He wore a bespoke charcoal suit and leaned lightly on a silver-tipped cane that was more prop than necessity.

He didn’t look at me. He didn’t look at the sick baby on my chest. He looked only at his son, his eyes cold and calculating.

“Father,” Preston said, the word sounding less like a title than a curse. “You told me she lost the baby. You sat in my living room and showed me the medical files.

You held me while I cried for a child you knew was alive.”

“And you believed exactly what you needed to believe to keep your mind on the empire, instead of falling apart over a woman who never belonged in our world,”

Conrad replied, his tone empty of warmth as he walked toward the head of the table.