61. The truth

The wrought iron gates creaked open with a low groan as Matthew drove through the estate's entrance, the headlights slicing through mist coiled along the winding path. The Hamilton manor loomed ahead—elegant, stern, almost indifferent in its grandeur. It had always struck him more as a fortress than a home.

The gravel crunched beneath the tires as he pulled up to the circular drive. For a moment, he didn't move. He sat in the silence of the idling car, watching the west tower where Marshall's quarters were. The curtains were drawn, but he knew the light inside meant his grandfather was still awake.

Matthew killed the engine.

He stepped out, the night air damp against his skin. His footsteps echoed faintly as he made his way up the stone steps and through the front doors, which opened easily with his key. The house smelled of cedar, old books, and the faintest trace of jasmine from the arrangements the staff maintained with mechanical perfection.

He passed the grand staircase, the portrait gallery, and the long hallway toward the west wing. He hesitated only once—outside Marshall's study. The last time he'd entered it uninvited, he'd been fourteen, caught snooping through the shelves and politely but firmly told to leave.

This time, he raised his hand and knocked.

Silence.

Then, slowly, a voice: "Come in."

He entered.

The study was as he remembered—deep green walls lined with books, a crackling fireplace, and a heavy mahogany desk scattered with correspondence and worn leather-bound journals. Marshall Everett Hamilton sat in his armchair by the fire, a crystal glass in one hand, his silver hair combed back with military precision. His pale blue eyes regarded Matthew not with surprise, but with that ever-calm, unnerving patience.

"Couldn't sleep?" the old man asked, his voice low but firm.

Matthew shut the door behind him. "I was at Emma's."

Marshall nodded slightly. "How is she?"

"Lonely. Angry. Holding it together… barely."

"Ah." He took a slow sip of his drink.

Matthew didn't sit. "You know what Victor's doing. You know this isn't just business—it's personal. He's tearing this family apart."

Marshall's gaze didn't waver. "He believes he's protecting it."

Matthew scoffed. "By exiling his daughter? By grooming a stranger to take her place? By weaponizing our mother's legacy like it's a PR strategy?"

Still, Marshall said nothing.

Matthew took a step closer. "You've seen this before, haven't you?"

That got the old man's attention. A flicker of something—caution, maybe—passed through his eyes. "What are you implying?"

Matthew didn't back down. "The family. The betrayals. The silence. You've lived through it once already, haven't you? That's why you stay out of it. That's why you never speak up."

Marshall leaned back in his chair. For a long moment, all that could be heard was the soft crackling of the fire.

"When I was your age," he began slowly, "my father ruled this house like a king. His word was law. My brother, Lucas, defied him once—over a woman. The fallout fractured everything. Lucas vanished. My mother wasted away. The business floundered for years while my father hardened into something… ruthless. Unforgiving."

Matthew frowned. He'd heard none of this before.

"And you?" he asked.

"I watched." Marshall's voice was distant, eyes lost to the firelight. "I thought silence meant safety. That if I kept out of the line of fire, I could protect what remained. I married the woman chosen for me. I rebuilt what my father lost. I raised my own children… and hoped never to repeat their mistakes."

Matthew sat down slowly, heart heavy. "But you did. Or at least, Victor did."

Marshall's mouth twisted faintly. "Victor inherited more from my father than I ever intended. He was always clever. Always calculating. But I saw in him that same hunger—for control. For order."

"Then why didn't you stop him?"

Marshall turned to him, gaze sharp. "Do you think I haven't tried? Quietly. Carefully. Do you think I haven't steered him away from worse paths than you know? But my influence… it wanes. And every generation believes it's wiser than the last."

Matthew looked down. "Emma needed you."

"I know." Marshall's voice dropped, almost too soft to hear. "And I failed her."

A beat passed. Then:

"You're different, Matthew."

Matthew looked up, startled.

"You ask questions. You think before you speak. You have empathy… something this family has long neglected."

Marshall set his drink down, his eyes fixed on his grandson.

"If you want to help Emma… don't challenge Victor head-on. He'll crush you. Work from within. Understand what he values, and twist it to your cause. Just like your sister is learning to do."

"You mean Verena."

Marshall's jaw tightened. "No. I mean Emma."

Matthew exhaled. "So you still believe she has a place in this family?"

"She is this family," Marshall said simply. "Victor can dress up a thousand replacements, but blood is blood. And hearts don't lie forever."

Silence fell again, but it was different now—less tense. More reflective.

Finally, Marshall gestured to the empty glass beside the decanter. "Pour yourself one. You're going to need it."

Matthew did. And for the first time in a long time, they sat together—not as soldier and commander, or distant patriarch and obedient heir—but as two men finally beginning to understand the depth of the war they'd both inherited.

And the daughter they'd both failed to protect.