Chapter Twenty-Two

Corren’s POV

The call from the front desk came at 11:20 a.m.

I was in the middle of reviewing the revised coastal documents Ellison had sent over when the intercom on my desk buzzed. The receptionist’s voice was carefully neutral.

“Mr. Corren, your father and Mrs. Corren are here. They’re asking to see you.”

I did not answer immediately. My hand remained still on the page I had been reading. The name alone was enough to tighten something old and cold behind my ribs. I had not seen either of them in nearly three years. That distance had been deliberate.

“Send them up,” I said at last.

I did not stand when the office door opened. I did not rise from my chair or offer any greeting. My father entered first—still tall, still carrying the same rigid posture he had used to command rooms when I was a boy, though age had thinned his shoulders and silvered what remained of his hair. Behind him came the woman. My stepmother. The same polished composure, the same careful arrangement of jewelry and expression that had always been her preferred armor. She looked at me as if time and silence might have softened something between us. It had not.

They stopped a few feet from my desk. Neither spoke right away. The air in the office grew denser.

“You’re looking well,” my father said finally.

I closed the folder in front of me with deliberate precision and leaned back in my chair. “You didn’t come here to discuss my health. Say what you came to say.”

My stepmother’s mouth tightened, but she kept her voice smooth. “We thought it was time we spoke properly. As a family.”

“We are not a family.”

The words landed flatly. My father’s jaw flexed, the old instinct to assert authority flickering across his face before he controlled it. He had always disliked being spoken to without deference. I had stopped offering it the day I understood exactly what kind of man he was when it suited him.

“You’ve made your position clear over the years,” he said. “But there are practical matters that still connect us. The remaining holdings under the joint structure. The coastal parcels. Certain trusts that were never fully separated.”

“I’ve already instructed Ellison to continue the separation,” I said. “You should have received the preliminary notices.”

“We did.” My stepmother stepped closer, her tone shifting into the soft, reasonable register she had always used when she wanted something. “But there is still the question of fairness. Your father believes—we both believe—that some of the original arrangements were made under pressure. There is room for adjustment.”

There it was.

The same request, dressed in slightly different language, carried forward across years of silence. I looked at her and felt the familiar, controlled anger settle into place. This was the woman who had entered my father’s life when I was seventeen and spent the following decade reshaping the household around her own interests. The woman whose influence had turned my father’s already limited loyalty into something selective and convenient. The woman who had made it clear that my presence was tolerated only when it served the image she preferred.

She had made my life miserable in careful, deniable increments. And my father had defended her at every turn.

“There will be no adjustment,” I said.

My father’s eyes narrowed. “You’re being unreasonable. These properties were built over decades. You didn’t create the foundation alone.”

“I secured it alone,” I answered. “I expanded it alone. I protected it from the decisions you made when you chose her side over everything else. You don’t get to reopen that history because the numbers currently suit you.”

The conversation continued for another twenty minutes. They pushed. I refused. They tried softer arguments, then sharper ones. My father raised his voice once. I did not raise mine. Throughout it all I remained seated, hands resting on the arms of the chair, watching them with the same detachment I used in any negotiation I had already decided. My stepmother spoke of fairness and legacy. My father spoke of blood and obligation. Neither of them mentioned the years I had spent repairing the damage their combined choices had caused.

Eventually I had heard enough.

“You’ve said what you came to say,” I told them. “I’ve given you my answer. Leave my office.”

My father stared at me for a long moment, as if searching for a version of his son who might still yield. He did not find one. My stepmother placed a hand on his arm, her expression carefully wounded. They turned and left without further ceremony. The door closed behind them with a soft, final click.

I remained still for several seconds after they were gone. Then I reached for the phone and instructed my assistant that I was not to be disturbed for the next hour. The old anger sat heavy in my chest, not sharp the way it had been when I was younger, but dense and persistent. They had brought the issue out again. My father was still defending the woman who had made my life miserable. Time had not corrected that particular blindness. It had only made it more expensive.

The rest of the afternoon passed in controlled motion. I finished the documents I had been reviewing, made two short calls, and left the office earlier than usual. The drive back to the estate was quiet. I stared out at the road without really seeing it, the conversation replaying itself in fragments. The same justifications. The same refusal to acknowledge the damage. The same quiet insistence that I owed them softness I had never been given.

By the time the car passed through the estate gates, the trouble had settled into a hard, familiar shape behind my thoughts.

Dinner was already waiting when I entered the small dining room. Ava was seated at my right. I registered her presence the way I registered everything under my roof—completely, without needing to look for long. I sat down and began to eat. The meal passed without conversation. I was aware of her occasional glances, of the careful way she held her silence. I offered nothing in return. The residue of the afternoon still occupied too much space.

When I finished, I set the cutlery down cleanly and rose from the table. Ava remained seated, watching me. I did not explain myself. I did not soften the distance the day had created.

I went upstairs to my room, closed the door, and took out my phone. The number I dialed was answered on the second ring.

“Ellison,” I said. “The file on the joint holdings and the old trust structure—keep looking into it. I want every remaining connection examined again. Nothing gets overlooked.”