CHAPTER 37: THE FATHER'S WARNING
Point of View: Saviour Kane
The heavy oak doors of my father’s executive study shut with a soft, decisive thud, cutting off the muted hum of string quartets and elite laughter from the ballroom below.
The room smelled of old leather, expensive bourbon, and tobacco—the distinct scent of my father’s version of authority.
Arthur Kane stood by the floor-to-ceiling bay window, a crystal tumbler of scotch resting in his palm. He didn't turn around immediately. He simply stared out at the dark estate grounds, taking a slow sip.
"You look like a dog defending a bone, Saviour," Arthur said smoothly, his voice lacking any warmth. "Dragging your feet through corporate meetings all afternoon, only to spend the evening pinned to the side of a South Side scholarship
