Bridesmaid proposal

Appease Your Elder Brother.

Raphod added, as if pondering aloud, “let’s just fire him first?”

The room froze.

Greg’s eyes widened, mouth parting in stunned silence. And the room simmered with a thick, choking quiet. The pressure those words held, clung to the air like the echo of thunder. The door hadn't fully closed before Greg exhaled, long and hard, like a man who had been holding his breath beneath deep, turbulent waters. His head throbbed violently, each pulse like a tiny needle jabbed into the soft flesh of his temples. He brought a hand to his forehead, fingers trembling slightly, as though trying to soothe the pain by sheer will.

“Even if his reputation is bad, it won’t affect our Salvo family,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but loud enough for Gayle to hear. His voice, though steady, carried the brittle weight of strain—like porcelain kept whole only by careful fingers. He forced his back straight against the high-backed chair, trying to project control even as his body begged for rest. “The appointment and removal of directors require procedures, layers of them. Not a matter of whim or heated words.”

He glanced up, locking eyes with Gayle, who sat stiffly across from him, arms folded, the bleeding on his leg not yet addressed. Greg swallowed, steeling himself.

“Raphod’s name is already on the agenda for the board meeting,” he continued. “Your board members insisted on it, and your uncle didn't oppose. He’ll be discussed. Voted on. Possibly admitted.” His tone lowered with caution, as though tiptoeing across a fragile bridge.

Gayle’s lips pressed into a hard line, the corner twitching slightly as if he might speak—but didn't.

Greg cleared his throat. “I’ve instructed the secretary to send out notices. The shops he demanded—he’ll inspect them today. You should go there, ensure the handover is clean. No trouble.”

Outside, the sound of polished shoes receded into the hallway marble. Raphod had gone. With him, he took the oppressive force that had held everyone in the room captive, like a dark moon pulling at the tides of their sanity.

Only once Greg was sure the door was sealed did he call out, “Doctor! Come in, quickly!”

The physician, dressed in a pressed navy coat and carrying a weathered leather satchel, had been waiting in the corridor, silent as a shadow. He entered with a nod, moving straight to Gayle, whose trousers were torn at the thigh, stained with sluggish crimson.

Greg paced behind them as the doctor knelt, examining the wound. He watched closely, his breath catching when the physician probed the gash.

“No damage to the bone,” the doctor finally said. “Superficial, though painful. He’ll walk, but it will take a few days to recover.”

Greg exhaled in relief, collapsing into a chair nearby like a deflated lung. “Thank God,” he whispered, his voice nearly drowned by the soft clink of metal instruments being returned to their case.

As the doctor left, the old man turned toward his son. “Gayle…” His voice was softer now, tinged with something that sounded like regret, but not quite reaching remorse. “What you did last night was too much Trying to trap your brother with your woman, that is stupid!”

Gayle didn’t respond. His silence wasn’t empty—it was deliberate. His jaw clenched, fingers tapping slowly against his knee, each click like a clock ticking toward an explosion.

Greg leaned forward, rubbing his temples, the skin there rubbed raw from habit. “I’m getting old,” he confessed, not looking at him. “Sooner or later, the Salvo name… the company… it’ll all be yours. But until then, we must avoid open war in this family. Your brother must be appeased.”

Gayle’s cold sneer cracked the silence like ice under pressure. “So your brilliant strategy is bribery? Give him the shops. Give him a seat on the board.”

His voice wasn’t raised, but it sliced through the air, each word honed with accusation.

“Appeasement isn’t leadership, Father. It's cowardice, dressed in silk and ceremony.”

Greg didn’t flinch. His eyes closed for a long second before he spoke again. “Your brother contributed this time. He handled the company chaos situation. The docks are secure now, the labor strikes gone. The board listens to him. That earns him leverage.”

Gayle scoffed. “He didn’t do it for the family. He did it because it benefits him. Everything Raphod does has teeth behind it.”

Greg sighed again, slower this time, heavier. “He was without a mother when he needed one. I failed him. We did. He was left to become what the world shaped him into. I hoped that power might make him feel included, useful, perhaps even… loved.”

Gayle’s nostrils flared. His mouth opened, then shut again, as if trying to trap whatever bitterness threatened to escape.

“He doesn’t want love,” he said at last. “He wants dominance. He wants to wear the family name like armor, and wield it like a blade.”

Greg’s expression grew distant, a man grappling with the ghosts of decisions past. “I want peace between my sons,” he said, quieter now. “Is that so much to ask?”

Gayle didn’t answer.

Greg turned away, walking slowly to the window. The sunlight dappled his face, illuminating the lines etched deep into his skin—lines earned not just by age, but by decades of compromise, secrets, and sacrifices.

“You have to be smart with men like Raphod,” he murmured. “Sometimes, to avoid a fire, you must let smoke cloud your vision. Pretend you don’t see the sparks, and hope they fizzle out on their own.”

A long pause stretched between them. Then Gayle, voice now lower, almost contemplative, said, “Dedan Mills invited me to dinner tonight. He’s starting a new project. Wants our investment.”

Greg turned slowly. “Mills is always hunting for profit. What’s he offering?”

“Land near the docks. And I think he’s trying to test the waters on Diana.”

Greg’s brows lifted slightly. “Diana…”

Then his expression shifted, subtly, calculating. “Your brother seems interested in her.”

Gayle’s head snapped up. “So?”

“So,” Greg said slowly, “perhaps this can be turned into an opportunity. If Raphod and Diana were to… let’s say, fall for each other… it could soften him. Bring him closer to the family. Stabilize him.”

Gayle’s voice rose for the first time, sharp and stunned. “Diana is my fiancée!”

