Page 2 of Broken Blades

"Early morning tomorrow. I want to review the Q4 reports before we meet."

He smiled at that—the expression he reserved for boardrooms and quarterly earnings calls. Pride, but measured. He set the bottle down and poured himself half a glass.

Mother had outdone herself. Herb-crusted lamb, roasted fingerlings, asparagus so perfectly charred it could've been photographed. She served each plate with practiced precision, angling the meat just so.

"This looks incredible," I said.

"It's nothing." But her smile said otherwise.

Father cut into his lamb. "The merger should close by Q2."

I set down my fork. "Already?"

"Ahead of schedule, actually." He chewed, swallowed, reached for his wine. "We're consolidating with a wellness and sports performance group. Exclusive facilities, high-profile clientele. They've built something impressive."

"That's ambitious."

"It's strategic." He gestured with his knife. "Their founder—exceptional businesswoman. I respect her immensely. She understands brand cultivation."

Mother's hand paused mid-reach for her water glass. Just a fraction of a second. Then she took it, sipped, set it down with care.

"What's their market position?" I asked.

"Dominant. Three locations, expansion planned. Corporate wellness contracts, athletic training, physical therapy. They've cornered the premium sector."

I leaned forward. "And my role?"

"You'll head the new community impact division." His eyes locked on mine. "You'll be the face of our commitment to health, wellness, local development. The next generation of leadership."

The words settled warm in my chest.

"Investors care about stability," he continued. "Image. Legacy. We're not just building buildings. We're building trust."

"Who's the co-CEO? After the merger?"

Father's expression didn't change. "An old business associate. Someone I've known for years."

"Let's not bore her with technicalities." Mother stood abruptly, reaching for the wine bottle even though no one's glass was empty. "Chastity just got home. Can we have one meal without merger talk?"

"Of course." Father's tone was smooth, apologetic. He turned to me. "Your mother's right. Tell us about graduation. Your roommate—Madison, was it?"

I picked up my fork again, let the conversation shift. But I'd caught it. That fractional hesitation. The way Mother's fingers had tightened on the bottle's neck.

I told myself I was imagining things.

The conversation had drifted—finals, Madison's post-grad plans, Mother's upcoming luncheon for the Literacy Council—when Father's expression transformed. Not the measured warmth I was used to. Something brighter. Unguarded.

"Did you catch Sunday's game?"

I blinked. "The Serpents?"

"Overtime victory. Incredible." He set down his knife, fully engaged now. "Ryker Kane pulled off a hat trick in the third period. Three goals in eight minutes. The stats are phenomenal—he's averaging point-nine-four goals per game this season. Best in the league."

Mother's fork scraped against her plate. "Even after all this time, your father still follows the Serpents."

"Follow?" He laughed—an actual laugh, not the controlled chuckle he used at business dinners. "I've had season tickets since the franchise started. Club level, right behind the bench. You can hear everything. The strategy, the play calls." He leaned back, wine glass forgotten. "Last month they let me into the locker room after the playoff game. Met the whole roster."

"Really?"