Charles

The polished glass walls of the conference room reflect the black sky outside as I go in. The metropolis spreads out below me, big, never-ending, and full of ambition. But everything is in control in here. 

Charles Thorne is at the head of the table. His keen blue eyes scan the room like a hawk, and every word he says is carefully thought out. The CEO of Thorne Enterprises, who is notorious for being cold and cruel, is giving a speech. As he talks about the company's new business plan, his voice is low, steady, and dominating. 

"Numbers don't lie," he continues, never taking his eyes off the investors at the table. "This is where we are." This is where we need to go. "Not a single compromise." 

His voice is cold and precise; there's no room for emotion. Charles made everyone in this room come here. He conducts his life like he runs his business: efficiently, with discipline, and no room for weakness. 

I move around in my seat to view him. His tailored dark suit fits him perfectly, and the little shine on his cufflinks catches the light. He is very tall, perhaps too tall, and his broad shoulders make him look strong both physically and mentally. His jaw is sharp, and his hair is dark but starting to turn silver at the temples. The kind of silver that makes you look more sophisticated, not older. 

It's hard not to be sidetracked by how he moves when I'm trying to pay attention to the presentation. Every move he makes has a silent power, like if he controls everything around him, and I detest how magnetic it is. 

"Any questions?" Charles asks, his eyes darting around the room and meeting each person's stare with a penetrating intensity. The room is quiet. No one is brave enough to stand up to him. 

"Good. He says, "Let's go," without waiting for anyone to say anything. His voice is as serene as the water before a storm. 

As soon as the meeting is over, I get up to leave, but Charles looks at me and stops me. 

He tells his assistant, "Adrianna, come to my office for a quick chat." 

I nod and go outside with the others, but I can't stop thinking. Charles is a mystery, even if he is strong. That face doesn't have any warmth or gentleness. Just math. It's no surprise; that's how he established his business. 

The call comes in when I'm seated at my work, which shakes up my evening routine. I look at the phone, but I already know who it is. 

I say, "Hello, Father," in a dull voice. 

"Charles," my dad says, his voice loud over the phone. "I see you're still not answering my calls." 

"Father, I'm busy." You know what I mean. I try to keep my voice calm, but I can't help it. The man knows how to get on my nerves, especially when he keeps asking me for things. 

He snaps, "You're not too busy to listen to me." "I still expect you to take care of the family's legacy." You aren't getting any younger, and I need to know that you mean business when it comes to your future. 

The words are common: business, duty, and tradition. Everything he's been preparing me for since I was a kid. But what's the truth? I don't care what he wants anymore. Even if he doesn't view it that way, my life is mine. 

"I've got everything under control." I don't need your advise anymore. 

"I hope you get married soon." Charles, it's time to start a family. We talked about this before. The way he talks makes it sound like a threat. I can hear the pressure that isn't being said. 

The bitterness builds in my throat, but I hold it back. "I don't need a wife to make sure this company has a good future, Father." 

No one is talking on the other end. Then, "You'll find out soon enough." 

I hang up, and the usual weight of my father's expectations crushes me. I lean back in my chair and look out at the city below. The penthouse is frigid, spotless, and a fortress of glass and steel, yet it feels more like a jail every day. I understand what he wants. He wants me to marry him for commercial reasons, to make sure I have a place in his world. But I won't let it hold me back. 

I look over at my phone and see that I have a new message. 

This tweet is from Jackson. The one he posted earlier today, which was quite desperate and raw: "Need a place to stay." Will provide anything in return. 

I shouldn't care. But something about those words makes me pay attention. Something about the need and the rawness. It makes me feel something. It might be curiosity. It could be more than that. But we don't have time to waste on inquiries. 

I stood in my penthouse, looking out at the city lights that look like stars far away. The sky is gloomy, and the air is thick with things that need to be said. I sit down in the living room and think about Jackson again. 

I tell myself that it's nothing. A tweet. Just a kid asking for aid. It's not my problem. But I can't stop my mind from straying. Control and getting what I want have been the building blocks of my life. But I've never been this desperate for someone before. I click on the tweet again. 

"Need a place to stay." Will provide anything in return. 

I read the lines again, my fingers hanging over the computer, and I couldn't shake the feeling of doubt that was eating away at me. I don't know why I'm even thinking about this, but I can't help it. 

I shout out, "Adrianna," and my voice breaks the silence. She walks into the room, and her piercing eyes already know what I need. 

"Have you done any research on Jackson Stroud?" I ask, my voice firm even though my chest feels like it's being pulled. 

Her eyes blink as she thinks. "The person who sent the tweet?" 

I agree. "Yes. Learn everything. And I mean everything. 

"Of course, sir," she responds in a professional tone, but there's something in her gaze that makes me feel uneasy. She knows me too well. 

She leaves, leaving me alone with my thoughts. 

I stroll to the big window and look out at the skyline. It's been a long day, yet my mind is still racing with thoughts about Jackson. 

I have everything under control. I usually do. But Jackson's tweet bothers me like an itch I can't scratch. 

I don't want to care. But I do. And it makes me scared. 

I can't put my finger on it, but I feel drawn to him. Not in the same manner I've been attracted to women in the past. This is different. I can relate to what he says. Maybe it's because I'm desperate. It could be the truthfulness. Something about the way he says things hits a part of me that I've buried deep. 

The abrupt ringing of my phone pulls me back to the present. Adrianna sent you a message. 

"Jackson Stroud. 28 years old. His family cut him off after he came out. Living in an apartment with affordable rent. No more family ties. "Desperate." 

I stare at the screen for a long time, thinking about it. The weight of his predicament sinks in, and for some reason, it feels more genuine than I want to admit. 

I take a big breath and make up my mind. 

I pick up my phone and call the number I chose. I call the number that was in the tweet. Before I hit call, my thumb stops on the screen. 

The phone rings once. Two times. And then it starts to pick up. 

"Hey?" 

His voice is out of breath. Young. Sleepy. But there is a sharpness to it. A calm strength that surprises me. 

"Jackson?" I say, in a quiet voice. 

"Yes?" He sounds careful. Perhaps a little scared. 

"I saw your tweet," I say, not sure what I'm getting into. "I can give you a place to stay." "Only if." 

There is a long break. I can practically hear him hesitate, the same hesitation that is slowly creeping into my chest. 

He says, "What kind of condition?" The words are sharp but yet weak. 

I took a breath. "See you tomorrow." We'll go over the details. 

After the phone call, I stare at the screen, not sure what I've just done. 

I don't know why I made the offer. But there was something about Jackson... something about his voice and how desperate he seemed that shook me. 

I don't know where this is headed. I don't know how much I'm willing to do.

But I'm ready to find out for the first time in a long time.