Greg didn’t reply immediately. His hands folded behind his back as he returned to his desk, leaning slightly on the edge. “Think about it. Yesterday’s incident—what if it becomes the beginning of a love story, not a scandal?”

Gayle stood now, fury rolling off him in waves. “You want to hand her over to him? Like some pawn in your strategy?”

Greg’s face hardened, though his eyes looked tired. “Is it worth going to war with your brother over a woman?”

The words struck Gayle like a slap. He took a step back, his mouth slightly open, the air seeming to vanish from the room.

“In your heart,” Gayle said, voice trembling not with weakness, but with controlled rage, “he’s always mattered more to you. More than me. More than mother.”

Greg blinked. A flicker of pain crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly as it came, buried beneath layers of self-justification.

“Gayle…”

“You’ve always made excuses for him. You coddled his demons while you sharpened my spine. I was groomed to protect the name. He was allowed to tarnish it.”

Greg sat down again, suddenly looking every one of his years. “Because he needed me more,” he whispered.

“No,” Gayle said coldly. “Because you were afraid of him.”

The two men stared at each other across the gulf that decades had carved. One, an aging patriarch weighed down by a legacy he could no longer control. The other, a son who had done everything right—only to be told it wasn’t enough.

Outside, a single raven landed on the stone ledge beyond the window. It looked in, head tilted, as though witnessing a moment too private for even the wind to carry.

Gayle broke the silence, voice quieter now but no less intense. “If Diana chooses him willingly, I will step aside. But if this is your orchestration… I will not forgive it.”

Greg nodded slowly, as if absorbing a verdict. “Then let us see what she chooses. Let the cards fall.”

But they both knew the game had already begun—and the dealer was not playing fair.

Gayle’s voice trembled—not with fear, but with a cold, blistering anger that had long calcified in the hollow of his chest. He stared at Greg with narrowed eyes, the shadows beneath them flickering like storm clouds behind glass. “You’ve always defended him… even back then, when he framed me for what happened to Mom, didn’t you?”

Greg’s fingers stilled against his temples. He had been massaging the skin there as if trying to erase years of guilt, but now his hand fell away, limp. His expression didn’t shift much, but his silence was answer enough.

Gayle pressed on, his voice thickening with the weight of years left unspoken. “Even though the investigation cleared me. Even though it was confirmed—clearly—that it was my elder brother’s ploy… You still didn’t believe it. Not truly.”

His chest rose and fell unevenly. “As long as it’s what Raphod wants, you’ll let him have it, won’t you? He takes, and you let him. Over and over again.”

Greg’s eyes remained steady, but the tired lines around them deepened. His lips moved, hesitant. “Forget it,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Let bygones be bygones. No matter who was right or wrong… digging it up again will only reopen old wounds.”

His voice faltered with the brittle tone of someone who had already bled dry. “Your brother has returned to the company now. You both… you both have to rely on your own abilities.”

It was a feeble declaration of fairness, like patching a fractured dam with wet paper. Greg knew it, but he continued anyway, trying to add hope where the truth had gone stale.

“If you can win first place in this year’s design competition,” he said, his voice picking up slightly, “even your brother—no matter how cunning—won’t be able to take your position in the Salvo family.”

He tried to believe it himself, though the words sat heavy on his tongue. His gaze flickered to Gayle’s face, searching for any flicker of eased resentment. He knew what Raphod was—a devil in tailored suits, a beast with velvet gloves. He had already brought ruin once, and Greg feared that if the balance shifted again, the wreckage would be beyond repair.

He swallowed, his voice softening. “Gayle… remember, in the end, true ability is what matters. That’s what people respect. That’s what will protect you.”

“I know,” Gayle said, his tone subdued but not soft. “I’ve already painted my entry for the competition.”

Greg’s brows lifted slightly. “You have?”

“I’ll win first place,” Gayle added, voice tight with determination. “No matter what.”

Greg nodded with a thin smile, more weary than proud. “That’s good. That’s very good. A man should prioritize his career above all else.”

A long breath passed between them. The father, weathered and weary. The son, burning but silent. Their bond strained—more like a business agreement than blood.

Greg straightened, his tone turning businesslike. “Since you don’t want to give up on Diana, then find a way to make her take responsibility. Especially in front of Dedan Mills.”

Gayle frowned faintly, confused. “Responsibility?”

“We don’t have spare funds to appease Dedan. But if Diana steps forward—says the right things, makes the right appearances—it’ll buy us some time. Buy you some leverage.”

“Understood,” Gayle said after a beat, though a flicker of discomfort passed across his face. “I’ll talk to her.”

He hesitated, gaze distant. His jaw tensed as memories flickered behind his eyes like warped film reels. Diana had walked away that morning—cold, decisive, deliberate. She’d even taken the ten-million-dollar check. To most, that would’ve been a definitive end.

But Gayle didn’t believe it. Couldn’t.

A ten-year relationship doesn’t vanish with a pen stroke and a stiff goodbye. In his mind, Diana wasn’t just a woman—she was his creation. Like a hound meticulously trained, coaxed to heel at his call, molded to know only his scent and his command. She may have barked in rebellion, may have snapped at the leash once or twice, but she always came back. Wagging her tail. Eyes shining with loyalty. That was her nature, wasn’t it?

She could bite, but only if cornered. And he… he knew how to draw her out again.

He looked toward the window, the light dappling the floor like a cruel reminder that day always returned. “She’ll come back,” he murmured to himself. “She always does.”

And in his heart, he believed it.

But the wind that whispered against the glass carried the scent of change. And not even the well-trained always return.