Page 46 of Ugly Truths (The Veiled Truths Trilogy #2)

Silas

T he Hawthorne Club is always quieter than I remember. My father brought me here for the first time when I was twenty-four years old. On the car ride to the members-only restaurant, he told me that it was time I saw what progress looked like behind closed doors.

That afternoon, we sat across from Luke Keeley, the CEO of a small biotech firm that had developed a promising anti-inflammatory drug. William wanted Wells to manufacture it, and Keeley didn’t want to sell.

Keeley came prepared with charts and projections that explained the very logical reasons his company wants to retain production rights. He was willing to compromise with licensing tiers and potential shared oversight. My father listened and nodded at all the right moments.

Then, William leaned back and swirled the whiskey in his glass. He placated Keeley, but didn't fail to mention how much of a shame it was that he had heard rumors of their grant discrepancies. Just a few vague concerns he’d “come across” prior to this meeting.

My father laid out the facts, one after another, of the research grant that ultimately funded luxury lab equipment and a recruitment event in Bermuda.

Keeley’s composure slipped with each statement until the man looked as though he were on the verge of being sick.

The man scurried out of the private dining room before dessert, and William couldn’t wipe the smile off his face .

The deal was finalized just weeks later. Wells received everything it asked for, and Keeley was appointed to the advisory board with a feature in the press release written by our public relations team.

I asked my father if he really thought stiff-arming a small company like this was the right move.

He didn’t hesitate to tell me that Wells had the capacity, distribution channels, and relationships to get the drug out to people faster.

Smaller companies could only take an idea like this so far before it died in committee, and we could get it through the red tape while keeping it out of competitors' hands.

He had the numbers to support it. Months of research conducted by our internal teams confirmed that this was a great move for Wells. William was convinced that the benefits outweighed the risks, and I believed him.

The Hawthorne Club became the place where I’d sit beside my father and watch him dismantle companies.

Its strict privacy policies made it all so much easier.

We acquired many promising products this way—drugs, devices, patents—you name it.

We had the resources they needed to do what they couldn’t.

I told myself these facts made it right.

We were the good guys, weeding out the bad businesses without letting their best ideas go to waste.

How did I ever believe we were the good guys?

I pass through the unmarked side entrance, nodding at the concierge who doesn’t bother to ask for my name. The corridor is dimly lit, with lined with polished wood panels that gleam under the soft light and ornate-looking carpeting that muffled our footsteps.

A staff member in a sharp black suit waits at the end of the hall, hands clasped behind their back. They nod as I approach and gesture to the door.

Room 8.

They press their thumb to the hidden scanner beside the door, and it unlocks. I step inside, and the door closes behind me with the same soft precision .

Two of the private dining room’s walls are lined with dark wood shelves and meaningless leather-bound books, while the far wall holds large privacy windows that face the backside of a community garden.

There’s a single discreet service door in the corner, which is only ever unlocked when prompted by the guest. In the center of the room is a large rectangular table covered in a bright white tablecloth and a chandelier overhead that drips with glass.

My father sits at the head of the table facing the door. Natalie is to his left, her posture impossibly straight. When our eyes meet, she gives me a small glimpse of the anger she’s kept locked away since arriving thirty minutes ago.

William’s fork is halfway to his mouth when he finally looks up. His expression hardens before he sets his utensil down, and it clinks against the fine china.

“Interrupting a private lunch, Silas? That’s beneath you,” he says, dabbing the corners of his mouth with the linen napkin in his lap.

I pull out the chair across from Natalie, then fold into the seat and unbutton my jacket.

“I invited him,” Natalie responds. Her gaze doesn’t waver from our father. “We need to clear the air.”

William blinks, his surprise fleeting before it’s replaced by something far too smug. He leans back in his chair.

“Ah,” he says, a smile spreading across his face. “A family intervention.” He chuckles softly, as though the idea is amusing. “Let me guess; you two want to mend fences before January? Natalie, I didn’t realize you had such a diplomatic streak.”

