“Alexander.”
My father answers on the second ring. There’s no greeting. Just acknowledgment and annoyance, which means he already knows what’s happened. Fucking perfect.
My jaw tightens. “You heard.”
There’s a pause, followed by an exasperated sigh on the other end of the line, like he’s counting down from ten before responding.
“I heard you threatened production with legal action on a televised competition,” Chet says, too calm for comfort.
I crack my knuckles one by one.
“I didn’t threaten anyone.” The accusation needles under my skin. “I set a boundary.”
I exhale sharp through my nose, familiar frustration creeping up my throat. Every conversation with my father makes me feel like I’m seventeen again instead of a grown man capable of making his own choices.
“They crossed a line. They’re sabotaging—”
“You are not there to manage production ethics.” His voice sharpens. “Get in your lane, son. Your purpose there is bigger than being a regular contestant.”
Don’t I know it. I’ve been a piece on a board since the moment my father decided to send me on the show.
“You chose this, now get it done.”
“No,” I say, more firmly this time. “You forced me to come here. You threatened to pull funding fromNorthern Flameif I didn’t.”
There’s another brief pause on the other end of the line, the kind that isn’t hesitation so much as recalibration.
“You agreed,” he replies. “Which means you chose the exposure and the visibility that come with it.”
“I agreed because you backed me into a corner,” I push back, my grip tightening around the phone. “If I didn’t come, you walk, and the restaurant I’ve spent the last year building disappears with you. That’s not a choice—that’s leverage.”
“You’re choosing to frame it that way,” he says calmly. “I presented you with an opportunity. You should be grateful.”
A quiet, humorless breath escapes me. “A threat dressed up as an opportunity is still a threat,Chet.”
My father sighs over the line, I know the conversation is all but finished by the tone.
“You don’t get to forget who you are.”
My eyes close.
“I’m not trying to forget,” I say, quieter now. “I just wanted something that was mine. Something I did without it being… this.”
“And I allowed that,” he replies. “Because there was strategic value in your participation.”
Of course, because everything I do has to serve his dream, not mine. Because everything I have, I owe to him. Being his son is both a blessing and a cage.
“I know why I’m here.”
“Then act like it.” His voice hardens again before softening, just slightly. “Don’t let distractions cost you something meaningful in the end.”
The line goes dead.
As if he were standing right outside the tent—Julian steps in. He studies me for half a second, before pressing his lips into a straight line.
“How bad was it?”
I huff a quiet breath. “Predictable.”
