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Chapter XLIII.

  The morning sun beats mercilessly against Nate's shoulders as he emerges from the Rosenberg's basement gym, his muscles aching from an especially brutal lifting session. Even after pushing himself to exhaustion, the weight in his chest refuses to budge. The protein shake in his hand tastes like chalk and regret.

  His eyes find Amber automatically - a reflex born from years of gravitating toward her presence. She's curled up on the outdoor lounge set, AirPods firmly in place, meticulously painting her toenails a shade of pink that probably has some ridiculous designer name. The distance between them feels infinite, though he could cross it in five steps.

  She hasn't spoken to him all morning. The silence stretches like a living thing between them, heavy with questions he can't answer and truths he can't face. What does she want him to say? That he orchestrated Hannah Marshall's death? That he didn't? The lines have become so blurred that sometimes, in the darkest hours of night, he's not even sure anymore.

  Richard Rosenberg's absence weighs on him like a physical presence. No calls, no carefully worded instructions. Just radio silence that speaks volumes about the magnitude of what's happened.

  Movement catches his eye - Tommy on the old swing set, shoulders slumped under a burden no eleven-year-old should have to carry. Nate's chest tightens as he watches Amber's little brother drag his feet through the grass, creating patterns that mirror the chaos in all their lives.

  "Hey, buddy." Nate approaches slowly, careful not to startle him. "Mind if I join you?"

  Tommy doesn't look up, but he shifts slightly on the swing - not quite an invitation, but not a rejection either. Up close, the family resemblance is striking. Same golden hair catching the morning light, same ice-blue eyes currently fixed on the ground, same aristocratic features that will probably break hearts in a few years.

  "I had this dog once," Nate settles onto the adjacent swing, the chains creaking under his weight. "German Shepherd named Jackson. Back when I was around your age."

  Tommy's head lifts slightly, showing the first sign of interest since Nate approached.

  "Yeah." Nate lets his own feet drag through the grass, matching Tommy's pattern. "He died when I was about your age. Used to sleep at the foot of my bed every night, follow me everywhere. Best friend I ever had."

  "Did you..." Tommy's voice cracks slightly. "Did you cry?"

  "For days," Nate admits, the memory still sharp enough to sting. "Felt like the whole world should just stop, you know? Like how could everything keep going when something that important was just... gone?"

  Tommy nods, and Nate catches the glint of tears tracking down his cheeks. "Mom says..." He swallows hard. "Mom says Hannah was sick. In her head. That's why she... why she..."

  "Hannah was one of the kindest people I've ever known," Nate says carefully, each word feeling like glass in his throat. "She made everyone feel special - like they mattered. Remember how she used to do different voices when she read you stories?"

  A ghost of a smile flickers across Tommy's face. "She did the best dragon voice."

  "Yeah, she did." Nate grips the swing chains until his knuckles turn white, steadying himself. "But sometimes... sometimes the brightest people carry the heaviest shadows. And we can't always see them, even when we're looking right at them."

  "Did you know?" Tommy turns those piercing blue eyes on him - so much like his sister's that it makes Nate's chest ache. "That she was hurting?"

  The question hits like a physical blow. Because how do you explain to an eleven-year-old that sometimes people don't die from the shadows in their own minds, but from the darkness in others? How do you maintain innocence in a world where truth is just another weapon to be wielded by the powerful?

  "I think," Nate chooses his words with excruciating care, "that Hannah carried a lot of things none of us could see. And sometimes when people are hurting that deeply, they get really good at hiding it."

  Tommy absorbs this, his small face scrunched in concentration. "Like how Amber pretends she's okay even when she's sad?"

  The innocent observation feels like a knife between Nate's ribs. He glances toward the lounge set where Amber still sits, perfectly posed and utterly unreachable. "Yeah, buddy. Exactly like that."

  "Have you ever..." Tommy's voice drops to barely above a whisper, "seen someone who died?"

  The question hits Nate like a physical blow. Suddenly he's back at Hampton Beach, the weight of Emily Thorne's lifeless body in his arms, her skin already cooling against his hands, her lips- No. He forces the memory down, fighting the bile rising in his throat.

  "My grandmother," he manages, the lie tasting like copper on his tongue. "Two years ago. In the hospital."

  Tommy's eyes grow wide with morbid curiosity. "What was it like?"

  Another flash - Emily's face, peaceful in death except for that slight purpling around her- Stop. Nate digs his nails into his palms, using the sharp pain to anchor himself in the present.

  "Just like sleeping," he lies, hating himself for how easily the words come. "Like they're having the most peaceful dream."

  The crunch of expensive leather shoes on manicured grass announces Richard Rosenberg's arrival before Nate sees him. He approaches in one of his signature bespoke suits, every detail perfect from his windsor knot to his polished Ferragamos. Those familiar ice-blue eyes - the ones Amber and Tommy inherited - fix on Nate with predatory focus, though his smile remains perfectly pleasant.

