Page 52 of Sebastian.

Goinginto work today is like walking into a firestorm. Charges have been pressed against Karl officially, and the atmosphere is charged with frenzy. The press buzzes like a swarm of bees, their questions and cameras suffocating me. It's utter chaos.

Once I make it inside the building, dodging press and journalists, I find myself in the midst of another storm––this time within the confines of my office. Peter, our PR manager, is waiting for me before I even arrive, tapping his foot with anxious energy. I pass him by, refusing to get into all of this before I’ve even sat down.

Once I’m seated, I wave my hand, indicating that Peter can start. He launches into his speech immediately. “Seb, we need to decide how Van den Bosch industries will respond to this situation. The press is hungry for a statement.”

I lean back in my chair, fingers drumming a rhythm on my desk, while the weight of responsibility settles upon my shoulders. “Let's issue a press release that's somewhat neutral,” I tell him, my voice measured. “Something like, 'Whatever charges the prosecutor has against Karl Townsend, Van den Bosch Industries will respect the due process.'"

Peter's eyebrows shoot up, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his mind. “Are you sure about that, Seb? Shouldn't we take a stand against these allegations? Show our support for Karl? I mean, that’s what we’ve always done in the past.”

I consider his words, but ultimately decide to stick with my original plan. “That’s true, we’ve helped Karl navigate various challenges in the past, but this time, we stay neutral.”

The surprise on Peter's face is clear. His expectation of a fiery stance against the allegations, like I’ve always offered in the past, clashes with my measured response. “Neutral? But Seb, won't that give the impression that we're distancing ourselves from him?”

I recline in my chair, my fingers steepled beneath my chin. “We've always extended our support to Karl before, and yet, he’s still finding himself in trouble. It almost feels like he’s taken our support for granted,” I explain, causing Peter to soften his expression in understanding. “Given the gravity of these charges, it's important for the company to respect the due process and let the legal system run its course.”

Peter nods slowly, absorbing my words. “Got it. A neutral stance it is, then.”

We hammer out some of the fine details, but Peter leaves soon enough. I’m glad that this hurdle is done. Telling Peter to let Karl take the fall on his own felt like ashes pouring from my mouth, but there’s nothing else I can do at this point. I know I’m breaking my promise to my father, our father, but I don’t think Dad would have ever expected Karl to turn out the way he has. When Dad passed, Karl was a competent family man. Now he’s a womanizer with a penchant for trouble, and because I’ve always protected him, he hasn’t been checked in a long time. That’s all over now.

After lunch, I find myself absorbed in the daily whirlwind of meetings and decisions that define my existence. Usually I would hate days like this, when I barely get the chance to breathe, but today I’m thankful for anything that keeps me too busy to think.

As I settle into my office after lunch, my phone buzzes with a new message––a series of images from a familiar source. My private investigator's work is quick, efficient, and it delivers results. I open the message to find a sequence of photographs. The pictures show Julia and Margaret walking into an Amsterdam law firm, which raises a lot of question marks. Would this be to meet the infamous divorce attorney? How does this affect the course of our relationship going forward? My eyes linger on the images as I examine the small details––their body language and the nuanced gestures that could shed light on their intentions.

I go through the pictures and a queasy feeling settles in my stomach. My chest feels tight…is Julia really moving forward with the divorce? The realization is a frightening one because it serves as a reminder that our dynamic is altering in ways that I can't fully control.

A divorce attorney…fine. The truth of it all is obvious. She was most likely there to start the paperwork for our legal separation. I can’t deny it, no matter how sick it’s making me feel. I need to speak to her before it’s too late. I reach for my phone and take a long breath before dialing Julia’s number, the gentle ring of the phone resonating in my ear. A wave of anticipation and dread rushes through me as the call connects. Anticipation because of how much I miss her, dread because of what I fear she might confirm––that she’s really moving forward with the divorce.

All the fear is for nothing, though The call goes to voicemail. I exhale slowly, leaving a message as the tone prompts me to speak. “Hey, Julia,” I begin, my voice steady despite the turmoil within me. “I…I just wanted to talk. Can we meet in person? Whenever you're available, just let me know. It's important.”

The seconds stretch as I end the call, my gaze fixed on the screen. The message is concise, but I second guess what I’ve said a hundred times. I'm not sure what response I'm hoping for—whether it's understanding, reassurance, or the chance to bridge the growing chasm between us.

Setting my phone down, I settle back in my chair. The office around me feels distant and empty, not at all like the place that used to be my father’s that I’ve now made my own. It might as well be four empty, white walls.

I know that sooner or later, I’ll have to face whatever Julia and Margaret have been planning. Her mother is a strong influence, but I’ve managed to win over her once before. I just hope I haven’t damaged my marriage to the point that Julia chooses Margaret over me this time.

Damn! Even thinking about this makes me want to scream my rage to the ceiling. I love Julia. I don’t know if I can live without her, but if I don’t respect her agency, I’ll lose her no matter what.

* * *

The trip back home seems especially drawn out as I still feel the effects of today's events. Flexing my hands on the steering wheel, I hit the gas harder than I should, pushing the limit of the sports car until it’s taking corners hard enough to throw me to the side. I can’t outrun all of this shit going on in my life, though, no matter how hard I try.

The calmness of being home washes over me when I cross the threshold of the familiar entrance––a sharp contrast to the regular buzzing activity that used to fill these halls. For once, I wish it was loud and chaotic.

In the empty breezeway, I take off my blazer and hand it to the waiting butler, pulling out my phone just to check any messages I might have missed during the ride back home.

My eyebrows rise to my hairline when I see that “#KarlTownsend” is one of the top trending searches on Twitter. Allowing myself a few seconds of scrolling through the posts, I’m relieved to see that my name and the family business isn’t explicitly mentioned, but I know good and well that at least some of the articles won’t be so kind. I stop while I’m ahead, closing the app and pocketing the phone once more.

Walking through the halls, I head towards my bedroom to change for dinner. The idea of dinner at home is a rarity these days, a tradition that has all but disappeared along with my wife. Julia’s departure has rewritten the rhythms of our household, and everyone has adjusted. Everyone except me, of course. After all, Hannah’s absence in the evenings is almost constant, her outings with friends having become a regular occurrence. Joris and Aleida follow their own routines, their nanny guiding them through the motions of the evening. And then there's Arthur, the youngest, unburdened by schedules or conventions, eating whenever his whims dictate.

Tonight I’m not eating alone, though. Tonight is different. As the clock inches closer to 7:30, I've made a request to the cook—make Hannah’s favorite meal so me and my daughter can have dinner together. It’s a simple gesture, but at least it’s something for me to look forward to. After I change and make my way outside, I see that a small setup is taking shape on the terrace. It's an attempt, perhaps a feeble one, to connect with Hannah.

The evening air holds a hint of chill, but nothing that a patio heater doesn’t take care of. I find myself outside a few minutes before the time, waiting for her. She’s late, but then again, aren’t all teenagers? Amused and maybe just a touch annoyed, I sit at the table and wait.

The door opens at ten past the hour, and Hannah steps out. Her demeanor is a mixture of reserve and distance; it has a detached air that makes me realize how quickly time has passed. Gone is the sweet, if shy little girl Hannah once was. Now, she exudes the casualness of a teenager, which is a defense I am all too familiar with. I’ve already raised two of them, after all.

“Hey,” I greet her with a warm tone, trying to keep things light. “You're fashionably late.”

She offers a half-smile, a glimmer of her former self peeking through the facade. “Better late than never, right?”

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