Chapter Ten: Emotions Were Just Distractions

Damien Blackwood

I pushed through the hotel’s revolving doors and into the sharp morning light, the city’s energy already humming around me like a well-oiled machine. There, at the curb, waited the familiar black sedan, polished to a mirror finish. Austin stood beside it, ever reliable, holding the rear door open with the quiet precision that defined him. He had been with me longer than most, a man in his mid-fifties whose calm demeanor and sharp mind had proven invaluable through countless crises. I gave him a brief nod and slid into the cool leather interior. The door shut with a solid, satisfying click, sealing off the outside world.

“Morning, sir,” Austin said as he pulled into traffic. “What about Chase?”

I settled back, adjusting my cufflinks. “He took the wrong keycard last night. Showed up late to the penthouse assignment. I put him in trash detail this morning—full cleanup, inventory, the works. He’ll be early from now on, or he won’t be working for me at all.”

Austin’s eyes met mine briefly in the rearview mirror. “Understood. He’s usually reliable before seven, coffee ready by six, head buried in documents. But mistakes add up if they’re ignored.”

He was right. At his age, Austin had seen enough of my operations to know I had zero tolerance for sloppiness. It was why he had outlasted younger, flashier assistants. He handed a slim leather folder over the console without another word. “The preliminary Tokyo merger papers. Legal flagged a few clauses, but they need your eyes before the board calls.”

I took the folder and spread the documents across my lap, the crisp pages a welcome anchor. My pen moved methodically as I scanned line after line of financial projections, risk assessments, and contractual language. The deal was solid—potentially transformative—but precision was everything. I circled a vague liability clause that could bite us later, making a mental note to have the team tighten it. Numbers didn’t lie. They didn’t demand anything beyond discipline and focus. Unlike people.

The low vibration of my phone interrupted the rhythm. I glanced at the screen: my father. Unusual for this hour. Calls before nine typically signaled trouble—market shifts, family pressures, or another round of his favorite lecture. I answered, keeping my tone even.

“Hello, Damien.”

“What is it?” I asked directly. No need for pleasantries when we both knew the script.

“Damien, I want you to live a happy life. Enjoy it to the fullest. You’re not getting any younger, son.”

“I am enjoying my life,” I replied, eyes still tracing figures on the page. The city blurred past the tinted windows—pedestrians rushing, lights changing, another day of controlled chaos.

He let out a weary chuckle. “How exactly? You’re a man cut from the same cloth as me. All that money you’re raking in—what are you doing with it? No vacations. No real rest. No woman to share any of it with. When was the last time you actually let yourself breathe?”

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. The faint ache in my shoulders from the previous night lingered, a reminder of soft skin, desperate moans, and a pair of wide eyes that had briefly pulled me off balance. Sophia Bennett had been an anomaly—intoxicated, insistent, unforgettable in the moment. But moments passed. “Why did you call, Father?”

Another pause, heavier this time. “I want you to have a child. Give me grandchildren of my own. Ten, if you’re ambitious. My friend Harlan just got his fifth grandchild last week, and I’m still sitting here with nothing. You could marry again. I know what happened with your wife, the accident, but it’s been years now—”

“Enough.” My voice cut through like steel. The memory of my late wife surfaced unbidden—her laugh, the way she had once made the world feel lighter—but I shoved it back into the locked compartment where it belonged. “If you continue this and have nothing else to say, I’ll end the call right now.”

“Okay, okay,” he conceded, though the frustration bled through. “Just think about it. Have a kid. Give me some grandchildren. That’s all I’m asking.”

I hung up without reply, the silence in the car returning like a balm. Austin said nothing, professional as always. I returned to the documents, circling another minor error in the revenue forecasts—a misplaced decimal that could have cost millions if overlooked. Small cracks became structural failures. I refused to allow them.

The car glided through downtown traffic, the rhythm of the city matching the steady beat of my own pulse. Work had always been my sanctuary. Building Blackwood Enterprises from the ground up had demanded every ounce of my focus, every sacrifice. Relationships were liabilities. Love was a distraction that clouded judgment and invited weakness. I had learned that lesson the hard way, watching my wife’s absence carve a hollow space I had since filled with steel and ambition. My father meant well, but he didn’t understand. He never had.

As the sedan approached the towering silhouette of Blackwood Tower, I felt the familiar pull of purpose. The building dominated the skyline, glass and steel reflecting the morning sun like a declaration of dominance. I stepped out onto the sidewalk, pausing to take it in fully—the empire I had forged through relentless discipline and unyielding control. My father had no idea. He didn’t know that it was this company making him the richest man in the world, quietly channeling wealth through layers of trusts and investments he barely questioned. He saw only the driven son who worked too hard and loved too little. He didn’t see the machine I had built to ensure none of us would ever want for anything again.

Emotions were just distractions.