Undressed By His Arrogance

"You’re on speaker," he announced flatly.

There was a breath on the other end. Then Winn’s voice spilled out.

"Hey, babe... I miss you... and I’m sorry..." He exhaled sharply. "You know what—fuck it. I’m not sorry. I’d do everything all over again. For you. For us. We deserve to be happy, and people have been playing chess with our lives for too long. Moving us around like pieces, sacrificing us when it suits them."

Ivy’s throat tightened. She stared down at her plate, suddenly unable to eat.

"And—you have every right to be mad," Winn continued, softer now, painfully sincere. "You didn’t sign up to be with a maniac. I know that. But this is who I have to be. Because if I’m not—if I don’t become this version of myself—there won’t be a future. Not for us. Not for our kids. This is... shit. I take it back. I’m sorry. I really am."

Sam’s head snapped up. He leaned closer to the phone, eyes suddenly very clear. "Hang on a minute," he interrupted. "What do you mean, for our kids?"

Ivy’s breath hitched audibly. She hadn’t planned this to go this way. Hadn’t prepared to tell Sam like this.

On the other end of the line, Winn went very still.

"...Well," Winn finally said, "this is not how I imagined that conversation going."

Sam snorted despite himself. "Son, nothing about your life seems to go the way it’s imagined."

"I’m pregnant, Gramps." Ivy said. Her heart was racing from the sheer magnitude of it. Life. Winn’s child. Their child. Their second child.

A huge smile crossed Sam’s face. "You son of a bitch!" he boomed, laughter bubbling up from his chest as he slapped the table once for emphasis.

"I keep giving you great-grandkids, and I’m the son of a bitch?" Winn’s voice came through the phone, unmistakably smug.

"Son of a bitch in a good way," Sam shot back without missing a beat. He kissed Ivy’s hair, then leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "Make him work for you."

She gave a quiet chuckle, shaking her head, even as her cheeks flushed.

"Congratulations, kid!" Sam barked at the phone.

"I was hoping to see your face when we told you," Winn replied. "The irony of you being happy about a kid when you won’t even let me do the work."

Sam scowled at the phone. "You... you... are... b—b—breaking up." He stabbed the screen with his thumb and ended the call abruptly, then turned back to Ivy. "Are you good?"

"Yeah," Ivy said softly. "I’m good." She was—physically, at least. Emotionally, it was a far messier equation.

"You know he’s a good man, right?"

"I know," Ivy replied, immediately, because that part was still true. That part was carved into her bones.

"All of this," Sam continued, gesturing vaguely toward the phone, the world beyond the estate, the chaos Winn had been wading through, "this is just him fighting for you."

"I know. I know." Ivy exhaled. She folded her hands together on the table. "That’s the thing, Gramps. I understand the need to be brutal. I really do. But... this isn’t who I am. And it’s not who I thought he would be. What has Tom done to him?"

"We all are monsters when what we cherish the most in the world is messed with. And just so you know, I had a more painful and excruciating death planned for Sharona. She’s lucky she got Winn."

"You... knew about it?" Ivy asked, eyes wide.

Sam turned slowly, eyebrow lifting as if genuinely surprised by the question. "Knew? I arranged it."

Ivy’s mind scrambled to reconcile the man who spoiled her silly with the man casually admitting to orchestrating a death.

"She hurt my baby," Sam continued. "You kids..." He gestured vaguely in her direction. "You are what I cherish most in this world."

He began counting them off on his fingers as he spoke. "You. Evans. Mary. Theresa. Irene. Elizabeth." His eyes flicked briefly to Ivy’s belly. "The baby you’re carrying right now. And somehow," he added with a huff of reluctant amusement, "even Winn. God knows how that boy got under my skin."

"Nobody messes with you," Sam finished quietly, reaching for an apple from the fruit bowl. "Or they get a monster."

He took a single bite, crisp and loud in the sudden silence, and walked out of the room as if he hadn’t just upended Ivy’s entire understanding of morality.

Ivy sat there, staring after him, mouth open.

What the actual fuck.

