F is for Fury (Camden's Story) (*On Hold*)

7 Men Like Us

They brought my father in to see me the same way they'd brought in my sister. Chained at the wrists and plopped onto the chair in front of me, long metal table between us. I didn't greet him, didn't smile when I saw him. I said nothing, just kept my arms folded against my chest, leaning back in a relaxed state, waiting. After all, he was the one who had his goons drag me here. This was his meeting. He should lead it.

"My boy," he said, beaming. "It's good to see you, Camden."

I didn't respond, merely taking the moment to look him over. These past few months in jail had been much kinder to my father than they had been to my sister. She was fraying at the edges but he was perfectly put together, as if they'd just plucked him from our estate only yesterday. His hair was oiled and slicked back perfectly as he always liked, that single stripe of gray running through the left side as always. His skin was clear, his eyes lively, even his teeth were white. I grit my teeth at the sight of it. He was powerful enough to ensure better treatment for himself in here but not Cecily? And I had no doubt that Michael and William were faring even worse.

"You have nothing to say to your father?" he asked, holding up his hands as if offended. But his chains clanked against the table so he lowered them again, keeping that pitiful smile on his lips. "Even after betraying me?"

"I didn't betray you," I snapped.

I shouldn't have engaged but he knew exactly what buttons to push. Cecily had gotten her talent from him. But he'd had more practice to perfect it. His lips stretched wider in his grin.

"No?" he asked, his tone a mask of innocence though his true intentions were far more sinister. "Was it not your little girlfriend that turned on us?"

"As I recall, she was Cecily's friend before she was anything to me and you brought her into your confidence before even I did. So don't blame me for my ignorance when you were just as blind as I was."

"True, she played me. The difference is, I didn't bet my heart."

I just kept frowning at him, narrowing my gaze into a glare as he grinned petulantly back at me.

"One must know the stakes when one plays the game," he told me, raising a finger and waving it around as if this were another one of his famous lessons and I should be thrilled for the privilege of getting to hear it. "Because when you lose, Camden, you lose too much. You always have."

"Is there a purpose to this visit?" I barked, ignoring his jailhouse words of wisdom.

His smile faltered.

"She saved you," he said then, his tone turning dark, accusatory. Some time ago, that tone would have made me sit up straighter in my chair, think about all that I had done and which of those things might have warranted a reprimand. "Betrayed the rest of us but saved you. Why?"

"This is why you brought me here? To ask me about her?" I bit out, annoyed.

"She didn't love you," he said suddenly and my heart gave a violent lurch that I wasn't prepared for. "Your sister told me she's engaged to someone else. So that isn't it. No one paid her. She didn't take any of our assets when she left. You didn't bribe her. So why, Camden? Why did she allow you to go free while the rest of us rot in here?"

"Maybe she liked me more than you thought."

The lack of truth in the words cut me far deeper than it cut him. My father only frowned, glaring at me, furious by my refusal to answer. He knew I was aware of Charlotte's reason for sparing me. He couldn't stand it. That I might know something he didn't, that I might be in on something he wasn't. It was killing him, I could see that now. Sitting in his cell every day staring at the walls and wondering why I was out here and he was in there was killing him.

"What did you do to her?" I asked before I thought better of it.

"What?" He replied, meeting my gaze, and I clenched my fists at the genuine confusion on his face.

"She said you ruined her life. That's why she did this. So what did you do to her?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I spent a lot of time doing a lot of horrible things to a lot of people," my father answered with a shrug. "I don't remember every one of them."

It was like seeing him, truly seeing him, for the first time. All my life, I had known what kind of man my father was. He had never hidden his true nature from me. I knew what his priorities were and where his family stood within them. I knew his greed, his wrath, his vanity. I'd known his capacity for violence against others and against me. But to realize that he didn't even remember her, couldn't even recall what it was that he had done to a woman to so thoroughly ruin her life that she risked it in order to take her revenge, it was a stunning revelation. His conscience had so utterly abandoned him that he did not have it in him to even feel remorse for what he'd done. To her or to anyone else he had harmed in his quest for power, for wealth, for luxury.

Disgusted, I rose from my chair, ready to leave this place. I didn't have to be here, I reminded myself. I wasn't the one bound and chained, dressed in a state-issued jumpsuit and locked in a cell. I could leave. And it was all because of the woman he couldn't even remember hurting. My jaw ticked as I strode toward the door.

"Get Cecily out," my father commanded from behind me. His voice was so raw, so furious, that I turned toward him again. He was watching me, expression contorted with rage. For the first time that I could remember, he almost looked like a father.

"Is that why you called me here?" I asked.

"There's no chance for the rest of us but there is for her. She's a woman. You're free. They'll listen to you if you say she had nothing to do with it. They don't want her here anyway."

I just stared at my father for a long moment, thinking about what he'd said, the protective way he'd said it, my sister's fate hanging in the balance. But he wasn't saying the truth of it, not really. Neither of them were. They were so focused on convincing me to get her out that they hadn't paused to consider that she might deserve to be here. That they all might. That even I might.

"What are you spending my money on?" he asked then, apparently having fulfilled whatever duty he felt to be a worthwhile father to my sister.

At that, I just shook my head and truly did leave, wrenching open the door and stepping out into the hallway beyond.

"You've grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, my boy," he called out after me as I left him behind and headed for the guards waiting for me. "And men like us only have one way of getting it."

Men like us.

He meant the untitled. Men who had to claw their way into high society with the weight of being unremarkable on their backs. Men who had to claim fortune for themselves. Men who started with nothing but became everything. He still thought of himself that way, the self made man. Nevermind the fact that every cent he ever made was taken forcefully from someone else's pocket. Maybe part of what he was saying was right. Maybe business was cruel and cold. Maybe concern for your fellow citizens meant sacrificing a fortune. But I would rather sacrifice my wealth than my soul. Charlotte had seen that in me. She had known that I would make the right choice even when I doubted it myself. That was why she had given me this chance. But I could never tell him that. He would never understand.

To men like my father, compassion was weakness. Empathy was a vulnerability. Having a heart meant having something to break. He couldn't respect the decisions I was making because he couldn't understand where they were coming from. And I didn't have to tell him at all because he was in jail and would be for the rest of his life. His business was mine. His fortune, his home, his contacts were all mine. And if I wanted to turn things around, to legitimize my family name and build something good from the ashes he left behind, well, there was nothing he could do about that.

I was so lost in my own thoughts when I entered my home that I almost didn't notice the lanky young man standing in the center of my drawing room, wringing his hands together nervously as his eyes darted to me.

"Samuel?" I asked, stepping toward him.

"I've considered your most gracious offer, Mr. Keene," he said and I winced at the name. "And, well, is the job still available?"