Page 32 of Broken Blades

I watched his shoulders tense. Watched him wait for the other shoe to drop. The condition. The demand. The price that always came with men like me agreeing to anything.

I smiled. Small. Controlled. "I care deeply about her reputation."

The words sat between us like coiled wire. He heard what I meant. Heard the emphasis on "her." Heard the suggestion of possession wrapped inside concern. Heard the threat disguised as chivalry.

His jaw turned to granite.

But his daughter just sat there. Confused. Watching me like I'd offered genuine help instead of opening the first move in a much longer game.

I leaned forward slightly. Kept my voice soft. Reasonable.

"The last thing I'd want is for a young woman to be dragged through the mud for something she didn't do."

Another layered sentence. Another double meaning he caught and she missed.

Something she didn't do.

Past tense.

Implying the future might hold something different.

Harrington's hands curled into fists on the table. His breathing went shallow. He wanted to lunge across the space between us. Wanted to grab me by the collar and demand I stay away from his daughter. Wanted to scream that I had no right to look at her. Speak to her. Breathe the same air.

But he couldn't.

Because we both knew I held all the cards now.

I let my gaze drift to her. Just for a second. Took in the confusion painted across her features. The way she sat perfectly upright, trying to decode a language she didn't speak yet.

Then back to him.

"Scandals ruin people." I kept my voice level. Conversational. The tone you'd use discussing weather or stock prices or any other mundane topic that didn't carry the weight of years-old betrayal. "Reputations collapse." Let the words hang. Watched his breathing change. Watched the muscle in his jaw tick. "Marriages fall apart."

That one landed like a fist.

His eyes flashed. Dark. Furious. Recognition blazing behind the carefully maintained mask of professional composure.

"I would know. Mine sure as hell did."

She shifted slightly in her seat. I caught the movement in my peripheral vision. Watched her glance between us. Searching for context. Trying to understand why a simple observation about scandal suddenly felt like watching two men circle each other with knives drawn.

I tilted my head. Let the smallest smile curve my mouth. "But you'd know about that, wouldn't you, Harrington?"

The insult sat between us. Sharp as glass. Precise as a scalpel finding exactly the right spot to cut.

His hands flattened against the table. "Don't."

One word. Quiet. Lethal. A warning wrapped in barely controlled rage.

I shrugged. Easy. Unbothered. "Just stating facts."

The air turned thick. Suffocating. Years of history pressing down on this single moment. Old wounds ripped open without needing to name them directly. Without spelling out the details of bedroom doors opening at the wrong time. Without mentioning lawyers and media spin and carefully constructed lies that painted grieving husbands as paranoid athletes with anger problems.

I didn't have to mention any of it.

He knew.

I knew he knew.