Christian stood near the grand staircase, staring at a framed portrait on the wall—Lucien and Elijah, years younger. Strong jawlines, cold eyes, family pride heavy in every stroke of the artist's brush.
He didn't turn when he heard footsteps."You knew," Christian said. "You knew who the bride was meant to be before we arrived."
Elijah stepped beside him."I did."
"Why didn't you say something?" Christian's voice cracked—not with anger, but with guilt.
Elijah inhaled slowly."Because saying it too soon would have given her time to hate this before she ever saw anything here. Before she saw me."
Christian shook his head."She still deserved to know. She is my daughter."
Elijah didn't look away."And she will be my wife."
Christian turned to him then, jaw clenched, eyes pained."How can you say that like it's simple?"
Elijah's voice lowered."Because I don't have the luxury of pretending it isn't already written. It was signed before either of us could speak."
Christian looked tired.Defeated.Older than Isabella had ever seen him.
"Do you care for her?" he asked quietly.
Elijah didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
Christian closed his eyes.
"That may be the only mercy she has left."
Elijah's jaw tightened."Then help her understand. Don't make her feel more alone."
Christian's voice broke."I'm her father. And I failed to protect her."
Elijah placed a hand on the railing.
"Then let me protect her now."
Christian looked at him hard—really looked—and something shifted behind his eyes.
Not approval.Not acceptance.But acknowledgment.
"You had better," he said."If you break her, Elijah, I will burn your father's empire to the ground."
Elijah didn't flinch."I know."