CHAPTER 228: INVITATION, NOT NEGOTIATION

ADRIEN’S POV

The car purred down the long, oak-lined driveway, a predator of polished obsidian slicing through the manicured perfection of my past. Each turn of the wheels on the meticulously raked gravel was a turn of the screw in my gut. I hadn’t set foot on the Walton estate since I came to talk to Clara about what she did at the spa.

The villa loomed at the end of the drive, less a home and more a monument to dynastic wealth. Its limestone facade, stark and imposing against the gray sky, held no warmth for me. It was a beautiful, cold mausoleum where my childhood was interred.

I cut the engine, and the ensuing silence was heavier than the engine’s roar. For a moment, I just sat there, my hands gripping the leather-wrapped steering wheel. This was a business meeting, I reminded myself. A necessary, unpleasant merger of my present life with the institution that was my family. Nothing more.

Charles, his spine as straight and unyielding as it had been thirty years ago, opened the door before I could. He was a fixture, as much a part of the house as the marble floors and the joyless portraits lining the hallways.

"Master Adrien," he greeted, his voice a dry rustle of paper.

"Charles," I acknowledged.

"Your parents are in the sunroom."

I gave him a curt nod, shrugging out of my overcoat and handing it to him without a word.

I found them exactly as I had pictured. My mother, Elise, was perched on the edge of a silk-upholstered settee, her hands clasped in her lap, a picture of nervous anticipation. My father was sunk into his wingback chair, the formidable shield of the Financial Times held up before him, rendering him faceless. The king on his throne, observing his kingdom through a paper screen.

My mother’s face lit up the moment she saw me, the strained lines around her eyes softening. "Adrien! Darling, you came. You came. I was so happy when you called " She rose with a practiced grace and came toward me, her arms outstretched.

I met her halfway, allowing her to pull me into a brief, fragrant embrace. It was the same performance every time: the rush of relief, the scent of her perfume, the slight tremor in her hands as she held onto my arms, as if to make sure I was real.

"Mother," I said, my voice flat. I gently extricated myself from her hold. "You look well."

"Oh, you know," she fussed, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle on my suit jacket. "The gardens are coming in beautifully. You must see them. You look tired. Are you hungry? I had Cook prepare the roast lamb you used to love."

"I’m not hungry," I stated, my gaze flicking past her to the newspaper fortress in the corner. It hadn’t so much as twitched. "But thank you. How is your health? Have you been keeping up with your appointments?"

"Yes, yes, everything is fine," she said, though a shadow of disappointment crossed her features at my refusal of food. "Your father and I were just..." She trailed off, glancing nervously at the chair.

I didn’t wait for her to finish. I walked further into the room, the sound of my leather shoes sharp against the polished floor. I stopped directly in the line of sight of the the man who shared my DNA and little else.

"You’re seven minutes late," Father said, finally lifting his head. His eyes pinned me in place. There was no welcome in them, only appraisal.

"The price of being your heir while still doing business outside the family bubble, Father. Sometimes you have to contend with the real world." The words were sharper than I’d intended, a reflex honed over years of defense.

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. He tapped a manicured finger on a thick sheaf of papers. "Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, shall we? Have you transferred the Walton East Airport to Caden?"

A slow, cold smile touched my lips, but it never reached my eyes. "No," I said, the single word cutting through the sunroom’s carefully curated tranquility like a shard of ice. My gaze remained locked on his, unwavering. "I have not. And I have no intention of doing so."

My mother gasped, a small, choked sound that went unnoticed by my father. Father slowly lowered the Financial Times, his eyes, cold and sharp, meeting mine. The air in the sunroom, already thick with unspoken history, became suddenly brittle.

"We discussed this, Adrien," he said, his voice dangerously even. "Three months ago. You left that discussion quite abruptly, if I recall."

"I recall it perfectly," I countered, "and my position hasn’t changed. Caden is a liability, not an asset. Handing him operational control of an international hub is corporate suicide. Or worse."

"Worse?" my father scoffed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "What could be worse than defying a direct order, Adrien?"

"A near-fatal ’accident’ involving someone I care about." I said, the words cutting through the controlled calm of the room like shards of glass. My gaze was unwavering, daring him to meet the implication.

"Like I once said... I don’t give a damn about what you do or give him. Stop involving me. I didn’t come here to debate airports. I came to inform you of a change in my personal affairs."

"A change in your personal affairs?" Father repeated, his voice dangerously low, a predatory growl. "You think you can waltz in here, refuse a direct family mandate, and essentially accuse me of... of that, "he gestured vaguely, scoffing," and then dictate the terms of your own life? Your personal affairs are our affairs, Adrien. Yours are intertwined with the Walton legacy. Stop this childish posturing."

