"Yes," Rex said.
George's face flushed a deep, mottled purple. A thick vein pulsed at his temple, strained against his sweating skin. He leaned forward, pressing his heavy weight onto his elbows, not caring as a drop of spittle flew from his lips and landed on the polished mahogany of the conference table.
"You think you are better than this," George sneered, his voice dropping into a wet, breathless rasp that sounded like rot scraping against bone. "You sit there with your mother's stiff spine, playing the noble prince. But you are just a naive boy who thinks clean hands can hold a throne."
Rex did not blink. He simply watched his father with the hollow eyes of a man viewing a corpse.
George mistook the silence for submission.
He always did.
He settled back into his chair, a cruel, satisfied smirk stretching his damp lips. He looked around the room, making sure every adviser, every guard, and especially Ray Canmore, was listening to him.
