Chapter Three

"Get cleaned up. My sons will be here in minutes," he said, unlocking the shackles.

One minute he's my husband, and the next minute he's off the radar. No one taught me life rarely follows our scripts or expectations.

The dining room was awkwardly silent. No one said a word, but their eyes carried the weight of a war. Marcus was filled with collective rage. Every time his fork went to his mouth, it returned with a harsh, deliberate clatter against his plate, loud enough to draw every eye in the room to his side of the table.

Arthur sat at the head, looking as unbothered as a king ruling from his own throne room. I sat to his right in my short nude gown, keeping my shoulders back, my chin level, and my eyes fixed strictly on my plate. I was trying so hard not to meet eyes with Stefan, even though he was sitting directly across from me.

He had stripped off his tie, leaving the top buttons of his shirt undone. Every time I dared to look up, his eyes were already there. He didn't blink. He stared at me with his father sitting less than two feet away.

"To family," Arthur said, lifting his glass into the air. "And to the return of my prodigal son."

We all laughed briefly.

When Stefan raised his wine goblet, his gaze stayed locked on mine. He took a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes tracking down to my mouth before rising back to meet my gaze.

I swallowed hard, setting my glass down hard enough to splash the wine against the sides. I pressed my palms flat into my lap to hide the tremor in my fingers, silently wishing the floor beneath my heels would open up and swallow me whole.

"It’s good to be back, Dad," Stefan said, his voice low and steady. "Though coming home certainly comes with a few surprises."

He didn't break eye contact for a second. I forced myself to look away, staring down into the folds of my dress and the bare skin of my lap just to escape him.

Marcus didn't even wait for Stefan to drop his smile after the toast. He snapped instantly, slamming his cutlery onto the plate with extreme disgust. His eyes darted furiously between Arthur’s unbothered face and Stefan’s relaxed posture.

For years, Marcus had buried himself in cold offices, bidding on grueling corporate contracts, taking Arthur’s late-night phone calls, and enduring his harsh demands—all because he believed the CEO seat was waiting for him at the finish line. Instead, Arthur had handed the keys of his empire to the son who had walked away to chase a dream, the son who had never shown an ounce of interest in his father's legacy. Stefan had wanted to become an artist so badly that he had packed his bags and left years ago without his father's approval. Now, he was walking straight into the corner office.

"I mean the foundation budget and the international focus, Marcus," Stefan said smoothly, leaning back in his chair and taking another slow drink.

"It’s a strategy, and I spent my time writing that," Marcus spat, turning directly to Arthur. He held himself back from raising a fist against the table. "Dad, we went over the regional restructuring in spring. Giving final authority to someone who doesn't even know what that means is a massive mistake."

Arthur didn't pause his knife. He cut a piece of steak, chewed slowly, and dabbed his mouth with his napkin.

"You're a solid manager, Marcus," Arthur said flatly, but with authority. "But you play too weak. Stefan plays like a man. I built this company with balls, and your brother has that. The matter is closed."

Marcus’s chest rose and fell sharply as he stared at his father, waiting for some crumb of reassurance or an apology that was never going to come. Arthur didn't look back up. He picked up his wine glass, completely finished with the conversation.

When the plates were finally cleared, Arthur’s phone rang against the table. He glanced at the screen, excused himself to the study for a private executive call, and left the three of us lingering in the lounge. Marcus walked straight to the side bar, poured four fingers of straight bourbon, drank half of it in one gulp, and walked out without saying another word.

I retreated to the upper floor, holding a hot cup of tea with both hands, staring out through the window.

The measured footsteps of someone approaching echoed on the floor behind me. He stopped right at my right shoulder.

"You haven't said five words all evening, Mrs. Sterling," Stefan said quietly.

I kept my eyes on the floor, pretending the lights were blinding me. "It was a long morning at the office. And dinner was tense."

"Is that all?" He took one step closer. Standing there, I could feel the heat radiating off him, hear the rhythm of his breathing, and catch that familiar scent he had left on the sheets hours before. "You had a lot more to say last night."

My mouth went dry. I lifted the teacup to my lips, forcing my hands to remain perfectly still. "I don't know what you're talking about, Stefan. You have me confused with someone else."

A short, quiet laugh rustled behind my ear. "Do I? Because I remember a woman, looking ravishing, completely taking the spotlight—a woman who didn't spend her night staring at the floor, obviously."

I turned around slowly, taking two full steps back until my lower spine pressed hard against the glass of the window, moving like I was fleeing from a disaster.

"Whatever happened between us was a mistake," I whispered, squeezing my mouth into a bitter line. "I am not that type of woman. We were both drunk."

Stefan stood there holding his whisky glass, looking down at my face. The smirk on his lips looked as though he were thoroughly enjoying a game only he knew the rules to, but it was quickly replaced by a calculating look. He raised his glass an inch toward me in a slow mock toast and took a single step back.

"Whatever you say, stepmother," he said softly. "See you at the office tomorrow."