His name was Nathaniel

29

The air in the room felt thick as Lydia finished making her point, her words hanging in the silence. Nathaniel could feel the tension easing for the first time in what seemed like hours, but it was short-lived. Lydia's face hardened with resolve as she stepped out of the room, already pulling out her phone to inform the authorities of the impending legal battle. Edward, visibly shaken, did the same, barking orders into his phone as he contacted his own legal team, desperate to maintain control of the situation spiraling out of his grasp.

Nathaniel sat alone at the center of it all, his thoughts whirling in confusion. For once, no one was paying him any direct attention-his father too consumed with damage control, Lydia busy preparing her case. He thought about Adaliya, her number still tucked safely in his pocket, and what the future might hold for him if this legal battle became a full-blown war.

Then, a voice broke through the haze of his thoughts. It was deep, commanding, and filled with an air of quiet authority that felt different from the harshness Edward typically carried.

"Your father, Nathaniel... he's always been like this."

Nathaniel looked up to see his grandfather, the elder Donovan, sitting across from him, studying him carefully. Edward's father had been silent throughout most of the earlier confrontation, but now, with Lydia and Edward gone, he seemed to have decided it was time to speak.

The old man leaned forward, his sharp, gray eyes locking onto Nathaniel's. "I wasn't a good father to him. I know that. I pushed Edward harder than anyone else-expected more of him than any boy should be expected to give. And I never told him I was proud of him."

Nathaniel blinked in surprise. His grandfather, a man he'd only just met, was admitting his mistakes? It felt surreal. This was the man who had shaped his father into the cold, controlling figure Nathaniel had always known, and now here he was, confessing that he might have been the root of it all.

"I taught him that power is the only thing that matters," his grandfather continued, his voice low. "That control is how you succeed. And he took those lessons to heart, for better or for worse."

There was a heaviness in his voice, a regret that Nathaniel hadn't expected. His grandfather's words echoed with the weight of a lifetime of choices, and Nathaniel wondered how much of his father's behavior could be explained by the way he had been raised.

"I see now, though," the elder Donovan added, "that it wasn't enough. Power, control-they mean nothing if you lose the people you love along the way."

Nathaniel shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsure how to respond. He had spent his whole life being molded by his father's expectations, shaped by the same harsh ideals that had been passed down from one Donovan to the next. The idea that there could be something more, something beyond control, was foreign to him.

His grandfather continued, his gaze never wavering. "I made mistakes with Edward, and I won't pretend otherwise. But I don't intend to make the same mistakes with you. The Donovan name-it's more than just power and influence. It's a legacy. And whether you realize it yet or not, you're a part of that legacy."

Nathaniel swallowed, feeling the weight of his grandfather's words settle over him like a heavy blanket. "What are you saying?"

The older man's eyes softened ever so slightly, a rare glimpse of warmth breaking through the stern exterior. "I'm saying that if you choose to, you can come live with me. I will teach you everything you need to know about the business, about our family. I will prepare you to one day take over. But the choice will be yours, Nathaniel."

Nathaniel's heart skipped a beat. His grandfather's offer was... unexpected. He had only known the elder Donovan for a matter of hours, and yet here he was, offering him a way out from under his father's suffocating control. But there was a catch-it came with the promise of responsibility, of taking on the Donovan legacy, something Nathaniel wasn't sure he wanted.