Nathaniel’s tone was scornful, like he was lecturing an overconfident child who didn’t know their place.
“I’ve been navigating the business world for nearly thirty years,”
“These little tricks of yours don’t even register with me.”
I didn’t speak, only looked at him quietly.
He clearly assumed I would feel humiliated, flustered, crushed by his words.
Unfortunately for him—no.
The way I looked at him held only pity.
The kind of pity that comes after seeing through everything, when you can’t even be bothered to feel angry anymore.
Like looking at a fool who’s being led around by the nose, yet still believes he’s standing on high ground.
“You really are worthy of Whitmore blood,”
“Treacherous and vicious to the bone.”
The more he spoke, the more excited he became, his voice rising.
