Chapter 257 - 0257: He Isn’t My Only Son

Chapter 257: Chapter 0257: He Isn’t My Only Son

Graham’s Point Of View

His expression didn’t soften. If anything, the lines around his mouth hardened further. "Either you sign those papers..." He gestured toward the documents on the desk, the ones I’d been avoiding since I’d entered the room. "...or get ready to be disowned."

For a second, I thought I’d misheard him. Not because his words weren’t clear; they rang through the study with perfect precision, each syllable sharp enough to cut glass. But because they didn’t belong to him. They couldn’t. Not directed at me. Not delivered in that flat, businesslike tone, as though he were discussing stock portfolios rather than severing the bond between father and son.

I took a step back, my breath catching. Then another. My heel nearly caught the edge of the Persian rug, but I steadied myself, gripping the back of a leather chair until my knuckles ached. My eyes remained locked on him, as if looking away would make the room tilt completely, would make this nightmare solidify into something I could no longer deny.

"What?" The word scraped out of my throat, dry and rough, barely recognizable as my own voice.

My father stood behind his mahogany desk like a judge behind a bench, his hands clasped before him with that infuriating composure he’d perfected over decades of boardroom negotiations. I searched his face for some flicker of the man who’d once taught me to ride a bicycle, who’d attended every school play in the front row, who’d carried me on his shoulders through crowded summer fairs. Nothing. Just granite features and calculating eyes, a stranger wearing my father’s skin.

"You don’t mean that," I said, hating how my voice wavered, hating that he could hear the crack beneath it.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he simply watched me with that analytical gaze I’d seen him turn on business rivals and incompetent employees, the same gaze that had once made grown executives stammer and sweat. The silence stretched between us like a chasm widening with each passing second, and I felt myself teetering on its edge.

Calm. Cold. Unmoved. "I’m entirely serious," he said at last.

That was it. No hesitation threading through his words. No pause to reconsider. No space to breathe between the syllables that were dismantling my entire world, brick by brick, with surgical efficiency.

"Choose."

My throat constricted. The air in the study felt suddenly thin, inadequate, as though theved solely for him while I suffocated on the weight of his ultimatum.

"Choose now and make your decision," he continued, his tone even and controlled in a way that somehow made everything worse, that professional detachment he wielded like a weapon honed over a lifetime. "Because your decision determines whether you remain a Sinclair or not."

The name landed heavily. It always did - that name had shaped every room I’d ever walked into, every expectation placed on my shoulders since birth. But tonight, it felt different, as though the weight of it had shifted, no longer something I belonged to but something that belonged to someone else entirely, something I was watching slip from my grasp like sand through open fingers.

"Father..."

"Don’t."

The word sliced through mine cleanly, severing whatever plea I’d been about to make before it could even take shape.

"You’ve said enough already."

I ran a hand through my hair, pacing once before stopping in front of him again. My reflection caught in the window behind him... disheveled, desperate, a far cry from the composed man who’d walked into this study an hour ago. I barely recognized myself.

"This is insane."

"No," he replied, his gaze steady and unblinking, "what’s insane is you standing in front of me, knowing exactly what’s at stake, and still refusing to act."

"You’re asking me to throw my marriage away like it’s nothing." The words tasted bitter even as I spoke them, knowing how hollow they must sound to him, how easily he could dismantle them.

"And you’re willing to throw this company away like it’s nothing," he shot back immediately, without hesitation, as though he’d rehearsed the rebuttal long before I’d uttered my complaint.

"That’s not the same thing."

"It is exactly the same thing."

"It’s not!" My voice rose before I could stop it, frustration bleeding through the careful control I’d been trying to maintain since the moment I’d stepped through that door. "Don’t compare a person to a business."

"Then stop acting like your marriage suddenly has value." His tone remained maddeningly calm, each word measured and deliberate, as if he were reading from some internal ledger of my failures.

The words hit. Hard. Like a physical blow I hadn’t braced for. I clenched my fists slightly, nails digging into my palms. The pain helped ground me, kept me from saying something I couldn’t take back, something that would make this unbearable night even worse.

"You don’t get to decide that."

