I’m supposed to sit obediently in his office chair. Let the leather stick to my skin uncomfortably while he looks down at me and criticizes everything I do. He affords me no love, despite being my dad, and I’m supposed to accept it.
Before he can make his way to me, I shoot out of my seat. My legs twitch to move and head for the door, but I’m not quick enough. He’s already standing toe-to-toe with me before I make an escape.
But looking at him like this is different. I always saw my father as a large, looming presence in life—both in office rooms and away from his colleagues. He’d look down on Billie and I in every sense.
I’m taller than him. I’ve never realized it, but right now his head is turned up to stare at me, and he feels smaller than before.
“Sit down, Locke. I’m not done talking to you. You were so unprofessional and disrespectful in that video. Do you know who that young man was?”
“I don’t care.”
He could say Jeremiah is my long-lost grandfather and I couldn’t care less. He got what was coming. In fact, I’d argue I went easy on the prick.
My father scoffs again and I scrunch my nose.
“Jeremiah Hastings. His father holds a high-ranking position in one of our subsidiaries, Locke.”
The blur of anger is dissipating, and my body is falling back into what it’s accustomed to. Being afraid of my father, and wanting nothing more than to keep him happy, because I don’t know anything else.
Falling into the act of his son is what I know best. I don’t want to admit that it’d be the easiest thing for me to do right now.
Desperately, I reignite anger.
I think of Grant’s face when my father forced him to sit at the dinner table with us, insensitive to how much grieving he must’ve been going through. I think of my little sister, and how much time we spent together growing up, because neither of our parents could be bothered, and we were each other’s only company.
I think of Rosalie. I think of her resilience, how much she inspires me with her passion, and how lucky I am to witness such an amazing woman prosper. More than anything, I think about how many times she gets pushed down by industry politics, and how she always gets back up.
If she can face those things head-on, then I can wiggle my way out of my father’s grasp. I’m more than his son. I need to remember that.
“Are you listening to me?”
His commanding voice triggers a part of me I want to die out so badly. Instinctively, I reply, “Yes.”
My hand readjusts my glasses. Shaking, I barely sit them back on the bridge of my nose.
I know what I should say to him. It’s on the tip of my tongue.
Grant. Billie. Rosie.
One hand squeezes the side of my thigh, and the other rearranges my glasses again.
There’s a stretch of silence before his mouth starts to tip. He chuckles, and part of me dies inside.
“I don’t know what high and mighty shit you’re on right now, but get off it. You’re my son. Start acting like it.”
He scoffs for a third time. In my face, it doesn’t sound audacious or shocked. It’s cocky and ever-knowing. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.
Dad smiles, full teeth.
Old habits die hard.
“I don’t care what you do with your life, Locke.” He moves out of my space but I still feel suffocated. I want out of this officenow. “So long as it has no effect on me, I don’t care. But when you’re in public, or using my name, or my money…” There’s an emotion in his voice that he’s never gifted me. “You remember you’re my son. You act with me in mind, and you remind yourself that at the end of the day, your responsibility is to be what I need you to be. The next in line for VK Corp. Got it?”
Everything’s shaking. My vision, my resolve, my heart. How cruel is it to be nothing to your father but a chess piece for him, only to be played when he sees value, and never for anything else?
To him, I’ll never be a person or a manifestation of love between two parents. Just a backup plan he needs ready if—when—things with Vaughn go south.
It’s the most miserable feeling in the world, and I just want out. Anything to get away from him and to people who understand me.
