Page 55 of Price of Victory
“The board is eager to see fresh leadership,” my father added. “Young blood to guide us into the next phase of growth.”
They had it all mapped out, every step of my professional ascension carefully planned and timed for maximum impact.I would be the public face of the company’s revitalization, the charismatic heir apparent who would reassure investors and charm reporters and generally project confidence during uncertain times.
“Your natural charisma will more than compensate for any lack of experience,” my mother continued. “And you’ll learn quickly. You always have.”
The pressure mounted with each word, settling on my chest like a lead blanket. Sweat began to bead on my forehead despite the perfectly controlled temperature of the dining room. My grip on my fork tightened until the metal bit into my palm, and finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I slammed the utensil against the table hard enough to make the water glasses jump, the sharp sound echoing in the suddenly silent room.
“Sorry,” I said immediately, but the damage was done. They were both staring at me with expressions of shock and concern, and I felt like I was trapped in a spotlight with nowhere to hide.
I looked from one parent to the other, chewing my lip as I tried to find words for feelings I’d been carrying around my entire life. Finally, I shook my head.
“I can’t.”
“What are you talking about?” my father asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.
“Of course you can,” my mother insisted. “You have everything it takes to succeed in this business. Your charisma, your intelligence, your education…”
“Alright, maybe I can,” I interrupted, surprising myself with my own vehemence. “But I won’t. I don’t want it. I never wanted any of it. Don’t you see?”
“I struggle to see what you mean,” my father said carefully.
And that’s when everything I’d been holding back for twenty-two years came pouring out.
“I’ve never had a chance to make my own choices!” The words erupted from me like pressure from a broken valve. “Not once in my entire life have I been allowed to decide what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be, what kind of future I wanted to build.”
“That’s not true,” my mother protested. “We let you play hockey…”
“Let me?” I laughed, the sound bitter and sharp. “You mean after I fought and bargained and practically went on a hunger strike to convince you to allow me this one thing? After years of being dragged to corporate events and posed for family photos and trained to charm donors at charity galas?”
“Aiden…”
“I missed out on my entire childhood because of the spotlight you put me in. I never got to just be a kid, to make mistakes or have awkward phases or figure out who I was without cameras watching my every move. And now, just when I’m finally getting close to something that might actually matter, you want to take that away, too?”
“This is your father’s life’s work,” my mother said, her voice rising. “His legacy…”
“And what about my life? What about my legacy?” I was standing now, though I couldn’t remember getting up. “We have more money than we could spend in ten lifetimes. When is it enough? When do we get to just exist without constantly striving for more power, more influence, more control?”
“Money?” my mother scoffed. “You think this is about money? This is about building something meaningful, something that will outlast all of us. And frankly, if you’re so bothered by the wealth your father has provided, why don’t you try living without it?”
The challenge hung in the air between us, and for a moment, I could see Rhett as clearly as if he were standing right there.Rhett, who had access to more money than most people could imagine but chose to live simply. Rhett, who was happiest in his tiny dorm bed or sharing gas station coffee on road trips. Rhett, who had shown me that the best moments in life didn’t require expensive backdrops or luxury accommodations.
“Perhaps I should,” I said quietly, thinking of all the times I’d been happiest. Wearing his old hoodie that was soft from countless washings. Sleeping in his narrow bed with his arm around my waist. Sharing bags of chips on the rooftop while he told me stories about growing up in Chicago.
Had I ever enjoyed those high-end restaurants my mother dragged me to? Did I need the car collection or the expensive watches or the meaningless wall art that filled our houses? What had any of it actually added to my life beyond status and the illusion of sophistication?
“Perhaps I don’t need any of it,” I continued, my voice growing stronger. “And if that’s the price I have to pay for a life free of all this pressure and stress, so be it.”
My mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, her carefully controlled mask slipping to reveal genuine alarm. But my father leaned back in his chair, studying my face with something that might have been understanding.
“You’re right,” he said finally.
“Richard, you can’t mean this,” my mother said sharply.
“I do,” he replied, his voice firm. “I mean it with my full heart. I built my life around a mission I loved, work that felt meaningful and important to me. If I failed to show you what there is to love in this business, that’s my failing, Aiden. Not yours.”
The unexpected support should have felt like victory, but instead, it just made me laugh bitterly. “It’s too late anyway. I disappeared for ten days without a word to anyone. I probably don’t even have a place on the team anymore.”