  "There's my boy," Richard's hand lands on Tommy's head, ruffling that golden hair with practiced affection. "Everything's going to be just fine, sport. Why don't you go see what your sister's up to?"

  The dismissal is gentle but firm. Tommy slides off the swing, casting one last look at Nate before trudging toward the house. Richard's eyes meet Nate's, a subtle tilt of his head indicating they need to talk. The gesture is barely perceptible, but Nate recognizes it instantly - years of careful training in the language of power.

  "Thanks for the talk," Nate tells Tommy's retreating form, his throat tight with things he can never say.

  As they walk toward the house, Nate's gaze connects with Amber's. She's removed one AirPod, her expression unreadable as she watches them pass. The timing couldn't be worse - her finding him alone with her father right now, after everything that's happened. But he can't think about that now. Can't think about the growing distance between them, or the questions in her eyes that he's terrified to answer.

  The journey to Richard's study feels endless. Each step up the grand staircase echoes with finality, like counting down to an execution. The room itself is exactly as Nate remembers - rich mahogany paneling, leather-bound books lining the walls, that massive desk where so many lives have been altered with the stroke of a pen.

  The door closes behind them with a soft click that sounds like fate sealing shut.

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  "Have a seat, son." Richard gestures to one of the leather chairs facing his desk. The word 'son' falls from his lips like both benediction and curse.

  Nate lowers himself into the chair, acutely aware of his gym clothes, of the sweat still cooling on his skin. Richard Rosenberg settles behind his desk with fluid grace, every movement calculated for maximum effect. The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken accusations and carefully crafted alibis.

  The silence in Richard Rosenberg's study feels like a physical weight, pressing down on Nate's chest as those ice-blue eyes dissect him from across the mahogany expanse.

  Seconds stretch into eternities. Nate refuses to look away first, though every instinct screams at him to submit. He's not some freshman anymore, desperate for the king's approval. Not after what happened to Hannah.

  "This is fucking pointless," Nate finally breaks the silence, his voice harder than he intended.

  "Language, son." Richard's reproach carries the precise inflection of old money breeding. "Now, how are you holding up?"

  "How am I-" Nate chokes on a bitter laugh. "Your daughter won't even look at me. Hasn't said a word since yesterday."

  A ghost of a smile plays at Richard's lips. "Amber will come around. Her mother was the same way at her age - all dramatic exits and cold shoulders. But blood calls to blood, and Rosenberg women always return to those who protect them."

  "Protect them?" The words taste like ash in Nate's mouth. "You killed an innocent girl."

  "Innocent?" Richard's eyebrow arches with elegant disdain. "The girl who tried to destroy my daughter's future? Who exposed private medical information to the entire school? That's your definition of innocence?"

  "So you admit it?" Nate leans forward, hands gripping the chair arms until his knuckles turn white. "You actually-"

  "Hannah Marshall's death was a tragedy," Richard cuts him off smoothly, his voice carrying the practiced grief of a thousand press conferences. "Depression is a terrible disease. So many young lives lost too soon."

  "I came to you for help," Nate's voice cracks slightly. "Because I wanted to protect Amber. Not to... Jesus Christ, not to have Hannah murdered."

  "I have no idea what you're implying," Richard continues, his tone pure corporate lawyer addressing a hostile board. "A troubled young woman took her own life. A tragedy, certainly, but one that happens every day in America."

  "The evidence?" Nate's throat feels impossibly dry. "The recordings Hannah had, everything she collected about-"

  "Has been handled." Richard interrupts, examining his manicured nails with studied indifference. "Along with any... digital footprints that might have existed."

  "And Alex Winters?"

  Something dark flickers across Richard's features - there and gone like a shark passing beneath dark water. "Miss Winters proved more... pragmatic than her friend. Her father's construction empire faces some rather complex regulatory challenges. Amazing how quickly young idealists discover their price when family legacy is at stake."

  Nate absorbs this, feeling something hollow expand in his chest. Of course. Why destroy someone when you can simply... realign their interests?

  "Is that all?" He starts to rise, desperate to escape the suffocating perfection of this room.

  "Not quite." Richard's voice pins him to his seat like a butterfly to cork. The silence stretches again, each second measured in heartbeats and carefully calculated power plays.

  "What exactly," Richard finally continues, each word precise as a surgeon's cut, "did you tell my daughter?"

  "Nothing." Nate laughs, but the sound holds no humor. "That's why she won't speak to me. Because she sees it in my eyes - everything I'm not saying."

  Richard leans back in his chair, studying Nate with something almost like approval. "Let me give you some advice, son. The same advice my father gave me when I first joined the family business." He steeples his fingers beneath his chin, the platinum of his wedding band catching the morning light. "Truth is like surgery. Sometimes necessary, often painful, and best administered with absolute precision. Too much truth is like too deep a cut - it doesn't heal clean."

  "So I'm supposed to just... lie to her?"

  "You're supposed to protect her. The way I protected her mother. The way this family has always protected its own." Richard's eyes bore into him. "Amber doesn't need the burden of certain... realities. What she needs is a man who understands that sometimes love means careful editing."

