Page 10 of Four Stepbrothers for Christmas

"Total control is an illusion," read the handwritten note, a lesson I learned the hard way years ago.

Maybe that was just it. Maybe I couldn’t control how Becca made me feel, any more than I could control the tides or the phases of the moon. For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to consider the possibility of something outside the realm of spreadsheets and five-year plans.

However, what Icouldcontrol were my actions. I could let my attraction to Becca stay locked away in my mind, the secret never to escape.

Taking a deep breath, I reached for the glass of scotch Vinnie had poured earlier, relishing the smooth burn as it glided down my throat. The rich, oaky flavors settled in, and for a moment, my mind cleared.

Focus, I reminded myself, focus.

Work didn't pause just because I decided to take a break, a reality I accepted long ago. FourSight wasn't just a business; it was my life's work, my brainchild. Luke, Archer, Vinnie, and I had built it into a billion-dollar enterprise, but that sort of success didn’t maintain itself. One doesn't get to the top by accident, and staying there required a constant, vigilant effort.

Vacation or not, I’d committed to spending a chunk of each day handling work affairs. Calls, emails, reviewing reports like the damn marketing one I can't seem to get past today—all part of the grind. After all, the empire wouldn't run itself, and neither would the various departments we each headed.

I set the glass down, its weight echoing my thoughts. There was a sense of responsibility that came with being at the helm of a company like FourSight. It was like a child that needed to be nurtured and guarded. And just as a parent would never completely neglect their child, even for a holiday, I couldn’t fully step away from the company.

I gazed at the report again, forcing my eyes to process the graphs, the numbers, the bullet points. This time, they began making sense, aligning themselves into the coherent analysis they were meant to be. Satisfied, I started making notes, mentally strategizing the next quarter's approach.

As my pen danced across the paper, a fragment of laughter pierced through the closed door—a light, melodious sound that, for a second, made me pause and look up. Becca. The momentary distraction didn't last long, but it was enough, enough to remind me that while my commitment to my business was unyielding, life had its own plans, its own distractions, its own unpredictability. And as much as I'd like to think otherwise, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

Consciously, I returned to the report, but in the back of my mind, a small compartment opened, reserved for the possibility of something new, something unexpected. As I immersed myself into the world of market trends and revenue streams, it was this small, untouched compartment that kept me grounded, that kept me human. And in a life dictated by figures and bottom lines, that small fragment of potential seemed more valuable than ever.

The door creaked open, and before I even looked up, a waft of some heavenly aroma filled the room. It was Becca, standing at the threshold, looking as if she had just walked out of a culinary magazine. "Dinner's about ready," she announced softly.

She paused, her eyes meeting mine, a puzzled expression shaping her face. "What’s up? You look like you’ve got other things on your mind than food.”

If only she knew.

"Working," I replied curtly, not willing to admit the focus I usually had in spades seemed to be diluted today.

She took a few steps closer, her footfalls softly thudding against the hardwood floor, and the scent of whatever culinary magic she had cooked enveloping her, enveloping the room. "You do know you're on vacation, right?"

A sardonic laugh escaped my lips. "Vacation is a state of mind, Becca, one that most CEOs can't afford."

She walked up to the desk, placing her hands on her hips, and I swear my heart missed a beat. "Isaac, I see you at work, you know. You're usually there long after I've served dinner. You're always the last to leave, hunched over your desk like some sort of workaholic hermit."

For a moment, I was caught off guard. Her keen observation wrapped in a light, teasing tone sliced through the self-imposed boundary I had built around myself. The boundary that allowed me to live a life of numbers, graphs, and never-ending emails.

"Yeah, well, you don't build a billion-dollar company by clocking out at five," I retorted, although her words had already found their mark, pricking at the bubble of invulnerability I liked to think I had built.

"I get that," she said, her voice softening. "But Isaac, even CEOs need to eat. And relax. And maybe even enjoy a week away from the grind."

I looked into her eyes, and for a moment, I saw an understanding, a depth that went beyond the simple mechanics of employer and employee. It was unsettling and comforting at the same time, a contradiction I couldn't quite reconcile.

Sighing, I closed the laptop, suddenly aware of how ridiculous it was to be locked up in a room while surrounded by the beauty of nature, the promise of good food, and the company of people who, whether I liked it or not, made my life richer.

"Alright, Chef," I said, standing up. "Let's go see what you've whipped up."

As we walked out of the room, I felt a strange sense of liberation. Maybe it was the mountains, maybe it was the break from routine, or maybe it was just Becca's candid words. Whatever it was, for the first time in a long while, the weight of my responsibilities felt a little lighter.

As we left the office, my footsteps fell in sync with Becca's, filling the space with an audible, rhythmic tension. It felt like the prelude to something unspoken, a gathering storm of words and possibilities neither of us could entirely articulate.

"You're really familiar with my habits, aren't you?" I finally said, breaking the silence but not the tension that had been steadily mounting between us.

"I know you stay up all hours of the night, practically live on that leather couch in your office, and use the executive bathroom to look somewhat human in the morning," she replied, a hint of concern tinging her voice. "Isaac, it's not healthy. No matter how much responsibility you carry, you need to take breaks. Otherwise, you'll break down, and what good will that do anyone, including you?"

Her words hit me like a shot of scotch—sharp, warm, and unexpectedly soothing. And it genuinely surprised me how much she seemed to care. "You're concerned about my health?" I asked, trying to mask the confusion and wonderment starting to well up inside me.

She stopped, turned to look at me, and smiled—a smile that was part empathy, part mystery. "Someone has to tell you these things, Isaac, or you're going to work yourself into an early grave. Or a heart attack."

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