Corren’s POV
The call from the front desk came at 11:20 a.m.
I was in the middle of reviewing the revised coastal documents Ellison had sent over when the intercom on my desk buzzed. The receptionist’s voice was carefully neutral.
“Mr. Corren, your father and Mrs. Corren are here. They’re asking to see you.”
I did not answer immediately. My hand remained still on the page I had been reading. The name alone was enough to tighten something old and cold behind my ribs. I had not seen either of them in nearly three years. That distance had been deliberate.
“Send them up,” I said at last.
I did not stand when the office door opened. I did not rise from my chair or offer any greeting. My father entered first—still tall, still carrying the same rigid posture he had used to command rooms whe
