"How is your father doing, Miss Preston?" Timothy asked, his tone easy, but his attention precise in a way that suggested he missed very little.

"He’s doing a lot better now. Thank you for asking, Mr. Rathbourne." Catherine returned the smile with measured warmth. "That day... I was able to reach him in time because of you."

She let the gratitude sit where it was—acknowledged, but not overstated. There was a careful balance to maintain here. She could already sense that whatever stood between Maximilian and Timothy was not built on favors alone, and the last thing she wanted was to tilt that balance by appearing indebted in a way that diminished Maximilian’s standing.

Because she was certain of one thing.

If Timothy had helped her, Maximilian had already paid the price—one way or another.

Beside her, Maximilian’s gaze shifted briefly to her, something warm flickering in his eyes. Most people, when faced with a Rathbourne, unconsciously adjusted themselves: their voices softening, shoulders lowering, presence shrinking just enough to accommodate the weight of the name.

Catherine didn’t.

She sat exactly as she was, composed, unbending, entirely herself.

And it made something in him settle with quiet pride.

His arm lifted, resting along the back of the couch behind her, the gesture casual enough to pass as comfort, but deliberate enough to mark presence. Not ownership, never that, but something close to it. A silent statement.

She’s with me. She’s mine.

Timothy noticed. Of course he did.

"Oh, please..." he waved it off lightly, as if the earlier exchange held no weight at all. "It’s Tim for you," he added with a wink, his charm slipping into place as naturally as his tailored suit. "And I’m always happy to help Maximilian."

Catherine’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes remained observant.

"You must be pretty close," she said, glancing at Maximilian.

Maximilian didn’t answer immediately. He only smiled.

"Close?" Timothy echoed, leaning back slightly, as if amused by the understatement. "We’re practically family."

That...

That made Catherine pause.

Her brows lifted just a fraction, her attention sharpening as the word settled between them.

Family?

For a brief second, her gaze flickered to Maximilian.

And she caught it.

That shift.

Subtle, but unmistakable.

His eyes had sharpened, just slightly, the warmth in them cooling into something more controlled as they landed on Timothy. It wasn’t hostility. It wasn’t even discomfort.

It was restraint.

Timothy noticed that too. His smile faltered, only for a heartbeat, but long enough to confirm that whatever line he had brushed against... he had felt it.

Maximilian turned to Catherine then, his expression smoothing over as if nothing had happened.

"He’s Charlotte’s father," he said.

For a moment, Catherine simply stared at him.

Then the meaning clicked.

Her eyes widened, her composure slipping for the first time since they had walked into the room.

"Your niece is..." she turned slowly toward Timothy, the realization unfolding in real time. "Your daughter?"

"I’m offended you didn’t tell your girlfriend about me, Max," Timothy said, the teasing note returning, though it carried something a little sharper beneath it now.

Maximilian didn’t humor it.

"It didn’t seem important," he replied flatly.

That answer lingered.

Catherine reached for the whiskey glass in front of Maximilian without thinking, lifting it to her lips and taking a slow sip, not because she needed it, but because the moment demanded something to anchor her reaction.

Her mind was already racing ahead.

Charlotte.

Maximilian’s niece.

A Rathbourne’s child.

She set the glass down slowly, her expression composed again, but her thoughts anything but.

Really...?

Maximilian’s sister had a child with a Rathbourne, and this was the first she was hearing of it.

And the way Maximilian had said it...

Not important.

Catherine leaned back slightly, her fingers brushing absently against the armrest as she glanced between the two men again, something quieter settling into her gaze now.

This wasn’t just a connection.

This was history.

What had happened?

Had the wealthy Rathbourne heir done something inappropriate to Amelia? Every time Catherine casually mentioned Charlotte’s father, Maximilian would turn serious and refuse to discuss it further.

What exactly had that man done?

Her mind drifted toward the worst possibilities, but she dismissed them almost as quickly. If Timothy had truly crossed a line no gentleman should ever cross, Maximilian would never have sat across from him so calmly. That much, she was certain of.

So it had to be something... tolerable, yet distasteful. Something that lingered in the grey.

What could it be?

