Page 54 of Price of Victory
I felt like a steam-powered machine, my clockwork heart ticking mechanically through the motions of breathing and eating and sleeping without actually feeling any of it. Maybe it would be better to just shut down entirely, to find a cave somewhere and wait for my batteries to run out.
But in the end, I’d driven home anyway. Not because of their threats or the money or the fear of being cut off. But because running wasn’t fixing anything, and I was tired of being a coward.
I’d arrived late last night, pulling into the circular driveway of my childhood home like the only son returning from war. The head of staff had let me in, his expression carefully neutral as he informed me that my parents were already asleep. I’d climbed the stairs to my old room, past family portraits that tracked myevolution from gap-toothed child to perfectly groomed young man, and fallen into bed without bothering to change out of my travel clothes.
Now, standing in my childhood bathroom with water dripping from my hair, I knew I couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer. They’d given me one night to collect myself, but morning meant facing the music.
I dressed carefully, choosing clothes that would project confidence and competence without looking like I was trying too hard. The same performance I’d been perfecting my entire life, the careful balance between rebellion and compliance that had kept me in their good graces while maintaining some semblance of personal autonomy.
A soft knock interrupted my preparations, and my mother entered without waiting for permission. She was already perfectly put-together despite the early hour, her hair immaculate and her expression carefully controlled.
“Your behavior lately has been impossible to tolerate,” she said, but her voice carried undertones of worry that she couldn’t quite hide. Her lips were pressed tightly together against emotions that threatened to unravel her composed facade.
“I know,” I said simply. There was no point in defending actions I couldn’t explain, no way to make her understand that I’d needed to run because staying would have meant facing truths I wasn’t ready to handle. “You look nice.”
She scoffed, but I caught the way her expression softened slightly at the compliment. Despite everything, despite the manipulation and the emotional blackmail and the constant pressure, she was still my mother. She’d still worried about me while I was gone, still felt relief at having me home safe.
“We needed you, Aiden.”
“I know that, too,” I admitted. “I just…couldn’t.”
She nodded once, a tiny gesture that contained multitudes of understanding and forgiveness and frustration. It was perhaps the most honest moment we’d shared in years.
“How’s Dad?”
“You can ask him yourself,” she said, her voice softening further. “He’s been asking about you.”
The walk to my father’s bedroom felt like a march to the gallows. I’d been avoiding this conversation for months, had transferred schools and moved apartments and generally reorganized my entire life around not having to face him directly. But there was nowhere left to run.
I knocked softly and entered to find him sitting up in bed, reading what looked like financial reports with the same intensity he’d always brought to his work. He looked different than I’d expected. Thinner, certainly, but healthier than the last time I’d seen him. His eyes were clear and focused, his speech patterns normal when he greeted me.
“Dad?”
“Aiden.” His face lit up with genuine pleasure, and for a moment, he looked like the father I remembered from childhood, before business had consumed everything else. “Come, sit with me.”
I settled into the chair beside his bed, studying his face for signs of the stroke that had changed everything. But he seemed remarkably recovered, more like himself than he’d been in years.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better every day. The doctors are pleased with my progress.” He set aside his papers and focused his full attention on me, something that had become increasingly rare as I’d gotten older. “I’ve missed you, son.”
“I’ve missed you, too.”
We talked for a few minutes about inconsequential things, about his physical therapy, my classes, and the weather. It wasthe kind of easy conversation we hadn’t shared in years, and I found myself relaxing despite my anxiety about what was coming.
But then, as I started to get up for coffee and breakfast, the mask slipped back into place.
“I’m so glad you’re here to take your rightful place,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of expectation and inevitability. “There’s so much work to be done.”
The pricks and needles of anxiety started immediately, spreading from my chest outward until my entire body felt electrified with dread. Rightful place. As if my entire existence had been leading up to this moment, as if I’d been born specifically to inherit his empire and continue his legacy.
I mumbled something noncommittal and escaped to the kitchen, but the feeling followed me like a shadow.
By evening, the trap had been fully set. We sat around the dining room table like a normal family, the same mahogany surface where I’d done homework as a child and learned table manners and been lectured about the importance of maintaining our family’s reputation.
My mother began the conversation with the kind of corporate efficiency she brought to everything, outlining exactly what role they envisioned for me in the company’s recovery. I listened with growing unease as they painted a picture of my future that looked suspiciously like a gilded cage.
“You’d start as senior vice president of strategic development,” she explained, cutting her salmon with surgical precision. “With a clear path to executive vice president within two years and COO by the time you’re thirty.”
