Page 152 of Unrequited
From upstairs, I hear the steady, unmistakable clank of boots on wood. My men. Loyal, brutal, armed, and ready. Ashland’s across the room, eyes locking with mine. Branson’s next to him, still spewing whispers, still believing he’s got Ash on his side.
Idiot. He doesn’t see the noose tightening.
My people pour in behind me, spilling into the hall with military precision. Every single man and woman who serves me knows what this moment means. This is the reckoning. We’ve spent years building up to this one moment.
I glance at my phone. Still nothing. Branson hasn’t caught wind. Good.
I lift my head and step forward. My voice is ice cold.
“I did what you fucking told me to,” I say, staring straight at my father. My words cut through the silence like a blade. “Idon’t know if I’ll ever forgive you for what you made me do.”
They don’t know yet. But they’re about to.
“I have an announcement to make,” I continue, louder now. My words echo up the stairwell. My boots hit each step with weight as I head toward the living room.
Ashland nods. He lifts his phone, starts recording. Branson lingers just behind, his expression shifting. My men step into position, fanning out like wolves. They surround him, silent and still.
My father follows, his eyes unreadable. Curious.
I press a button on the remote. Years ago, Da had this place rigged, family movie nights, they called it. Now I’ll put it to use.
The screen flickers to life, casting a cold glow across the space. First slide: the beginning of the end.
“You asked. You followed,” I say. “You believed a traitor.”
Branson shifts in his seat. “What the hell is this?”
“Quiet,” I snap. “I’m in charge now.”
He starts to rise—wrong move. Four hands shove him back down. His face twists. “Get your hands off?—”
“Sit still.”
I turn to my father. “Give me ten minutes. Just ten fucking minutes. To show you why I did what I did. Why I had to.”
My voice breaks just slightly. “You asked me to kill my wife.”
Silence. Then, my father: “You have it. Branson. Sit.”
I nod. “Branson betrayed you. All of you. And I have the proof.”
The screen changes, and now it’s footage. Conversations caught on hidden cameras. Handshakes in shadows. Money exchanged. Envelopes. Whispers. Tells.
“You don’t know. You can’t?—”
“Ah. I can. Quiet,” I snap, furious that he made me do what I did. He’ll pay for that.
The men in the room shift, the weight of the truth starting to press down. Guns slowly rise, eyes narrowing.
There are codes. Timestamps. Locations. Names. Lines connecting him to Russia. To the rogue Kopolovs.
“Matvei Kopolov’s parents,” I say. “They’ve been working with Branson. Trying to steal the crown from within. They failed to claim the Kopolov throne. So they came here to take ours.”
My mother covers her mouth. The screen keeps cycling… documents, intercepted calls, blueprints.
“This is the coup plot,” I say. “This was the plan to take everything from us. Including Kyla.”
A final slide hits the screen: Branson’s handwriting. A note, short and scrawled in ink.
