Chapter 4
Outside the study, the mansion settled into evening. The automatic lights clicked on one by one through the halls. Somewhere downstairs, the coffee she had prepared hours ago was cold and untouched.
Finally, Nicholas said, “You should quit.”
The words hit her harder than the diagnosis.
“What?”
“You should leave. I’ll give you a year’s salary. Two. I’ll recommend you anywhere.”
“Anywhere?” she repeated. “As if I’m a table you’re moving to another house?”
His eyes flashed. “Don’t make this sentimental.”
“Don’t make it insulting.”
“Iris.”
“No.” She stood. “You do not get to decide that I am better off elsewhere just because you cannot bear to be seen weak.”
He laughed under his breath. “You think that’s what this is?”
“I know that’s what this is.”
“You know nothing.”
“I know your coffee temperature. I know you hate lilies but keep them in the foyer because your mother loved them. I know you pretend not to listen when Marcus talks about his grandchildren, then ask about the youngest by name three days later. I know you canceled every charity gala this year but doubled the donations in private because you didn’t want to be thanked. I know you sleep badly on Thursdays and that you stare at your father’s portrait when you think nobody is watching.”
Nicholas did not move.
Iris’s voice shook now, but she did not stop.
“I know you better than the women who leave earrings on your nightstand and better than the board members who say your name like a prayer. So don’t tell me I know nothing.”
The study held its breath.
Nicholas looked at her with something raw in his eyes.
Then he said quietly, “That’s the problem.”
Iris’s anger faltered.
He stood too quickly, swayed, and caught the edge of the desk. Iris stepped forward, but he lifted a hand.
“The problem,” he said, “is that you notice too much. And I started waiting for it. For you to notice. For you to come in with that calm little face and pretend you weren’t saving me in ways no one was supposed to see.”
Iris’s lips parted, but no sound came.
Nicholas looked away as if the confession had cost him blood.
“That is why you should leave.”
“No,” she whispered.
His eyes returned to hers.
The word was different this time. Not denial. Not protest.
Choice.
The house went darker as the sun sank beyond the skyline. Iris went downstairs because dinner still needed to exist, even if the world had tilted. She cooked because her hands needed orders: chop, stir, pour, season. She made the soup he liked when he had no appetite and the tea he drank only when he was too tired to pretend to prefer whiskey.
He came down at 8:30.
He had changed into a black shirt and dark trousers. His hair was damp, combed back, his face carefully arranged into the version of himself the world recognized. But Iris saw the strain around his mouth.
They ate in the dining room under a chandelier large enough to belong to a museum.
Nicholas managed five spoonfuls.
Iris pretended not to count.
At 9:12, he pushed the bowl away.
“I’m changing my will tomorrow,” he said.
Iris froze.
“Don’t look so terrified. I’m not leaving you the company.”
“I wasn’t thinking that.”
“You were thinking something.”
“I was thinking this is a strange dinner conversation.”
“All my dinner conversations are strange. Usually people are too afraid to mention it.”
“I’m not people.”
“No,” he said softly. “You’re not.”
The chandelier light caught the silver at the edge of his spoon. Iris stared at it because looking at him was too dangerous.
“I need a witness,” he continued. “Not legally. Personally.”
“For what?”
“For whether I make the right decision.”
“About your company?”
“About everything.”
He stood, paced to the window, and looked out over the garden. The reflection in the glass showed him twice: the real man in the room, and the ghost hovering over the city lights.
“My father built Valmont Group like a weapon,” he said. “He acquired companies, gutted them, sold the bones, then had portraits painted of himself as though exploitation were a family virtue. I inherited his empire and told myself I was different because I was younger, smarter, less theatrical.”
“Were you?”
“No. I was efficient.”
Iris listened.
May you like
Nicholas turned from the window. “There are people waiting for me to die. Some with sympathy in public and champagne in private. The board wants a successor they can control. My uncle wants the voting shares. Camille wants a headline. My doctors want consent forms. Everyone wants something.”
He looked at her.
