My spine went rigid. The school? Something happened to Olei? I grabbed the phone.
"Talk."
The person on the other end was clearly rattled by my tone—a trembling female voice. "Is this... Mr. Thorne? This is Olei's teacher. Olei has a fever. His temperature's pretty high. We need a parent to pick him up."
"I'm on my way." No discussion.
I hung up and grabbed my jacket off the chair.
"Get the car," I barked into the intercom. "Push back the meeting. If those old bastards have a problem, tell them to take it up with my gun."
These six years, I'd been a terrible father, but my protectiveness over Olei bordered on pathological. Olei rarely got sick. He'd always been healthy. This sudden fever stirred something in me I couldn't name.
Half an hour later, my car pulled up to the school. Olei stood there holding his teacher's hand, his little face flushed red.
"Dad." Olei smiled when he saw me.
I scooped him up. His body was burning.
"Olei was already running a fever when he got to school this morning," the teacher said. "The nurse gave him medicine and told him to go home and rest. But he insisted on staying through two classes."
"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" I looked at Olei, my tone sharp.
Olei shrank. "I thought the medicine would make it better."
Damn it. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to calm down.
"We're going home."
In the car, Olei dozed off in my arms. I looked at his pale face, something twisting inside me. He was only six. He should be growing up carefree, not afraid to tell me when he was sick.
Because he was scared of me. I'd always known. I thought I could give Olei the best of everything with power and money, but I forgot what he needed most—a father who'd laugh with him, hug him, tell him it was okay.
I wanted to be a normal dad, talk to him like one. But my brain only had room for territory disputes and interrogation techniques. Six years of killing had turned me into a monster.
Back at the manor, the family doctor examined Olei—just a common cold causing the fever. He gave me cooling patches. I pressed one to Olei's forehead and sat by the bed, monitoring his temperature.
One hour. Two hours. Three hours. The temperature dropped a little, then spiked again. My heart rose and fell with those numbers, more tense than any business deal.
At three in the morning, Olei's eyes fluttered open.
"Dad?" His voice was tiny, surprised. "You're still here?"
"Yeah." My voice was dry. "Feeling better?"
He looked at my face, like he was trying to figure out what answer would satisfy me. My heart felt like it was being pricked with needles.
"A lot better. You should go to bed, too, Dad. I'm fine." His voice was small.
I wanted to say something, tell him he didn't have to be so good, that he could act spoiled, throw a tantrum, be like other kids.
But what came out was, "How's school been lately? Anything going on?"
Olei blinked, like he hadn't expected me to ask. He thought for a moment, then started answering like he was giving a report. "I got an A on the math quiz last week. I came in third in the race in gym class the other day."
"Good." After a long pause, I managed the word.
"And..." Olei relaxed a little, his tone turning more animated. "Our art teacher is out on leave because she's having a baby. We're getting a new teacher soon. Everyone's talking about it."