Curiosity pressed at her, sharp and insistent. She wanted answers immediately, but she knew better than to expect them from Maximilian. He was not one for gossip, and even if he did speak, he would never offer the kind of detail a woman might.

"Did you check? The Republic of Bantdo has agreed to the contract with you," Maximilian said.

"My brother told me," Timothy replied. "He also said it was rather excessive... for stopping the Vice President’s plane for a few minutes."

Maximilian only shrugged. He had said he owed him one, and he had repaid it in his own way. Using his influence as a historian—and in exchange for certain artifacts that rightfully belonged to that country—he had secured a deal that would benefit the Rathbourne family immensely.

He knew the project would be worth billions to them.

In truth, Maximilian would have paid any price to ensure Catherine reached her father on time. But the Rathbournes would never see it that way. To them, this was a debt.

And that was exactly how he wanted it.

"Well..." Maximilian rose to his feet. "We’re on our way to Europe. You’ll hear the news soon."

As he spoke, he slipped an arm around Catherine’s shoulder.

Timothy stood as well, and in that moment, something seemed to settle into place for him. Maximilian was serious about her—serious enough to make her his wife.

"About my daughter..." Timothy began.

Maximilian didn’t even let him finish. He took Catherine’s hand firmly in his.

"Bye."

And just like that, he walked out with her.

Timothy stared at Maximilian’s retreating back and let out a long, measured sigh.

"She’s my daughter, you know! I should at least be allowed to see her!" he called after them, his voice echoing faintly through the corridor.

Catherine felt the pull to turn back, to steal one last glance at his expression. There was something there—something layered and unresolved, hinting at a story far more complicated than she had imagined. But when her eyes shifted to Maximilian instead, steady and unreadable beside her, the question only deepened.

What had really happened between them?

The moment the door shut behind the departing pair, another door within the suite opened.

A man stepped out.

If Timothy carried the polished air of aristocracy, this man embodied something sharper, something dangerous. His dark eyes held a quiet intensity, half-shadowed by a careless fall of hair across his forehead. There was nothing accidental about him; even his stillness felt deliberate, like a predator choosing not to move.

"Was that the Laurel Creek’s heiress with Maximilian?" he asked, his voice calm, edged with curiosity.

Timothy barely glanced at him and gave a small shrug. "You already know it was."

Fitzgerald didn’t respond immediately. He reached for an apple resting on the table and turned it slowly in his hand, his thumb tracing its smooth surface as though he were weighing more than its shape. The gesture was idle on the surface, but there was a quiet tension beneath it, as if his thoughts were moving several steps ahead.

He lowered himself into the armchair with unhurried ease, and Timothy instinctively stepped aside, giving way without protest.

"Did they seem in love?" Fitzgerald asked at last.

The question made Timothy frown. "Is that really what you’re concerned about?"

"It matters," Fitzgerald said, his gaze lowering briefly to the apple before lifting again. "More than you think."

Timothy exhaled sharply, clearly unimpressed. "They seemed... close enough. Why?"

Fitzgerald tilted his head slightly, studying him, as if deciding how much to say. "Because he didn’t come here for you."

Timothy’s brows drew together. "Then what was this about?"

"To show you his bride," Fitzgerald replied evenly, taking a slow bite of the apple. The crisp sound cut through the quiet room. "And to ensure something."

"Ensure what?"

"That she’ll be protected."

Timothy straightened, confusion flashing into disbelief. "Protected? From what? This is Maximilian. Who would even dare go against him?"

Fitzgerald’s lips curved faintly, though there was no humor in it. He set the apple aside, his fingers resting lightly against the arm of the chair.

"Dorian Blackwood."

The name landed like a weight in the room.

Timothy went still. "Blackwood?" he repeated, the word barely leaving his lips.

Fitzgerald leaned back, his gaze drifting somewhere distant, as though watching a game unfold on a board only he could see.

"You should pay more attention, little brother," he said quietly. "The world doesn’t move as simply as you think."

Timothy swallowed, unease settling into his chest. "So what does this mean for us?" he asked after a moment. "Which side are we on?"

Fitzgerald didn’t answer immediately. His fingers tapped once against the armrest, slow and thoughtful.

"I haven’t decided yet," he said at last, his voice calm but laced with something colder.