Chapter 220
Arthur
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My parents‘ house looks exactly the same as it always has. The driveway is perfectly maintained. The lawn is manicured within an inch of its life. Even the flowers that line the walkway seem to stand at attention, afraid to lean too far in any direction for fear of being cut away by my mother’s gardening shears.
I park my car and sit for a moment, gathering my thoughts. I still can’t believe I’m here to question my parents about attempted murder. The very thought is ludicrous. My father may be manipulative, conniving, and borderline ruthless in his political machinations, but murder?,
That’s a line I never thought he’d cross.
Then again, I hardly even know my father. To me, he’s just the drill sergeant who raised me for his own political gain.
With a deep breath, I exit the car and make my way to the front door. Before I can even knock, it swings open to reveal my mother, looking as polished as ever in a cream–colored pantsuit and not a single silver hair out of place.
“Arthur,” she says. “What a lovely surprise.”
“Mother. Is Father home?“.
“Of course. He’s in his study. Come in, I’ll make tea.”
I follow her inside, noting how absolutely nothing has changed since my last visit. The same austere furniture, the same beige walls, the same family portraits hanging in perfect symmetry along the hallway. My childhood home feels more like a museum than a place where anyone actually lives.
My father emerges from his study as we pass, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Arthur,” he says, looking mildly surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”
“I thought I’d stop by.” I keep my tone casual, watching his face carefully. Does he look guilty? Nervous? It’s impossible to tell. My father has always been a master at concealing his emotions. “After last night’s… excitement.”
Something flickers in his eyes, but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “Yes, quite the unfortunate incident,” he says smoothly. “How is your mate faring?”
The way he says “mate” makes my teeth clench, like Iris is some sort of pet I’ve decided to keep around, but I try not to show my
reaction.
“She’s recovering,” I say shortly. “The doctors kept her overnight for observation.”
“Good, good,” my father murmurs, already turning back toward his study. “Join me, won’t you? Your mother can bring the tea there.”
I hesitate before following him into the office. As a kid, he only ever called me in there when he wanted to punish me for stupid shit like running in the house or getting a B on a test. Then, as I got older, he only invited me in when he wanted to give me
orders or lectures.
Finally, I follow him in and shut the door behind me.
“Sit.” He gestures to one of the leather armchairs across from his massive desk. I feel like a dog that’s–being commanded.
I remain standing. “I’d rather not. This won’t take long.”
My father raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Even he knows that I’m the Alpha President now, not a kid to be bossed around. He sits in his chair and folds his hands in his lap. “What’s on your mind, son?”
“Last night,” I say bluntly. “Iris almost died.”
“Yes, allergies can be quite serious. It’s fortunate that Caleb Willford was there with medication.” His voice is clinical, as if
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Chapter 220
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we’re discussing a stranger’s minor inconvenience rather than my mate nearly dying in front of us.
“Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?” I press, watching him carefully, at the one drink you recommended contained the very thing she’s deathly allergic to?”
My father’s expression doesn’t change. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“Did you know Iris is allergic to kiwi?”
My father blinks at me. À long moment passes between us. From the hallway, I can hear the gentle clinking of china as my mother prepares the tea. I almost forgot how eerily quiet this house can be; no music, no laughter, not even the sound of birds chirping in the gardens, as it even the wildlife avoids this entire property.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” my father finally says with a laugh. “How would I possibly know something like that?”
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