Chapter 253: To Rely On Her
Dorian sat in his office, absently turning the pages of the diamond catalogues spread across his desk. One flawless stone followed another, each accompanied by lavish descriptions and meticulous specifications, yet none held his attention for more than a passing glance.
There were simply too many choices, and far more pressing matters demanded his time. Contracts requiring his signature were stacked neatly beside him, acquisition reports awaited his review, and BioQuant’s latest financial statements remained untouched.
He had no desire to waste an afternoon choosing a ring.
The door opened quietly, and his assistant stepped inside.
Without looking up, Dorian closed the catalogue in front of him. "I’m proposing next month. Get in touch with Harry Winston. I need something appropriate."
There.
That settled the matter.
He could already picture Catherine’s expression when he slipped the ring onto her finger. Her eyes would soften, and that restrained smile of hers would appear. She would be happy, no matter what he gave him. And he would never give her something shameful.
His assistant paused for the briefest moment, surprise flickering across his face before years of discipline smothered it.
"A proposal?" he thought, but wisely kept the question to himself.
Instead, he bowed. "Yes, sir. I’ll see it through," he said. "And Dr. Jonathan Vale is here to see you."
Dorian leaned back in his chair, his expression growing indifferent. "Has he found the cure? For someone who asks for so much, I’ve seen remarkably little in return."
The assistant lowered his head. Jonathan’s requests had become almost routine—more funding, more laboratory equipment, more researchers, more interns, more time. Every week seemed to bring another list of demands, while the promised breakthrough remained nowhere in sight.
"He... doesn’t look pleased, sir."
"Let him in."
The office fell silent once more. Dorian rested against the leather chair and closed his eyes, waiting. A moment later, hesitant footsteps entered the room.
"Mr. Blackwood... sir."
The familiar voice grated on his nerves.
Dorian opened his eyes slowly and regarded Jonathan without inviting him to sit. The only reason the man still stood in his office was because he had promised to deliver a discovery worth billions. Had it been anyone else, Dorian would have replaced him long ago.
His fingers curled around the leather armrest.
"You look like you’ve come with another request."
Jonathan shifted uneasily beneath the weight of Dorian’s gaze.
"Well?" Dorian said, impatience creeping into his voice. "Spit it out."
Jonathan swallowed.
"Sir... I don’t think there’s a cure for Alzheimer’s disease." He hesitated before adding, "Cathy... she must have been wrong."
Dorian’s posture changed almost imperceptibly.
He leaned forward, his gaze hardening until Jonathan felt as though the temperature in the room had dropped.
"What," Dorian asked quietly, "did you call her?"
Jonathan’s mouth went dry.
"I... Dr. Catherine Preston, sir."
He corrected himself immediately, unable to understand why that single word had provoked such a reaction.
"I’ve spent weeks trying to reproduce her findings. I’ve repeated every experiment, consulted specialists across the field, and explored every possible avenue I could think of. I can’t get beyond the second phase. Every path reaches the same conclusion."
He looked down at the floor before forcing himself to continue.
"I believe she was wrong. There is no cure for Alzheimer’s."
Silence settled over the office.
Dorian studied Jonathan carefully, searching for even the smallest trace of deceit. There was none. Only exhaustion, frustration, and the quiet humiliation of a man admitting defeat.
This fool truly believed Catherine had made a mistake.
A faint chuckle escaped Dorian.
"She is many things," he said evenly. "Stubborn. Proud. Wilful enough to ignore every convention placed before her."
His gaze drifted toward the window for a brief moment.
"She never cared much for etiquette, and she certainly never learned to be submissive."
The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.
"But wrong?"
He looked back at Jonathan.
"She never is."
The certainty in his voice was absolute.
Never once had Catherine offered him advice that led him astray. Never once had her judgment failed when it truly mattered. She had challenged ministers, scholars, economists, and physicians with equal confidence, and time after time they had been forced to admit she had seen what they had overlooked.
"You missed something," Dorian said. "Find out what it is."
Jonathan’s shoulders slumped.
The conversation was already over in Dorian’s mind. His posture, his expression, even the calm certainty in his voice made it clear there would be no argument. Jonathan could either obey or bear the consequences.
Still, desperation outweighed his pride.
