Reagan’s POV
The mansion was as quiet as ever.
By this hour, most of the staff had retired, leaving only the occasional footsteps echoing through the halls. I loosened my tie as I walked into the study, dropped the board meeting folder onto the coffee table without another glance, shrugged off my jacket, and headed straight for the liquor cabinet.
I’d seen enough reports for one day.
A bottle of whiskey.
The liquid settled against the crystal before I carried it over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the estate. The city lights shimmered in the distance, calm and indifferent, but tonight they did nothing to settle my thoughts.
Wallace’s voice refused to leave my head.
You’re still just a boy
I took a slow sip, letting the whiskey burn its way down. Usually that was enough to take the edge off.
Not tonight.
The part that irritated me most wasn’t Wallace.
It was Father.
He’d been right.
Wallace hadn’t defended those reports because he believed them. He’d challenged me because he knew exactly where to strike, and I’d let him. Maybe no one else in that room had noticed it, but Father had. He’d seen the moment the meeting stopped being about missing money and became about proving I deserved to sit in his chair.
A vibration against the table pulled me from my thoughts.
I glanced at my phone.
Eli.
Of course.
For a moment, I considered ignoring it. Then I answered.
"What?"
A quiet laugh greeted me.
"Good evening to you too."
"Get to the point."
"I heard your board meeting was... entertaining."
I didn’t respond.
"So," he continued casually, "it was Wallace."
Not a question.
"Who told you?"
"I have ears."
"I wasn’t aware you could hear anything other than the receipts from your club."
He laughed again, completely unbothered.
"I’ll take that as a compliment."
"What’s it you want?"
I took another drink, already regretting answering the call.
"If that’s all—"
"It got to you."
"What?, What’s your reason for calling."
"My reason?" He sounded genuinely amused. "You think too highly of yourself."
"Your weak ass mind games don’t work on me."
"I didn’t do anything."
His answer came so quickly it almost made me pause.
"That imitation of a Christmas turkey with a cigar did all the work for me."
Despite myself, the corner of my mouth threatened to move.
"Watch your mouth."
"Why?" he replied lazily. "You were thinking it too."
Silence settled between us for a second before he laughed again.
"He got to you."
I gave no answer.
"That’s the problem."
I frowned.
"If he’d called you an idiot, you’d have laughed. If he’d questioned your intelligence, you would’ve embarrassed him in front of everyone."
His voice lost some of its amusement.
"But he didn’t."
I already knew what came next.
"He called you Devon Ashford’s boy."
My grip tightened around the glass.
Eli didn’t say another word.
He didn’t need to.
He knew exactly what he’d done.
"Finished?"
"Not yet."
I closed my eyes.
"You know what’s funny?"
"..."
"You found the fraud."
"I know."
"You were right."
"I know."
"And somehow..." He let out another quiet chuckle. "...you’re the one who walked away angry."
My jaw clenched.
"Are you done?"
"Almost."
His tone turned infuriatingly light again.
"You think Wallace won because he insulted you."
"No." Eli laughed softly. "He won because you’re still thinking about him."
The line hit harder than I expected.
Not because it was clever.
Because it was true.
I ended the call.
"...Bastard."
I lowered the phone and stared at the dark screen for another second.
Crack
The whiskey glass shattered in my hand before I even realized how tightly I’d been holding it. Amber liquid spilled between my fingers as tiny shards bit into my palm, a thin trail of blood sliding over my knuckles before dripping onto the polished marble floor.
Only then did I look down.
The cut wasn’t deep.
Just enough to bleed.
Just enough to remind me I’d lost control... again.
I set the broken glass on the windowsill and pulled the largest shard free from my palm. Blood welled up immediately, running over my fingers before dripping onto the marble. I wrapped the cut with the handkerchief from my pocket, tightened the knot with one hand, and looked back out across the estate. Pain had never bothered me. It was easier to deal with than frustration.
The study fell quiet again, but my head refused to.
He got to you
"...No."
The word left my mouth almost automatically.
If Eli was wrong...
Why was I still standing here thinking about Wallace instead of the fraud I’d uncovered?
I let out a slow breath and rested both hands against the windowsill. Beyond the gates, headlights drifted along distant roads as people made their way home. Ordinary people with ordinary lives. Mine had stopped being ordinary the day I was born an Ashford.
Today, I’d found months of falsified reports. I was the one who spotted what everyone else had either missed or deliberately ignored, yet the only thing that seemed to matter was one sentence from an overweight man hiding behind a cigar.
The bosses boy
I closed my eyes.
Would they have listened if my surname wasn’t Ashford?
Would anyone in that room have taken me seriously?
The question irritated me more than the answer.
Because I didn’t have one.
A faint memory surfaced before I could stop it.
*"You actually apologized."*
Rose.
I frowned.
Why her?
Out of everything that happened today... why was she the memory my mind chose to hold onto?
I remembered the surprise on her face, the little laugh she tried to hide, and the way she’d looked at me like she’d just discovered I was capable of acting like a normal human being.
Then another memory followed.
**Home?**
**Yes.**
**Good.**
I scoffed quietly.
Three messages.
That was all.
Yet somehow that conversation had been easier than every single one I’d had today.
Rose had never cared that I was an Ashford.
She argued with me.
Mocked me.
Rolled her eyes whenever I opened my mouth.
She never treated me differently because of my surname.
"...Unbelievable."
I pushed away from the window and started toward the door, only stopping when I noticed my phone still lying on the table where I’d dropped it after hanging up on Eli.
The screen was dark.
No new messages.
Good.
I wasn’t in the mood to hear from anyone.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and glanced back at the broken glass scattered across the floor. Someone would clean it up in the morning.
I wasn’t going to.
Somewhere across the city, Wallace was probably convinced he’d won.
My jaw tightened.
He could enjoy that feeling while it lasted.
Because there wouldn’t be a second time.
The next person who tried to reduce me to Devon Ashford’s son...
Would regret opening his mouth.
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