"I don’t need to," he replied, leaning back slightly in his chair with an air of finality that made my stomach twist. "You already did that years ago."

Silence stretched again. Tight. Unforgiving. The kind of silence that pressed against your chest and made breathing feel like work. I shook my head slowly, trying to process what was happening, what he was actually threatening to do, trying to find some foothold in a conversation that had already swept the ground from beneath me.

"You can’t do this."

"I can."

"No, you can’t."

"I just did." His voice carried the weight of absolute certainty, final as a verdict already handed down.

I stared at him, searching his face for something - anything. A crack in the facade. A sign that this was a bluff, just another one of his calculated tactics to push me into compliance. Some indication that the man who’d taught me to ride a bike still existed somewhere beneath this cold stranger.

But there was nothing. Just that same cold certainty, impenetrable as steel, and for the first time in my life, I felt truly afraid of my own father.

"You’re doing this..." I said, my voice lower now, strained with the effort of keeping it steady, "you’re saying all this because of this?" I gestured toward the papers scattered across his desk, those damning documents that had started this whole nightmare, that now seemed to mock me from their neat, orderly stacks. "This?"

His expression didn’t change. Not a flicker of doubt or remorse crossed his face, not even the faintest shadow of hesitation.

"You were ready to destroy my life’s work because of a woman you didn’t even cherish." Each word landed with surgical precision, no wasted breath, no excess emotion, as though he’d calculated the exact force needed to wound me. "So why not return the favor?"

I felt something in my chest tighten again, a vise closing around my lungs, squeezing until I thought I might collapse under the pressure of it.

"That’s not..."

"I might as well forget I have a son."

That one didn’t just hit. It sank. Deep. Deeper than anything else he’d said tonight, burrowing into a place I’d thought I’d armored years ago, some buried childhood wound I’d believed long since healed. For a moment, I couldn’t respond. The words lodged somewhere in my throat, refusing to form. Didn’t even try.

Because I wasn’t sure what to say to that, what possible response existed for a father disowning his son over a business deal, for a lifetime of memories being erased with a single sentence.

And before I could figure it out, before I could gather the scattered pieces of my composure, the door opened.

Both of us turned.

My mother stepped in, her elegant frame silhouetted in the doorway. Her presence shifted the air in the room immediately, brought with it the faint scent of her perfume and something softer, something that felt almost like hope. But not enough to break the tension that had already taken root, that had wrapped itself around both of us like thorns.

"Sebastian."

Her voice carried a warning, low and firm. The tone she used when she’d reached the limit of what she would tolerate. She had heard. Of course she had. She always did, no matter how thick the walls or how carefully we thought we’d closed the doors.

My father didn’t even look at her properly, just a dismissive glance from the corner of his eye.

"Not now." His tone was sharp. Dismissive. Final.

"Woman." She didn’t back down. She rarely did when it came to matters like this, especially when they concerned me, and something in her stance reminded me suddenly of the fierce protectiveness she’d shown when I was a boy, standing between me and any threat the world dared present.

She stepped further into the room, a document still clutched in her hand, her eyes darting between us, assessing the situation in seconds. I watched her shoulders square, that familiar determination settling into her posture, the same posture she’d worn into countless charity boardrooms and family disputes alike.

"He’s our son," she said, her voice firm. "Your only son." A pause hung in the air, weighted with years of unspoken arguments. "You can’t just - "

"You’re forgetting something here, Matilda," he cut her off without raising his voice.

Which made it worse. Because that quiet tone, that controlled delivery, always meant he had already made up his mind. No amount of reasoning would change it. I’d seen this play out before, though never with stakes this high, never with my entire future hanging in the balance of his unyielding will.

My mother stilled. Just slightly. Her grip on the document tightened, knuckles whitening, and I saw something flicker across her face - fear, perhaps, or the dawning realization of some truth she’d long suspected but never dared confront. Like she already knew she wasn’t going to like what came next, but was bracing herself anyway.

My father finally looked at her fully. Then back at me. Then back at her again, as if weighing something in that calculating mind of his, some decision that had clearly been simmering beneath the surface for longer than I could have imagined. When he spoke, his voice was calm. Cold. Final.

"He isn’t my only son."