Of course, he can’t imagine Natalie could be anything but a mediator. I remain silent, letting him dig his own grave.

“You’re right, Dad,” she says smoothly. “I wanted to talk about the family and how we move forward from here.”

I want to wipe that self-satisfied grin off his face with my bare hands. “I’m glad to hear that.” His voice drips with false sincerity. “This friction between Silas and me is unnecessary. I’ve been saying that for months. I think we can start focusing on—”

William’s words falter as his gaze follows Natalie’s movement.

She reaches down to the briefcase hidden under her chair, sets it on the table, and clicks it open.

Inside, there’s a thick stack of documents in various folders.

With bold hands, she pulls them from the case and lets them land on the open area of the table closest to our father with a dull slap .

He frowns. “What’s this?”

“This,” Natalie says, her voice losing its familial edge, “is the truth.”

She slides the top folder closer to him.

He picks it up, his frown deepening as he scans the first page.

First comes the shock—a slight widening of his eyes, a twitch in his jaw—but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by the rage I’ve come to expect.

He glances at the next pages, his agitation growing with every turn.

“What is this?” he repeats, fingers curling to the paper.

Natalie opens another folder in the stack and taps her perfectly manicured nail on a line of text near the top. “Davey found some interesting reading materials while conducting the server audit,” she answers. “Apparently, they’re a treasure trove of secrets.”

His knuckles whiten and, just as quickly as the anger rises, it disappears. Smothered under his usual cold, calculated exterior.

“And let me guess,” he says finally, “you’re going to save the day by confronting me over lunch? How noble.”

Natalie leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m here to tell you that it’s over. You’re done.”

William’s lips curl into a humorless smile. “This isn’t a game, Natalie. You’re out of your depth.”

The inside of my cheek is raw from holding back.

Natalie needs this. He’s walked over her, all with claims of protecting her. She maintained our family bond for Mom and Davey, but whatever remnants of love she’s forced herself to feel for him are withering by the second .

“You’ve been out of your depth for years,” she counters, pointing to the papers still in his clutches. “You think you can brush this under the rug? This—” she gestures to the stack of documents between them, “—this isn’t just a mistake. This is unforgivable.”

William’s smile falters. “Unforgivable,” he repeats. “Do you have any idea what you’re talking about? Or are you just parroting whatever Silas has told you?”

My hands curl into fists. Natalie shakes her head, leaning forward now.

“No,” she says firmly. “This isn’t about Silas. This is about you . You’ve jeopardized the company and ruined our family name. For what?” She slaps her hand down on the stack of papers between them.

His face contorts, the paper still in his hands crumpling under his curling fingers.

“You have no idea what it takes to build something like this,” he snaps, tossing the documents next to his half-eaten grilled chicken.

“Do you think this company runs on goodwill and wishful thinking? That our advancements come from playing by the rules? Some of our greatest achievements are because of those trials.”

The laugh Natalie huff's out is strangled. “You’re actually defending this.”

“You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.” William's eyes flash with something between anger and conviction. “That’s the reality of this business. Of this world. The treatments we’ve developed outweigh the cost.”

My sister’s lips pull into a tight line. She extracts two more thick files and lays them on the table, open. Her fingers graze the pages before she angles it toward him.

“This,” she says, her voice clipped, “is a trial conducted on undocumented workers for an Alzheimer’s drug.” She flips to a page marked with a neon sticky tab, pointing to a section of text. “Seizures. Psychosis. Permanent neurological damage. Paralysis.”

William’s gaze barely flickers over the page. “There are always risks in the pursuit of progress. ”

She opens the second file with a sharp motion, flipping to another section marked in bold.

“And this one? Cancer drug testing on incarcerated women. A 42-year-old woman who had already survived breast cancer volunteered for your trial, likely because it was her only option for better medical care.” Her voice grows tighter, colder.

“She developed severe organ failure and was denied treatment because, according to the report, her condition was a ‘necessary endpoint.’” She blinks the sheen away from her eyes as quickly as it settles.