Chapter 4
Willa stepped into Corbin’s immediate space, her hands trembling slightly as she tapped the screen of her smartphone to unlock it. She pressed play, turning the device so Corbin had a clear, unobstructed view of the high-definition footage.
Corbin remained on one knee, his arm still wrapped securely around Juniper, his eyes locked onto the glowing screen.
The video opened with a clear shot of the terrace, framed just behind a row of tall floral centerpieces. Tabitha was visible, standing in the bright sunlight. But she was not alone. Standing beside her, leaning heavily on a silver-tipped cane, was Orson Voss. At sixty-eight, Corbin’s father was the undisputed patriarch of the family, his button-down shirt and trousers impeccably tailored, his polished shoes gleaming.
On the recording, Juniper could be seen walking toward the dessert table in the background.
"She is a liability, Tabitha," Orson’s voice emanated from the phone’s tiny speaker, sharp and unyielding. "Corbin’s focus is entirely compromised. He delayed the harbor shipments last night to sit by her bed because of a common cold."
"I know, Father," Tabitha replied on the screen. "The men are noticing. They are starting to whisper that he has gone soft."
"We cannot have a soft king running this empire," Orson stated coldly. "The child's respiratory weakness is a genetic flaw. It anchors him to sentimentality. Remove the crutch. Let us see if she has the fortitude to survive on her own. If she does not... then Corbin will mourn, he will harden, and he will finally become the ruthless leader I forged him to be."
On the video, Tabitha nodded, her face breaking into a compliant, sinister smile. "I will take the inhaler now. I will make sure the nanny is occupied in the kitchen."
The footage ended, the screen cutting to black.
Corbin stared at the reflection of his own face in the dark glass. The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, and absolute. The betrayal did not just come from a bitter sister; it came from the very top. The architect of the abuse was the man who had raised him. His father had orchestrated the attempted murder of his own granddaughter simply to harden a mafia asset.
Corbin slowly rose to his feet. The unbridled rage that had fueled his sprint across the patio suddenly crystallized into a stunned, glacial disbelief. He looked across the terrace, finding Orson standing near the edge of the lawn, watching the scene unfold with total, emotionless detachment.
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"How could you do this to a defenseless child?" Corbin’s voice rang out, resounding with the agony of a father's ultimate betrayal, his handsome face contorted by a fury that transcended violence.
Orson did not flinch. He adjusted his cuffs, his American accent flat and unrepentant. "I am securing your future, Corbin. A man carrying a glass doll cannot lead an army."