  The words settle over Nate like chains, each link forged from years of privilege and power. He thinks of Amber on the lawn, painting her nails - trying to maintain perfect order in a world spinning out of control.

  "After all," Richard continues, his voice carrying that particular tone that makes boards of directors tremble, "isn't that what you came to me for in the first place? To protect her? To ensure her future remains... unblemished?"

  The question hangs in the air between them, heavy with the weight of all their carefully constructed lies. Because Richard's right - isn't this exactly what Nate asked for? When he first came to this study, desperate to shield Amber from harm?

  Be careful what you wish for, Nate thinks bitterly. You might just get it.

  "You're right," Nate concedes, the words feeling like surrender.

  Richard rises with fluid grace, beginning a measured pace around the study. Each step is deliberately placed, like a general surveying his battlefield. "When my daughter brought you home four years ago, I gave it three months at most." His voice carries the precise cadence of someone accustomed to having their every word weighed like gold. "I'd resigned myself to a parade of increasingly disappointing suitors - boys who'd run at the first sign of... complexity. Just like her mother's string of admirers at Riverside High."

  "You told me this story," Nate interjects quietly. "Christmas Eve."

  "Did I?" Richard's lips curve in that shark-like smile. "Then you'll remember how it ends." He pauses by the window, hands clasped behind his back. "You stayed. Through every storm, every episode, every moment when her grip on control slipped. This... condition she has - it would send most men running. But you?" He turns, fixing Nate with that penetrating stare. "You chose to weather it all."

  Nate's mind floods with images - Amber at Lake Chickawaka, rage burning in her eyes as she gripped that vodka bottle like a weapon, ready to destroy Sarah Matthews over a casual touch. Hampton Beach, where her darkness had spiraled into something none of them could control. The countless nights he'd talked her down from ledges both literal and metaphorical.

  "You've saved her from herself twice now," Richard continues, his voice carrying an odd note of... pride? "Protected our family's interests. I had intended to thank you properly."

  Confusion furrows Nate's brow. "Sir?"

  Richard retrieves an envelope from his desk, holding it just out of Nate's line of sight. "I thought this would make an appropriate gesture of gratitude - a small token for your dedication to my daughter and this family. But it seems Nate Brooks doesn't require Richard Rosenberg's connections after all."

  "I don't understand-"

  The envelope slides across the mahogany surface. Nate's heart stops as he recognizes the crimson 'S' emblazoned against the pristine white paper, intertwined with Stanford's iconic green tree.

  "How did you..." Nate's fingers tremble as he reaches for the envelope.

  "I didn't," Richard's voice carries a note of genuine surprise. "That's rather the point. I had every intention of making a call to the Dean of Admissions - an old friend from Business School. But it seems you managed early acceptance entirely on your own merit. Full athletic scholarship, I believe?"

  The letter feels impossibly heavy in Nate's hands. All those late nights studying, the extra practices, the carefully maintained GPA - it had actually worked. He'd earned his way in, no Rosenberg influence required.

  So why does victory taste like ashes in his mouth?

  "I don't deserve this," Nate whispers, the acceptance letter burning in his hands like evidence of some terrible crime.

  "On the contrary." Richard moves to the bar cart, pouring two fingers of scotch with practiced precision. "You earned this through merit alone. Which, I must admit, impressed even me." He offers Nate the crystal tumbler. "Do you know why I really approved of you, Nathaniel? Not just tolerated - truly approved?"

  Nate accepts the drink, though his stomach churns at the thought of alcohol. Richard settles against his desk, studying him with those penetrating eyes.

  "Because you understand what most of your generation has forgotten - that legacy isn't inherited, it's earned. Every single day." Richard's voice takes on that particular tone that commands entire boardrooms. "I've watched you navigate our world without letting it soften you. Training at dawn while your teammates sleep off their hangovers. Maintaining straight A's despite football and the... complications of dating my daughter. Building your own name while others coast on their fathers' reputations."

  He takes a measured sip of scotch. "The world is changing, son. Old money doesn't guarantee survival anymore. The future belongs to those who understand that power isn't given - it's taken. Through calculation, through sacrifice, through being willing to do whatever necessary to protect what matters."

  The words settle over Nate like a mantle - heavy with expectation and dark promise.

  "You're not just my daughter's high school boyfriend anymore," Richard continues. "You're the man who protected her future. Who understood that sometimes maintaining order requires... difficult decisions. That's why you belong at Stanford. That's why you belong in this family."

  Nate stares into the amber depths of his scotch, the crystal catching morning light from the window. The Stanford letter crinkles in his pocket with each breath - four years of dawn practices, late-night study sessions, and perfect games distilled into a single piece of paper. His achievement. His dream.

  He takes a sip, letting the burn of twelve-year scotch mark the moment. Two girls are dead. And here he sits in Richard's study, surrounded by old money and older power, holding his golden ticket to the future.

  Is this the price of success?

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