Jonathan’s Point of View3 months ago, before marriage.I stood at the doorway of my father’s study, the heavy mahogany doors open ajar. The smell of leather and old books wafted up, the scent of a man who had ruled this empire long before I ever stepped foot into the boardroom. My footsteps, on cold marble floor, barely echoed. All I could hear was the shallow breathing of the man I’d admired-and feared-for most of my life.Jonathan,” his voice was hoarse; the powerful baritone weakened by the illness that had racked him for the last year. His eyes flicked up from the documents in front of him, sharp as ever despite the frail body that betrayed him.I walked in, my posture as stiff as the tension hanging between us. “You wanted to see me,” I said, my tone deadpan. This wasn’t the time for sentiment. In our world, it never was.“Yes,” he rasped, nodding toward the chair across from him. “Sit.”I sank back onto the leather chair and watched his face. Skin sallow, pulled taut on high ch
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