Folding For You

Chapter 31: Sabrina

Arthur's study is exactly what I expected—a world of dark, gleaming wood and understated wealth that smells faintly of old books and something expensive, maybe leather.

The walls are covered in mahogany panels, polished to a soft glow, with an endless bookshelf stretching up to the ceiling, stuffed with heavy, leather-bound volumes. The kind of books that people like Arthur read and reread, each one holding some secret I probably wouldn't understand.

Deep and soft sofas are arranged around a perfectly polished coffee table—I can almost see my reflection. They're upholstered in something dark and rich—suede or velvet, I can't quite tell—but they feel like they belong here.

Everything in this room was carefully selected to remind anyone who enters that they're in the presence of someone who makes decisions that matter. It feels heavy in here, like the air is thicker, weighted down by the sheer importance of everything.

The desk at the room's far end is massive, solid, and more than a little intimidating. Arthur's territory, no doubt. The dim light from those old-fashioned lamps doesn't soften the room; it just adds to its mystery, casting long shadows over everything.

Heavy curtains hang over the windows, barely letting the light through. This room feels like him—mighty, private, a little impenetrable. It's a place where someone like Arthur controls the world, and for a second, I feel out of place, like I'm not supposed to be here.

Killian must've sensed the unease crawling under my skin. His arm slid around my waist, pulling me close, his touch grounding me as he led me to the sofa. He sat beside me, his hand finding mine, a gentle reminder that I wasn't alone.

"You okay, Dimples?" he asked, his voice soft as he brushed a stray hair from my face. I nodded, gripping his hand tighter than necessary like it could tether me to reality in this suffocating room.

Then, Arthur strode in, filling the space with his presence—cold and commanding, like he owned the room and everyone in it. His sharp eyes barely flicked toward us as he claimed the massive armchair in the centre, his posture exuding a casual dominance.

Following him was a silver-haired man, mid-sized, carrying a briefcase in one hand and files in the other. The weight in the room grew heavier, pressing down on my chest. Killian and I instinctively rose to greet Arthur, but he dismissed us with a flick as if we were nothing more than an afterthought.

Gilbert appeared with a glass of whiskey—Arthur's signature drink, the same one I've seen Killian sip too many times. "Son?" Arthur gestured toward Killian, offering him a drink. "I'm good, thanks, Dad," Killian replied, cool but distant. Arthur's eyes slid to me, and I could feel him assessing, calculating. I cut him off before he could speak, forcing a calm I didn't feel. "Thank you, Arthur, I'm alright." My voice didn't betray the storm brewing inside.

The silver-haired man—Graham Grayson, Killian murmured, adding that his father had been Grandpa's lawyer—sat across from us, tea in hand, looking as stiff as the files he carried.

Arthur nodded for him to begin, and Graham cleared his throat, his voice formal, detached, as if what he was about to say was nothing more than a business transaction.

"Miss Kellerman," he began, and I immediately felt the tension coil tighter inside me. Killian's fingers tapped mine in silent reassurance, but I cut in, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "I'm not used to being called Kellerman; it's normally Norwood, so..." I trailed off, feeling a fool. Arthur's impatience snapped through the air. "Continue, Graham, we don't have all day."

Graham's voice was quicker now, more hurried. "Miss Kellerman, Mr. Kincaid left you a trust fund worth fifty million dollars."

For a moment, I couldn't process the words. Fifty million dollars? I blinked, my brain catching up, and anger surged like a tidal wave.

"For what?!"

The question flew out of me, sharp and raw. Every man in the room froze, their eyes locking on me like I had broken some unspoken rule. Arthur leaned back, a cruel, mocking smile tugging at his lips.

"Well, isn't that generous? Grandpa King, ever the philanthropist, giving away money that wasn't his to begin with."

The sarcasm in his voice hit me like a slap, and my vision blurred with rage.

How dare he? How dare any of them? Did they really think they could just throw money at me as if that could erase the scars of my past? As if fifty million dollars could bring back my parents or fix the years I spent alone? My voice cracked with fury as I stood, the weight of my emotions spilling.

"I don't want this dirty money!" I practically shouted, my voice trembling. "To think my stolen childhood—everything I lost—is worth some demeaning number!" My chest heaved as I glared at both Arthur and Graham. Their cold indifference stoked the fire inside me, fueling a rage I had buried for too long.

Killian stood tall beside me instantly, his hand slipping into mine. "We'll be leaving now," he said, his tone firm, but I could hear the edge of anger in his voice too. "Thanks for your time, Graham. Dad." He didn't wait for a response. He took my hand and led me out of the study, his steps swift and determined.

I followed, my heart pounding, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill. But as soon as we got to the car, I couldn't hold them in anymore. The dam broke, and the tears came in heavy, shaking sobs. All the rage hurt, and years of silence poured out.