CHAPTER 11

ELVIS

"A plaything?"

Donald asked the question with the kind of straight face that suggested he genuinely expected an answer.

A slow breath escaped through my nose.

"Finish your food."

That only made the grin spread wider across his face.

"I knew it."

"You know nothing."

"I know you've been behaving strangely, Dad." He leaned back in his chair, satisfied with himself. "First, the body paint. Now you're smiling at random moments. This is exactly how these things start."

I reached for my wine and said nothing.

"Donald."

"Yes, Dad?"

"You're annoying."

He laughed while hitting his chest.

For a moment, it dragged me back to when he was younger, before life found its way into the cracks of our once-happy family and made a home there.

He took a sip of wine, and when he looked at me again, the grin had softened.

"I think you should join the company, son." I set my glass down. "We need capable hands."

His eyebrows lifted. He was wrinkling his nose again, a habit I'd long since stopped trying to correct.

"Changing the topic," he said, "but that's okay, old man." He raised his glass in a small, mock toast. "I'll tag along tomorrow."

"Good."

"Let's see if I enjoy it here." A casual shrug. "If I don't, I'm going back to the States."

That sounded exactly like him. Always willing to walk away from anything that didn't serve him, a quality I'd never decided whether to admire or resent.

He slowly swirled the wine in his glass, and something shifted in his expression. I recognised it. The real reason he'd wanted to have dinner tonight.

A sharp click left my tongue.

"Your brother is fine."

He said nothing.

"If that's what you want to ask."

Still nothing.

"I haven't found it in me to forgive him."

He reached across the table and covered my hand with his.

"He was protecting Mum, Dad. It happened a long time ago."

I watched his face and understood what he didn't say, that he missed the family we used to be before betrayal found us

"Can you at least bring him back into the company? He's still your son. My only sibling."

I set my cutlery down carefully. The conversation was working on my nerves faster than I'd expected.

I unfolded my napkin, cleaned my mouth, swirled the glass, inhaled, and took a slow sip.

"Jarvis isn't competent."

Donald's jaw dropped.

I continued, keeping my voice level. "The last time he headed a department, you witnessed the crisis that followed."

"Dad."

"It's simple." I set the wine glass down with a quiet finality. "If he wants to return, he comes back as an intern."

Donald's eyes went wide. "An intern?"

"Then he can learn."

"Dad."

One raised hand ended the discussion. The same way it had ended countless boardroom arguments over the years. Donald recognized the gesture. He'd grown up watching it work.

He said nothing more.

The chair scraped softly against the floor as I stood.

"Goodnight."

Upstairs, the room was quiet. The bedside lamp cast a faint amber glow, and my phone sat beside it, screen dark.

I had barely settled against the headboard when the screen lit up.

A message from Hazel.

For reasons I chose not to examine closely, my pulse picked up speed before I'd even opened it.

“Wanted to say thank you for today, sir. Amazingly enough, it feels good working with you. Also, you're very easy to look at. God did a thing with your face”

Goodnight.

Hazel.

I read it once, then again. Then a third time, as though the words might rearrange themselves into something less disarming on the next pass.

Easy to look at.

A soft, involuntary sound escaped from somewhere near my left cheek. Not quite a laugh. Something smaller than that.

I set the phone down and, somehow, became aware of the mirror across the room.

For decades, people had remarked on my appearance. Colleagues, journalists, women at galas who held eye contact a moment too long. The comments had never landed, registered anything more than noise.

So why was this one sentence, sent at night, from a girl who'd spent the day eating carnival food and complaining about cramps, sitting in my chest like that?

My hand moved through my hair before I realized it was moving.

"This is madness."

Wear those often, sir. You look so good in them.

I picked up the phone and dialled before I could talk myself out of it.

My personal shopper answered on the second ring.

Personal Shopper: Good evening, sir.

Me: I need new clothes.

Him: What kind, sir?

Me:!Casual.

Him: Causal?

The word did feel strange in my mouth. I pressed on. "Shirts, sneakers, trousers."

"Something wrong?" I asked.

"No, sir." Another pause. "It's just, I don't believe I've ever heard you say the word sneakers."

"I don't pay you to ask questions."

"Of course not, sir."

"I pay you to get things delivered."

"Understood."

"I'll need something for tomorrow morning."

"It will be done."

The call ended.

"What exactly is wrong with you, Elvis?"

The mirror offered nothing useful in response.

The following morning arrived with confusion as its opening act.

Peter nearly dropped his coffee.

My son’s mouth opened to a width that, under other circumstances, might have warranted medical attention.

Neither man spoke for a full, excruciating moment.

Which was concerning.

The white sneakers already felt ridiculous. I was aware of them with every step.

The loose navy trousers, the white shirt. The tie loosened by a full inch, and even the watch was different.

Donald recovered first.

"Okay."

"Where's my father?"

Peter's eyes were making a slow, disbelieving journey from my feet to my face. "Good morning, sir." He swallowed. "For a second, I thought Jarvis had walked in."

That earned him a sharp glare.

Donald looked genuinely horrified. "First, the body paint." He pointed. "Now this." Another point. "Who are you?"

The embarrassment had officially become unbearable.

"I wanted to try something different." My voice came out flatter.

Neither man looked remotely convinced.

"Let's go."

The conversation ended there.

Unfortunately, the office was not much better.

Employees kept staring, quick glances, barely concealed, followed by double-takes and immediate, studious avoidance the moment I looked in their direction.

Nobody said a word. Fear, as always, remained a more reliable motivator than curiosity.

Donald disappeared shortly after we arrived, apparently for an urgent phone call that required his immediate and total attention.

I suspected the call had more to do with the sneakers than any business emergency, but I let him go.

Already in my office, the laptop was open to nothing useful.

A knock at the door.

My heart did something it had absolutely no business doing: it beat very fast.

"Come in."

The disappointment arrived before Anna had fully crossed the threshold.

"Good morning, sir."

The question left my mouth before I could stop it. "Where's Hazel?"

Anna blinked. The question had surprised her. Fair enough, it had surprised me too.

"Shouldn't she be here reviewing my itinerary?"

"Oh." Understanding moved across her face. "She called in sick."

"I'll fill in for her today."

Sick.

Perhaps it was the food from the carnival, the long hours on her feet or the cramp she'd mentioned.

"Sir?"

I came back to the room. "Fine. I'll call you when needed."

She left.

The office returned to its silence.

A notification appeared on the phone. Donald.

Sorry, Dad. Have to leave now. Something urgent came up. Reschedule the meeting.

I replied: Okay. Be safe.

My mind drifted, as it had been drifting all morning, back to one direction: Hazel.

The chair rolled back slightly.

Staff welfare matters. A good employer checks on their people when they're unwell. That is all this is, nothing beyond that.

A phone call wouldn't hurt.