CHAPTER FOUR
The Smith mansion was quiet, too quiet for a house that once echoed with laughter and warmth. Adrian pushed the door open, the familiar scent of polished wood and expensive wine doing nothing to comfort him. He hadn't been home in over three weeks, and now that he was, it still didn't feel like home.
"Adrian!" a voice called out from the dining room. "Thank God you're back. I heard what happened and I tried calling, but you wouldn't pick up."
"Okay," he muttered, brushing past without meeting his father's eyes.
Mr. Smith sat at the head of the long dining table, his gold watch glinting under the chandelier. Across from him was Anita, his wife. Or better put, the woman young enough to be his daughter, who smiled too much and cared too little. Adrian didn't even glance at her. Just seeing them together made his blood boil.
He hated them both. Hated his father for destroying everything their family once stood for. Hated Anita for replacing the only woman who'd ever made that house feel like a home, his mother.
"Adrian," his father said again, softer this time. "You don't have to keep going after the Lincolns. It's time to call a truce. This has gone on long enough."
Adrian stopped at the base of the stairs, his hands clenching at his sides. "A truce?" He let out a short, bitter laugh. "I'm sorry, but I'm already knee-deep in this family mess you created. There's no turning back now."
"Son, listen to me"
"No, you listen." His voice was sharp, cutting. "You stopped being my father the day you let Mum die. You don't get to tell me what to do anymore."
He turned and started up the stairs.
"Adrian, baby, come join us for dinner," Anita called after him, her tone sweet but hollow.
He didn't even look back.
Anita sighed, forcing a smile as she looked at her husband. She'd married Mr. Smith for one reason…. Adrian. The dark, brooding son she could never get close to. But now, all her attempts at charm, all her perfectly rehearsed smiles, had failed. He didn't even spare her a glance.
Mr. Smith set his wine glass down, watching his son disappear upstairs. The pride that once filled his heart had long been replaced by regret. His family was slipping through his fingers, and the walls he'd built with vengeance and greed were now caving in.
He leaned back in his chair, thinking of Adrian the anger, the recklessness, the hollow look in his eyes that never used to be there. He'd seen the cigarette burns, the bottles hidden in his room, the women whose names Adrian didn't even bother remembering. The boy was falling apart, and he knew exactly why.
Her picture was still there, scattered everywhere. The girl Adrian couldn't let go of. Dahlia Lincoln.
At first, it had made him furious. The idea of a Smith loving a Lincoln …. their sworn enemies was unacceptable. But lately, watching his son fade into someone unrecognizable, he realized maybe that girl was the only thing that could save him.
He took out his phone and dialed a familiar number.
Mr. Lincoln.
The line connected after a few rings.
"We need to talk," Mr. Smith said, his voice low but firm. "It's about the future of our children."
There was silence for a moment before the reply came, cold and clipped.
"See me in my office tomorrow at nine," Mr. Lincoln said, then hung up.
Mr. Smith exhaled, his fingers tightening around the phone. He hated himself for what he was about to do, but it was the only way.
*****
Mr. Lincoln's office was sleek, all glass and polished wood, the kind of space that screamed wealth and power. He sat behind his desk when Mr. Smith walked in, his expression hard, his eyes sharp with distaste.
"What is it?" Mr. Lincoln asked flatly. "I don't have time for games."
Mr. Smith stayed standing, unwilling to show weakness. "We need to end this feud, Lincoln. It's gone too far. Our kids shouldn't have to inherit something that started long before they were even born."
Mr. Lincoln let out a dry laugh. "Oh, please. My daughter just finished winning against your company, and now you want peace? What happened, scared you might lose the next round?"
Mr. Smith didn't flinch. "Far from it. You know Adrian. I don't need to brag about his abilities, but let's just say he's been holding back when it comes to your daughter."
The corner of Mr. Lincoln's mouth twitched. "My daughter?"
"Yes," Mr. Smith said. "He loves her. And I want to propose something. A marriage alliance between them."
The words hung in the air like a loaded gun.
Mr. Lincoln leaned back in his chair, staring at him in disbelief before bursting into a cold, humorless laugh. "You must be out of your mind."
"I know," Mr. Smith said quietly. "But think about it. You need this peace more than I do. If we keep going like this, you'll lose more than your pride. You'll lose your family."
Mr. Lincoln scoffed. "You think I'd marry my daughter off to your son just to end a feud?"
"I'm willing to offer twenty percent of my company to your daughter if she agrees," Mr. Smith said.
That made him pause.
Twenty percent.
It wasn't just a peace offering, it was power, leverage, money. All the things Mr. Lincoln lived for. Greed flickered in his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
He leaned forward, pretending to consider it. "Which daughter are we talking about?"
"The business genius," Mr. Smith said simply. "The one who closed the Winnicks deal."
Mr. Lincoln smirked. "Ah. Dahlia."
There was silence again, the air thick with calculation.
"How about twenty-five percent?" he said smoothly, tapping his pen on the desk.
Mr. Smith hesitated. "Twenty."
"Twenty-five," Mr. Lincoln insisted, his voice turning sharp.
Finally, Mr. Smith nodded. "Fine. Twenty-five."
Mr. Lincoln's lips curved into a slow, triumphant smile. "Good. Prepare your son. We'll make the announcement in a week."
When Mr. Smith walked out of the office, he felt a strange heaviness settle in his chest. He'd done what he thought was right , what he thought would save his son. But deep down, he knew what he'd really done.
He'd traded love for peace.
And once again, greed had won.
Back inside, Mr. Lincoln leaned back in his chair, his smirk fading into a look of quiet shame. For the second time in his life, he had let vengeance dictate his choices. First, he'd lost his wife. Now, he was about to lose his daughter.