Page 40 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

“Morning, Roberto.” I change course to meet him. “You’re here early.”

“The roses don’t care what time it is.” He pushes himself to his feet, brushing dirt from his knees. His face is a map of deep lines and sun damage, and his eyes are bright and warm. “They want water when they want water.”

“How’s Candice? Her hip still bothering her?”

Roberto’s face softens the way it always does when he talks about his wife. Over fifty years of marriage, and he still looks at her like she hung the moon.

“Better,” he says. “The new medication is helping. She wanted me to thank you again for arranging that specialist. Dr. Higgins is a miracle worker, she says.”

“It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing to us.” He reaches out and grips my shoulder, his hand rough and calloused. “You’re a good man, Max. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Something tightens in my chest. I clear my throat and look away.

“I should get inside. Early meeting.”

“Of course, of course.” Roberto waves me off with a knowing smile. “Go run your empire. I’ll be here, talking to the roses.”

I leave him to his work and continue toward the building, his words echoing in my head.

You’re a good man, Max.

I wish I believed that.

The lobby is quiet when I push through the glass doors. Lucy is already at the reception desk, her smile bright and her coffee steaming in its mug.

“Good morning, Mr. Cavill!”

“Morning, Lucy.” I nod as I pass. “Quiet so far?”

“Just the way you like it.” She winks.

The elevator carries me to the fourth floor in smooth silence. It’s empty at this hour, the offices dark. I make my way to the coffee station tucked into an alcove near the conference rooms.

The machine hums to life. The smell of fresh coffee fills the small space, rich and bitter.

I take my cup to the window and look out over the grounds.

From here, I can see the gardens below, Roberto’s roses bright against the green, and the fountain where I watched Sophie charm him yesterday.

And yet.

You think you can erase me, boy? My father’s voice, cold and mocking, rising from some dark corner of my mind. You think tearing down my house changes anything? You’re still my son. My blood runs in your veins. Everything you are, everything you’ve built, it all started with me.

My grip tightens on the coffee cup.

Shut up.

You can’t escape what you are, Maxwell. You can play at being good, play at being different, but we both know the truth. You’re just like me. You’ll always be just like me.

I said shut up.

I drain the rest of my coffee in one long swallow, letting it scald my throat, the pain sharp and clarifying.

You’re dead, I think, and the words are sharp, vicious, a knife I’ve been sharpening for twelve years. You’re rotting in the ground where you belong. And everything you built? I burned it down and built something better on the ashes.

Something that could have set her free.