I sat across from my grandfather in his private study, my heart racing as I waited for his response. The massive oak desk between us seemed to stretch for miles. Outside, rain pattered against the windows of the Ashworth family estate, matching my anxious mood.
"Grandfather, you must understand how important this is," I pressed, leaning forward slightly. "What have you decided about Liam?"
Michael Ashworth's weathered face remained impassive as he studied me. At eighty-three, he still commanded the room with his presence alone. His silver hair caught the light from the crystal chandelier overhead, and his eyes—the same shade as mine—revealed nothing of his thoughts.
"The family will not support him," he said finally.
My heart plummeted. "But—"
"Isabelle," he interrupted, raising a hand. "The Ashworth name carries weight. We cannot throw our support behind someone without careful consideration."
