeling closer to admiration than fury.

Time to remind him of reality.

I entered silently, the hushed atmosphere of the gallery enveloping me like a familiar cloak.

Years of collecting had taught me the unspoken protocols of such spaces, the reverent quiet, the calculated distance between patrons, the deliberate performance of cultured appreciation.

I moved through the room, noting which observers possessed genuine understanding and which merely mimicked the poses of connoisseurship.

The gallery owner noticed me first, her professional smile faltering at my unexpected appearance.

Christina Harlow, early forties, divorced, ambitious, with excellent taste and questionable financial management.

My research department compiled detailed files on anyone connected to my interests, and Isabelle's artistic debut had put Harlow squarely in that category.

She hurried over with nervous deference, champagne flute clutched like a talisman. “Mr. Calloway, had I known you were attending, I would have arranged a private viewing.”

“The surprise is intentional,” I replied, eyes still fixed on Noah and Isabelle across the room. “I prefer authentic reactions.”

“Of course,” she nodded rapidly. “Ms. Hastings' work is generating significant interest. Two pieces already sold, and several collectors inquiring about commissioning similar works.”

Interesting. Genuine talent, then, not merely my biased assessment based on Noah's connection.

Noah's body tensed as he finally registered my presence, his hand instinctively gripping Isabelle's shoulder. The defiance in his stance sent a now-familiar current of interest through my body. Still challenging rather than cowering, despite knowing consequences awaited him.

I approached them with measured steps, enjoying the way Noah's posture shifted subtly, protective, anticipatory, a fighter recognising an incoming threat but standing his ground anyway.

“I've purchased your sister's collection,” I stated without preamble, stopping before them. “Talent deserves patronage.”