Chapter 7: The Seat of Honor

"Get up. Now."

Ignatius’s voice cracked like a whip across the silent boardroom. His eyes were bloodshot, his chest heaving under a custom-tailored suit that suddenly looked too tight. He marched toward me, his hand outstretched to drag me from the chair—the Vice President’s chair.

I didn't move. I forced my spine to go rigid. I gripped the armrests until the leather groaned.

"Ignatius." Cane’s voice was a low, subsonic rumble that stopped his son mid-stride. "Sit down. You’re making a scene in front of the board."

"He doesn't belong here, Father! He’s a Thorne charity case, not a voting member." Ignatius slammed his palms onto the glass table, the vibration rattling the water pitchers. He leaned over me, his scent of expensive gin and desperation clogging my senses. "Raffy, I’m not going to ask again. Get out."

I looked up at him, my eyes wide and shimmering with a practiced, liquid fear. I let my lip tremble. I didn't look at the exit; I looked at Cane. I shrank back, leaning my shoulder into Cane’s personal space, seeking the shadow of the bigger predator.

Cane’s hand landed on my shoulder. It was heavy. Possessive. The fingers didn't just rest there; they claimed the bone.

"He stays," Cane said, his eyes fixed on his son with a terrifying level of amusement. "He’s my guest. And frankly, he’s shown more poise in the last ten minutes than you’ve shown in the last ten years. Sit. Down."

Ignatius’s face went from flushed to a ghostly, sickly white. He looked at his father’s hand on my shoulder, his jaw grinding so hard I heard the bone creak. He retreated to the far end of the table, sinking into a seat like a wounded animal.

The meeting began—a blur of quarterly projections and acquisition talk—but the real war was silent.

I watched them. Cane didn't care about the spreadsheets. He spent the entire hour belittling Ignatius, shooting down every suggestion his son made with a single, cutting word. He treated Ignatius like a buzzing fly. And every time Cane delivered a verbal blow, he squeezed my shoulder. A reward. A shared secret.

I leaned into it. I tilted my head toward Cane when he spoke. I acted as if his touch was the only thing keeping me upright. I watched the vein in Ignatius’s temple pulse with every movement I made.

Look at me, I thought, staring at Ignatius while Cane’s thumb brushed the back of my neck. Look at how easily I replaced you.

The power in the room had shifted. I was no longer the mute boy from the gutter; I was the prize in a twisted game of kings. Ignatius was being erased from his own empire, and I was the eraser.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

I kept my face neutral, staring straight ahead at a PowerPoint about hedge funds. I slipped the phone out under the table, the screen shielded by the dark mahogany.

One new message. From Ignatius.

I looked across the table. He was staring at me, his phone gripped in his white-knuckled fist. He wasn't even pretending to listen to the board members anymore.

"You’re playing a dangerous game, Raffy. You think he's protecting you? He’s just using you to break me. When he’s done, he’ll throw you to the wolves. And don't forget—I still own your debt. Every cent. One call and you’re back in the gutter, or worse. I know where Leo is, Raffy. Do you?"

The air in my lungs turned to shards of glass.

I looked up. Ignatius was smiling now—a slow, jagged grin that didn't reach his eyes. He tapped his phone against the table. Message received.

Beside me, Cane leaned in, his voice a dark whisper for my ears only. "You look pale, Rafferty. Is my son bothering you again?"

I felt the trap snap shut. If I stayed with Cane, I was a pawn. If I went back to Ignatius, I was a slave. And Leo... Leo was the leash they were both pulling.