"Sir..." He hesitated before forcing the words out. "Could we ask Dr. Preston to review the data? Even a brief overview from her would help."
The request tasted bitter.
He had built his ambitions on Catherine’s research. He had convinced himself he could finish her work, publish the results under his own name, and become the scientist credited with discovering the first cure for Alzheimer’s disease.
Instead, he stood here asking the very woman he had hoped to surpass to save him.
Perhaps the continuation of her research would reach the same dead end. The second phase had already contradicted much of what she proposed in her original paper. Scientific discovery was rarely linear. Even brilliant researchers reached false conclusions.
Yet if anyone could find the flaw—whether in the theory or in his work—it was Catherine.
Faced with Dorian’s unrelenting stare, Jonathan found himself wishing she were standing beside him, just as she always had whenever a project became impossible. She had always known what to say, what to test, where to look next.
He hated that after trying to profit from her brilliance, he still had to rely on it.
More than that, he hated that his own survival now depended on her.
How had Catherine ever managed to earn the unwavering trust of a man like Dorian Blackwood?
"What makes you think," Dorian asked, his voice carrying quiet disdain, "that my queen should spend her days toiling away in a laboratory like you filthy guinea pigs?"
Jonathan stared at him, momentarily speechless.
The words were not merely arrogant. They reflected a worldview so deeply ingrained that Dorian seemed genuinely unable to imagine Catherine standing at a laboratory bench.
"But only Dr. Preston can help us, sir."
Dorian offered no response.
He simply lifted a hand in dismissal.
Jonathan understood.
The meeting was over.
After the office door closed behind him, Dorian remained seated for a long moment before turning to his assistant.
"Have someone keep an eye on him over the next few days. I want to know if he contacts anyone outside the company."
The assistant nodded immediately.
"Yes, sir."
Dorian’s fingers tapped lightly against the armrest.
Jonathan had used BioQuant’s laboratories, accepted its funding, exhausted its resources, and now stood before him claiming Catherine had been wrong.
No.
Something was happening behind the scenes.
"One more thing, sir," the assistant said. "Griffin Investments reached out this morning. They’re expanding their investments into pharmaceutical companies. They’ve heard about our Alzheimer’s research and are interested in discussing a partnership."
A flicker of satisfaction crossed Dorian’s face.
Investors were always welcome, especially with the recent setbacks he’s facing from outside. If word of the research had begun circulating through the industry, BioQuant’s reputation would only continue to rise.
Except reputation alone would not satisfy them.
Sooner or later, they would demand results.
"Tell Jonathan to send every discrepancy he’s encountered directly to me," Dorian said, his fingers coming to a thoughtful stop against the armrest.
For the first time that day, uncertainty touched the edge of his thoughts.
Perhaps... he has to send Catherine to the lab. Catherine would see what everyone else had failed to find. And she wouldn’t refuse him. Never.
-----
Fitzgerald entered Timothy’s office without knocking, just as Timothy was discussing the details of a new acquisition with his department heads.
"Meeting adjourned," Fitzgerald announced, clapping his hands together as though he owned the room.
The executives looked instinctively toward Timothy. Seeing the weary sigh that escaped him, they quietly gathered their files and filed out one after another until only the two brothers remained.
Fitzgerald settled comfortably into the chair opposite Timothy’s desk, crossing one leg over the other with practiced ease.
"What?" Timothy asked flatly. "I’m busy."
Fitzgerald let his gaze wander around the office before it returned to his brother.
"Look at you," he said with amused contempt. "Working so hard."
"I have to," Timothy replied as he closed the file before him. "Someone has to try reaching the level of the family’s golden child."
For the first time since entering the room, Fitzgerald paused.
His pale eyes rested on Timothy’s face, studying every twitch of expression.
"The golden child?" he repeated with a quiet scoff. "Me?"
He leaned back.
"I’m not the golden child."
A faint smile curved his lips.
"I’m the weapon Father keeps sharpening."
His gaze drifted briefly toward the ceiling.
"You’re the son he actually wanted."
For one brief, unguarded moment, Timothy found himself wondering if there had been something almost... wistful in his brother’s voice.
The thought disappeared as quickly as it came.
No.
Fitzgerald didn’t feel things like that.
He simply knew how to imitate them.
Timothy rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"So why are you here?"
Fitzgerald’s attention returned to him.