Her heart was pounding, a thousand conflicting emotions crashing into one another—horror, gratitude, fear, and, disturbingly, a strange sense of safety.

She wasn’t sure whether to feel protected or terrified.

Probably both.

*****

The next morning, the world looked deceptively normal.

Tom stood on the sidewalk outside Morgana’s townhouse, the sun just beginning to warm the pavement, birds chirping. Morgana buckled the kids into the car, issuing reminders about lunches and homework. She waved once as she pulled away.

Tom lifted his hand and waved back, smiling until the car disappeared down the street.

The moment it did, his smile dropped.

He stood there for a beat longer than necessary, shoulders tense, mind already racing through numbers, favors owed, threats looming just out of sight. Even Morgana’s patience had limits, and he was dangerously close to finding them.

He turned toward the door, when a voice cut through the morning air.

"Your backup plan does look good, brother," Tim said from behind him.

Tom’s shoulders stiffened before his mind even caught up, instinct reacting faster than thought. He turned slowly, already irritated.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Tom snapped. "What do you want from me?"

Tim stood a few steps away, hands tucked casually into his pockets, posture loose in a way that was deeply, deliberately infuriating. "We need to talk."

"I told you never to come back." Tom’s jaw tightened. He glanced instinctively toward the front door.

"I had to come back sometime," Tim replied evenly. "And really, there’s no need for me to stay away anymore. What threat will you use on me this time?"

Tom scoffed. "You always did love playing the victim."

Tim’s gaze didn’t waver. "And I think we both know now who is truly responsible for Dad’s death."

"You killed Dad," Tom shot back. "I had nothing to do with it."

"And like I told your side piece," he said casually, with just enough venom to sting, "I’m beginning to question that."

Tom bristled. "Watch your mouth."

"But that’s not what brings me here," Tim continued, unfazed.

"What does?" Tom snapped, impatience bleeding through now. Every second Tim stood here was another second he wasn’t confirming his suspicions about Trish, about who else was circling him.

Tim stepped closer, lowering his voice. "My son."

"Your son... your—" He stopped short, confusion flickering across his face. His mind raced through possibilities, dismissing each one until the truth slammed into him with brutal clarity.

Realization dawned.

"Winn," Tom said hoarsely. "Winn is your son."

Tim simply held Tom’s gaze, eyes dark, resolute. "Took you long enough."

"He is the true Kane," Tim added, "unlike you, borrowing the use of the name and dragging it through the mud."

"You son of a bitch!" Tom exploded, spinning fully toward him now. "You fucked my wife!"

"I wouldn’t say it that way," he replied calmly. "But yes."

"Unbelievable."

"You screwed me over, Tom," Tim continued, stripping emotion from the words in a way that made them far more dangerous. "More times than I can count. You screwed me over with Anna—I can forgive that. You screwed me over with Dad’s assets—I can forget that." He paused. "It ends there."

"If my son complains of a headache," Tim went on, stepping closer now, "I am coming for you. If he so much as breathes wrong, I will kill you, Tom."

Tom’s face twisted with rage, pride fighting panic. "I didn’t screw you over with Anna," he shot back. "She chose me."

"Did she?" he asked softly. "The moment you realized she came with huge dollar signs, your brain went into overdrive. You didn’t care about anything anymore. You wanted to win. That’s all you’ve ever wanted."

He moved closer still. Tim’s presence was overwhelming now, psychologically suffocating. This wasn’t the brother Tom had chased away. This was a man who had nothing left to lose.

"I will watch your every move," Tim said quietly. "I will have eyes on you at every turn. The next move you make targeting Winn—I will empty my gun into your head, and I will gladly accept the consequences."

"You think you’re some kind of hero now?"

"No," Tim replied simply. "I’m a father."

Tim straightened, stepping back, reclaiming space as if the confrontation were already over. "Stay away from my son," he said.

"Then you tell him to stay the hell away from me!" Tom snapped, the last of his restraint shattering. "All these setups, all this feeding his narrative to the press—it has to stop. I know he killed that girl, and if he doesn’t back off, I will prove it to the world."