The hallway outside Emma's dorm room was quiet as Matthew Hamilton stepped out, the door clicking shut softly behind him. He paused, hand resting on the doorknob for a heartbeat longer than necessary, listening to the faint murmur of Emma and Shirley's voices inside—comforting, gentle. He was glad Shirley had stayed the night. Emma needed someone in her corner who wasn't tangled in family history or veiled agendas.
Matthew exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. It was late—past midnight. Lingering any longer would have invited suspicion, even if his intentions were nothing but protective. They were siblings, yes, but appearances mattered in a world where people turned shadows into scandals. And this family… this family thrived on watching each other's missteps.
He headed down the empty corridor, footsteps echoing softly off the marble tiles. Outside, the night was cool, the air sharp with the scent of rain on concrete. Sliding into his car, he sat in silence for a moment, the leather seat creaking beneath him.
His thoughts turned, almost unbidden, to his grandfather.
Marshall Everett Hamilton.
The man had always been a distant presence—a monolith looming over family gatherings, more myth than man. Polished shoes, perfect posture, words few but heavy. Matthew had rarely seen him intervene in anything. It was always Victor who spoke with authority, who dictated terms and issued ultimatums. It had always seemed Marshall preferred the shadows—an observer rather than a participant.
But now, as Matthew stared at the quiet dashboard, a frown tugged at his brow.
Why had he never stepped in?
Why had he remained silent as Victor drove wedges between siblings, orchestrated power plays, exiled Emma?
Had it really all been indifference?
Matthew remembered a moment, buried deep in childhood. A family argument, years ago. Loud voices in the great room. His father shouting. One of the older brothers slamming a door. And in the midst of it all, Marshall… just sitting in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, watching.
Not judging. Not angry. Just… watching.
At the time, Matthew thought it was detachment. Cowardice, maybe. But now, older, more aware of how deep the currents in their family ran, he wasn't so sure.
He murmured aloud, as if testing the idea in the silence:
"He's seen it before…"
The thought startled him.
What if Marshall's silence wasn't passive?
What if it was protective?
What if he had witnessed something—long ago, in his youth—that made him choose not to interfere?
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes flickering with unease.
Emma being driven out had felt like a breaking point. Victor's decision had been cruel, absolute. And yet, as far as anyone knew, Marshall had said nothing.
Or had he?
Matthew turned on the ignition, the quiet hum of the engine grounding him. But his mind kept drifting—to the family archives, the old photo albums tucked away in the estate library. There were whispers of scandals in Marshall's generation. A brother who disappeared. An uncle who drank himself into oblivion. Land sold quietly. Partnerships dissolved. Things the family never spoke of.
What if that legacy of ruin had scarred Marshall so deeply, he had vowed never to repeat it?
What if silence had been his shield?
Matthew drove slowly through the dark streets, hands steady on the wheel. But inside, something was shifting. A new understanding was beginning to take root—not just about his grandfather, but about legacy. About blood.
And what it meant to carry the name Hamilton.
He reached the gates of the Hamilton estate and paused before entering. Lights still burned in the east wing—Victor's office, no doubt. His father never slept much when a plan was in motion.
Matthew lingered, glancing up toward the west tower where Marshall still resided.
Perhaps it was time to ask the old man some real questions.