Chapter 191
NATHAN’S POV
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98
Schadenfreude.
It’s a German word for the pleasure or satisfaction one feels at someone else’s misfortune or failure.
Over the course of my life, there have been only two things that brought me happiness: Football and April.
Now, I’m proud to add one more: watching my family suffer.
Suffer is probably an overstatement–although the image of them strapped to barbed chairs having their nails pulled off one by one does have a certain appeal–but watching them lose their shit over the bomb Lara and April dropped on their heads is like early Christmas.
We’re in the Ashford private lounge. It’s this hideous, overstuffed room on the second floor that screams old money and extravagant power. Everything smells faintly of brandy and lemon–scented polish.
The massive television is off–every single fucking news channel is playing versions of the wedding–but the room is alive with sound.
My father’s booming voice, my mother’s slurred hysteria, Lucas‘ cold fury, and Easton’s shaky attempts to do damage control.
Peter and I sit in the corner. He’s perched on the edge of a leather chaise, unconsciously fiddling with his new wedding ring.
I can’t believe he left Eliza just after they got married to be a witness to this bullshit.
I’m sprawled in the chair beside him, one leg crossed over the other, elbow draped lazily on the armrest. If I seem calm, it’s because I am.
And so fucking satisfied.
This moment was a long time coming.
“I want to know how the fuck she uploaded that video,” my father barks, pacing like a caged lion. His face is red, the vein in his neck twitching. “Our system is secured. We spent millions making sure it was bulletproof!”
“It must’ve been someone on the inside,” Lucas says tightly, arms folded across his chest. Every muscle in his body is wound so tight, I wonder if he’ll pop. “The projection timing, the music cue, the integration–it wasn’t random.”
I suppress a smile. He’s not wrong.
Mother is curled on the velvet settee like some Victorian ghost, nursing a tumbler of something dark and definitely not her first.
“This is a nightmare,” she whispers to no one in particular. “The press is tearing us apart. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing. The country
club ladies saw it.”
“Oh no,” Peter murmurs dryly beside me. “Not the country club ladies.”
I snort under my breath.
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10:32 Sun, Oct 19
Chapter 191
“Easton,” Father snarls, turning toward the head of staff. “Fix it. This happened under your watch. Fix it or I’ll have your fucking head!”
Easton, ever composed in his muted gray suit, adjusts his glasses but says nothing.
“And where the fuck is Madeline?!” Father roars.
98
As if on cue–most likely she was hiding outside the door–the PR rep steps in.
“We’re already pushing the narrative that the footage was altered,” she says, a slight tremor in her voice. “We’ll call it a malicious deepfake attack. The video has been flagged for misinformation on all platforms. We’ve demanded they take it down.”
“You heard that cunt. She wants them to investigate the video.” Lucas turns to Father. “They’re going to fucking find out that it’s real.”
It happens so fast, I almost miss it–Samuel Ashford’s fist swings and collides with Lucas‘ jaw.
My eyes widen as Lucas crashes back against the low coffee table, which tips on its side.
“I warned you,” Father growls in the stunned silence. “Do whatever the fuck you want as long as it doesn’t affect our image.” He slaps a hand against his chest. “My image!”
For a moment, nobody moves or breathes. I can’t believe Father actually hit Lucas. His perfect golden boy, his carbon copy.
Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, all rolled into one pretty package.
Lucas rises to his feet, cradling his jaw where there’s already a purpling bruise from when Julian Ellington hit him–that was a fun watch. “I’ll fix this,” he grits out.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
