CHAPTER 221: CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY ONE

Philip sat behind his large desk at Carson Textiles, the morning sun glinting off the polished wood. He stared out the tall window at the bustling street below, but he wasn’t seeing the carriages or the people.

His mind was still trapped in the drawing room of the Carson mansion, replaying the conversation from the day before. Delia’s words, so full of a quiet, infuriating confidence, still echoed in his head.

"There’s no rule that says only family members get to be the ones to run the family..."

He let out a short, bitter chuckle, the sound sharp in the quiet of his study. "Who does she think she is?" he said aloud to the empty room. He picked up a heavy silver pen and tapped it rhythmically against a stack of papers, the sharp clicks a counterpoint to his agitated thoughts. To him, her words were not a sensible approach to business; they were an insult to his very existence, to his bloodline, to the natural order of things.

"I actually blame Eric," he continued, his voice a low, angry murmur. "He’s the one who filled her head with such nonsense. Giving her that much power, that much freedom. A woman needs guidance, a firm hand, not encouragement to believe she is a man’s equal in matters of trade and inheritance." His mindset was a deep and unshakable part of his worldview, a core belief that the world worked best when men led and women followed. Delia’s competence was an aberration, a problem to be solved.

A polite knock on the door broke his train of thought.

"It’s Lewis, Your Grace," came the voice of his aide.

"Enter," Philip replied, his tone clipped.

Lewis came in with a sealed letter in his hand. "Your Grace, this came in this morning. It is from Lady Anne Ellington."

Philip took the letter without much interest. He didn’t even bother to open it. He simply opened a drawer in his desk and shoved it inside, where it joined a small, growing pile of other letters, all bearing the same frantic, looping handwriting. Anne’s desperation was becoming a nuisance.

Lewis, his duty with the letter done, did not leave. "I have also checked on the leaders of the affiliated establishments, as per your instructions," he said, his voice calm and factual.

"And?" Philip asked, leaning back in his chair, all business now.

"It is... complicated, Your Grace," Lewis said carefully. "The ladies are moving together. The wives of the various council members and investors are making contact with Duchess Lyra."

Philip raised a single, questioning brow, his full attention now on his aide. "My mother?" he asked, a note of confusion in his voice.

Lewis nodded in confirmation. "Yes, Your Grace. It seems the wives are hosting some tea parties and gatherings, inviting Duchess Lyra to know which side is the winning side to influence their husbands’ opinions."

Philip’s jaw tightened. He had expected to fight just Eric, not a coalition of the most powerful women in high society, led by his own mother.

"Well," Lewis said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "she won’t say it out loud, she didn’t even give them a biased answer , but Duchess Lyra ..."

"Everyone knows," Philip interrupted him, a bitter edge to his voice. "My mother’s birth child is Eric. Her favorite has always been Eric. Whose side do you think she will take in all of this? Whose side do you think she would declare the winning side." He saw it clearly: a united front of his stepmother, his brother, and his brother’s clever new wife. All of them aligned against him .

Lewis, sensing his master’s frustration, offered a suggestion. "What if you had a private conversation with the Dowager Duchess, Your Grace? She has always been fond of you."

Philip let out another humorless chuckle. "And what would I say? ’Am I not your grandson, Grandmother?’ You want that to be my trump card?" He waved a dismissive hand. "That applies to my rival, too. Eric is also her grandson. She is proud of him. He has done nothing to disappoint her. No, appealing to family sentiment is a losing battle when my opponent has an equal, if not greater, claim to it."

Lewis was silent, his head hung low in acknowledgment of Philip’s point.

Philip stood up and walked to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. He stared down at the street, his mind working, searching for a different angle, a new strategy. "I need something else," he said, thinking aloud. "Something other than what we’ve already seen. I need an advantage that is uniquely mine. Something that doesn’t apply to the both of us."

Lewis made one final suggestion, his voice hesitant. "What if you were to see Lady Anne, Your Grace? She has been sending letters since yesterday. She is clearly desperate to speak with you."

Philip stopped his pacing. He turned slowly from the window, a thoughtful, calculating look on his face. He tapped his fingers on his chin, considering the idea. The nuisance in his desk drawer. The desperate, cast-off girl.

"Anne," he said, the name tasting different now. It was no longer an annoyance; it was an opportunity. A slow, cold smile began to form on his lips.

"She must be devastated right now," he mused, his voice a low, predatory purr. "Her mother is a fugitive. The man she thought was her father is now fully on her sister’s side. Her name is ruined." He walked back to his desk, his expression now one of resolve. "She will be feeling lost, abandoned, angry... and vengeful."

He looked at Lewis, his eyes gleaming with a cruel purpose. "A woman in that state is so beautifully predictable. Her emotions are a liability, a weakness waiting to be exploited."

His smile widened. "Why don’t I use her emotions to my advantage?"

He opened the drawer, pulled out the pile of frantic letters, and selected the most recent one. He would grant Lady Anne her audience. He would listen to her tears, validate her anger, and then he would take her pain and forge it into a weapon. A weapon he could aim directly at Delia, and at his brother, Eric.