Page 26 of October
I went to dad's boardroom. The blinds were half-drawn. The glass muted the sound, but not completely. And as I walked past the private kitchenette heard a voice from behind that glass.
Laura. Her voice, light and easy, slipped through the door And then, James. Low, smooth, familiar. And just like that, the rest of the noise around me dropped into the background, muffled by something sharper, more urgent.
I slowed my pace. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough tolisten.
"It's that espresso machine. The one in the west kitchen? It spits like it's offended every time I press a button."
Then came his laugh; "I told you to use mine. I've got the good stuff."
Their footsteps moved across the boardroom floor, slow, casual. Then Laura again, voice softer now.
"Yeah, well... you're spoiling me."
A silence stretched between them, charged and too familiar.
"That's the idea," James said, his voice low. "You'll need spoiling soon. When you're CEO, you won't have time for espresso drama."
My breath caught. CEO?
She laughed, quiet, tired. There was a rustle. Maybe him brushing her hair back. Maybe her stepping closer. She lowered her voice and sighed:
"I'm tired of acting, James."
My father's voice came back smooth, measured. Controlled, "We need time," he said. "You know that."
She didn't respond right away. And when she did, it was quieter, but sharp. Bitterness wrapped in silk.
"But I can't stand it. Every time I have to act like I care for him, it feels like I'm stabbing you in the back. It's like I'm betraying everything we've been through, pretending to be his."
Something inside me twisted. I felt my breath falter, caught somewhere between rage and disbelief. There was a silence then, so dense and absolute it felt like a vacuum, pulling the air straight from my lungs. The buzz of the office outside faded. The world reduced to this glass door and the two people behind it. James finally spoke, and his voice had shifted. Lower now. Unmistakably cold.
"That's the point love, we need Thomas, for now."
Love. For now.The words landed like a punch.
Then, I heard movement. A hush of fabric. A pause. And somethingintimate. A sound I couldn't immediately place, but one I understood in my gut. A touch. A kiss. Maybe more. Something I was never supposed to hear. Never supposed toknow.
"After Portugal," he murmured, his tone heavy with promise, "we'll take care of everything."
I stood frozen outside the boardroom, pulse pounding in my ears, the filtered office light suddenly too bright, the air too thin. I felt like the floor had just tilted under me. I backed away from the door like it had burned me. My mind went blank, but my chest filled with something sour, something old and heavy.
Shame. Hurt. Fury.
All my life, I'd been chasing a man who never once looked back. Every decision I made, the grades I fought for, the internships I killed myself over, the tailored suits, the measured words, the late nights trying to prove I belonged in rooms he built, all of it had been an offering. A desperate attempt to be seen. To matter.
I told myself he was hard on me because he saw something in me. That the silence wasn't indifference, but pressure , the kind that turns coal into diamond. I believed the bar he set so high was proof that he believed I could reach it.
But that was a lie. A pretty one. A survival tactic. Because the truth hit harder, quieter. None of it had ever been about me. It had been about the version of me that fit his blueprint — the obedient son, the heir with clean hands, the puppet who didn't realize he had strings.
Everything was a stage. A script I hadn't written, rehearsed without knowing I was in the play. All those father-son moments I'd stored like treasures — the rare praise, the grudging nods, the quiet approval when I echoed his opinions — none of it was real.
It wasn't love. It wasn't pride. It was control. And now, looking back, I couldn't tell which moments had ever been mine. Whichchoices were truly mine. If any of them were. Because when you spend your whole life performing for someone else's validation, it gets harder and harder to hear your own voice.
Harder still to believe it ever mattered. I walked out, numb. I should've confronted them. I should've screamed. But I didn't. I just kept walking, with their words still echoing in my head like poison, I can't stop asking myself:Why?Why the act? What do they stand to gain? Power? Control? Or was I just in the way?
God. I can't believe I jeopardized my marriage chasing his approval and craving her attention. Sacrificed late nights, weekends, anniversaries, all so I could be seen. So I could bechosen. I ignored the way my wife looked at me when I came home late again. I brushed off the concern in her voice when she asked about Laura, told her she was overthinking it, that it was all professional.
But I was a man starving for validation. And Laura, Laura was smart. She knew exactly when to lean close, when to laugh, when to ask questions that made me feelinterestingagain. Like I mattered. Like I wasn't just James's son, I wasmy own man.Except I wasn't. I was a prop. A pawn. A shield they used so no one would look too closely at them. And I let it happen.
