Chapter 30

BRANDON 

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that power doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to. It walks into a room, steady and unapologetic, and waits for the world to catch up.

It was a new morning brewing in chaos which I could smell from a mile away. 

I was in my office, wrapping up a call with legal when the knock came. Sharp. Impatient. The kind of knock you don’t ignore.

There it was.

"Come in," I said, even though I already knew who it was.

And sure enough, he walked in like he owned the place.

My older brother, Alexander Lefevre—PRESIDENT, legacy gatekeeper, and the kind of man who’d rather light the house on fire than let someone move the furniture.

He didn’t sit.

“I gave you space,” he said flatly. “I stayed out of your way when you wanted to shift things, when you restructured operations, even when you downsized departments I built from the ground up.”

I didn’t respond. I let him talk. That’s what people like him want anyway—to be heard, to be obeyed, to be feared.

“But now you’ve crossed the line, Brandon. Appointing your wife to an executive mentorship role? In front of the board? Without prior discussion? That’s not just reckless—it’s insulting.”

I leaned back in my chair, keeping my expression unreadable. “Are you done?”

He scoffed. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” I stood slowly, walked over to the bar cart, and poured myself a glass of water. I didn’t offer him any. “I’m just wondering if this is about due process… or if this is about control.”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t get philosophical. This is about protocol. You brought in someone with no corporate executive background and gave her a leadership track. What kind of message does that send to the rest of the board? To the senior managers who’ve spent years earning their place?”

Now I laughed, just once. Not amused—just done with the hypocrisy.

“You mean like Bryan did?” I asked coolly.

He flinched. Subtle, but I caught it.

I continued, walking back to my desk. “Because if I remember correctly, Bryan brought Rachelle into the company three years ago—gave her a seat at the client strategy table with barely a whisper of discussion. You didn’t seem to care then. You even praised her onboarding.”

“That was different—”

“How?” I cut in, my voice low but unrelenting. “Because she was your daughter-in-law? Because you assumed I’d never challenge the double standard?”

Alexander stepped forward. “Because she was vetted. Because she at least had credentials.”

“Freya has credentials,” I said. “She’s got more practical insight into human behavior than anyone on our executive team. She’s already saved us from two potential PR disasters. And more importantly, I trust her.”

“You trust her,” he repeated, like it was a disease.

“Yes.”

He scoffed again, pacing now. “You’re letting your personal life bleed into business. You’re turning the company into your sandbox.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “And what was it when you handed Bryan the position he wasn’t qualified for? When you closed doors to better candidates because they didn’t have Lefevre as a surname?”

Alexander stiffened. “You’re out of line.”

“No,” I said calmly. “I’m out of your shadow. That’s what’s bothering you.”

There was a pause—tense, electric, the kind that feels like it could snap something inside you.

Then he said, “You think because you’ve gained a little power, you know everything.”

“I know enough,” I replied. “Enough to see through the politics. Enough to know Freya deserves her seat. And enough to know you’re not here out of concern—you’re here because your version of the family empire is slipping.”

That struck a nerve.

“Don’t you dare question my loyalty to this company,” he snapped. “I built it.”

“You built it for yourself,” I shot back. “I’m building it for the future.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air between us buzzed like static—unresolved, dangerous.

Then, quieter, he asked, “Is she worth it?”

The question felt like a trap. Like something laced with both warning and condescension.

I stepped closer, looked him dead in the eyes.

“She is. And not because she’s my wife. But because she’s good. She sees things we miss. She’s sharp, strategic, and the first person to challenge me when I’m wrong. I want that on my team.”

He shook his head. “She’s going to divide the board.”

“Let them divide,” I said. “Let them argue, question, adjust. At least they’ll be awake.”

Alexander stared at me for a long beat. Then his voice dropped, quieter, but still hard-edged.

“You’re going to make enemies with this move.”

I gave a small shrug. “I already have.”

“And when it blows back on her? When it gets ugly? Are you prepared for that?”

“I won’t let it touch her.”

He tilted his head. “You can’t control everything, Brandon.”

“No,” I agreed. “But I can control this room. And right now, you’re standing in it because you forgot that.”

That was the end of it. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t slam the door. He just walked out the way he came in—rigid, resentful, and probably already planning his next move.

I sat back down, let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

It wasn’t the first fight I’d had with Alexander. Wouldn’t be the last.

But this one mattered. Because this time, I wasn’t just defending a decision. I was defending her.

Freya.

Not as an accessory to my life, not as someone I needed to shield from the weight of our world—but as someone capable, powerful, and entirely deserving of her place within it.

She didn’t ask me to do this.

Hell, she probably would’ve told me to find a gentler way, a more diplomatic route. But there comes a point when diplomacy feels like cowardice.

And I was done being afraid of offending men who never blinked twice when they trampled over others.

I looked down at my desk, at the notes from the morning’s board meeting, the praise she’d quietly earned, the shock that had rippled across Rachelle’s face, and the way Bryan had clenched his jaw so tightly he looked like he might shatter his own teeth.

Good.

Let them squirm.

Let them realize that the old rules didn’t apply anymore.

That the seat at the table didn’t belong to those who inherited it—but to those who had the nerve to take it and the talent to earn it.

And Freya?

She had both.