My mother wrung her hands, her eyes darting between us, a silent plea for de-escalation that I ignored.

"I proposed to my fiancée last night. She accepted." I said, totally ignoring his gibberish.

My mother let out a small, happy gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. I could feel her beaming, could picture the look of pure joy on her face. She already adored Isabella. They had met for lunch, gone for spa at Elise’s insistence which eventually led to... My mother saw in Isabella not just a daughter-in-law, but an ally, another spot of warmth in this cold, empty house.

Father’s face, however, was a mask of granite. The momentary surprise was quickly replaced by a glacial calm that was far more menacing than any outburst. The only sign he’d even registered the information was the slight tightening of his jaw.

"I am getting married," I continued, letting the words hang in the air, solid and irrefutable.

"Married?" he finally managed, the single word laced with disbelief and an undercurrent of fury. "Without consulting me? Without approval? To whom, Adrien? To whom are you aligning the Walton name? The unknown woman you’ve been parading on media that you called your girlfriend?"

My mother stepped forward, wringing her hands slightly. "Henry, please. Isabella is a wonderful girl. I’ve spent time with her. She’s bright and kind and she makes him..." She glanced at me, and for a moment, I saw the hope in her eyes that this was some grand love story. I didn’t correct her. It was a useful narrative.

"I wasn’t speaking to you, Elise," my father said without looking at her. His eyes were still locked on me.

"Verily. And, you will be meeting her and her family officially in two days’ time."

"You didn’t think to consult us before making such a decision?"

"I don’t need your permission."

"You do when the Walton name is involved."

"Funny," I said, voice dangerously low. "I don’t recall needing it when you handed me the company at twenty and expected me to clean up your messes."

"I’ve made a reservation at Celestine. And," I paused, letting the final, critical point land with precision, "I expect you to be tolerative."

The word ’tolerative’ was a carefully chosen weapon. Not ’polite’. Not ’welcoming’. Tolerative. It was the absolute bare minimum of civility, and in saying it, I was acknowledging that I expected nothing more from him, while simultaneously forbidding him from offering anything less. It was a challenge laid bare between us.

For a long moment, the only sound was the ticking of the grandgather clock in the hall. My father’s icy eyes bore into mine, searching for a weakness, and a flicker of doubt. He found none. I had built my entire life ensuring he never would.

His mouth twisted into the faintest mockery of a smile.

"You’ll learn. They all do."

And then the paper snapped back into place, the sound final, like a coffin lid closing.

The rustle was a final, dismissive wave. The meeting, in his eyes, was over.

Typical.

The newspaper, a flimsy barrier, went up, a paper wall between us, a declaration of war without words. It was his signature move, perfected over decades, designed to render me invisible, inconsequential. But this time, it felt different. This time, I had landed a blow he couldn’t deflect with silence.

My mother, however, wasn’t so easily dismissed. Her hand reached out, tentatively touching my arm, a nervous butterfly. "Adrien, darling... Celestine is quite lovely. But... your father..." Her voice was a whisper, a fragile bridge trying to span the chasm between us. She was torn, clearly delighted by the engagement but terrified of father’s reaction, even if he remained hidden behind the financial pages.

I gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod. "I understand, Mother. Dinner is in two days. Please consider it an invitation, not a negotiation." I knew she would come, if only to see Isabella again. She’d find a way to navigate father’s wrath, as she always did, by pretending she was merely humoring her difficult son.

I didn’t wait for a reply, didn’t spare another glance at the man behind the newsprint. I turned and walked out, the click of my heels sharp against the polished floor.

Charles was already waiting in the foyer, my overcoat draped over his arm, looking as though he hadn’t moved an inch since I arrived. He didn’t meet my eyes, but I sensed his quiet understanding, the familiar ritual of my arrival and departure an unspoken commentary on the family’s perennial dysfunction.

He held the coat for me, as he always had, and I slid my arms into it, feeling the familiar weight settle on my shoulders. "Thank you, Charles," I said, the words a fraction softer than before.

"Very good, Master Adrien," he replied, his voice as dry and neutral as always.

Stepping back out into the cool, late afternoon air, the Bentley seemed to gleam mockingly under the sky. The meticulously raked gravel crunched under my leather soles as I walked towards it, each stone a tiny echo of the rigid order this place demanded. The villa, which had loomed like a mausoleum on arrival, now felt like a prison I was escaping.