6: What’s Left of Him

|| Slade ||

It had been six painful years without Rachel, and when I lost her, she took a part of me with her. She didn’t just take my future; she took my ability to feel anything beyond cold, relentless ambition.

Life moved on; my life moved on, but my soul didn’t. It stayed frozen in that apartment. Not once have I stopped blaming myself for leaving her—for choosing that trip to save my family’s company.

Because that’s exactly what I did. My family’s company was failing, and I had to save it—and I did. For the past six years, I’ve used the pain of losing the only woman I’ll ever love to fuel my expansion, growing the company into one of the wealthiest in the world. Every new billion-dollar deal became another cold, empty monument to her absence.

But no one ever replaced Rachel at the office as my secretary. I keep firing them, just like no one ever replaced her in my life.

Because, just like always, everything is on my fucking shoulders. That’s what I was born for — to carry the weight of the Pierce legacy. I wasn’t allowed to be a kid; I was an heir, groomed from the cradle to fix the mistakes my father made.

If I wasn’t at the top of my class or securing the biggest deal, I was a failure. My father taught me love was transactional, only given when I performed. He didn’t raise a son; he forged a weapon. And now I have to visit the old man who thinks he knows more than any doctor in the world.

I dressed and walked downstairs. As I reached the ground floor of my mansion, I could smell something good—something baking. That was odd because I live alone, and my housekeeper has taken two days off.

I entered the dining room, and there was my so-called fiancée in an apron, arranging breakfast on the table. My family forced her on me to save the damn company, but now that I’ve proven I can do it myself, I have a talk waiting for my old folks.

​"What are you doing here?" I asked.

She turned back, her shoulders hitching slightly, a flicker of vulnerability passing through her eyes before she hid it away.

​"Good morning. Why don't you come have breakfast with me?" Samantha said.

I walked toward her. "What are you doing here?" I asked again.

​"Beatrice told me you’re alone and have no one to take care of you, so I thought since I’m your fiancée…" she said. "I know our families arranged this engagement, but we need to spend time together to get to know each other."

I sighed. Of course my mother can’t stop putting her nose in my life and just let me live for once. "Samantha, I know you."

​"You only know I'm a world-renowned fashion designer, but you don't know the real me," she said with a soft smile.

​"Do I have to?"

​She nodded.

​"Sam, right now I need to go visit Jacob, and you know how far the hospital is from here."

​"I know. We can go and visit him together. Take flowers."

​"No, I need to see him alone. We have a lot to talk about. Maybe if you have the time, you can… go alone," I said, emphasizing alone.

​"Fine. But please, just stay and eat something. I put all my love and effort into making you breakfast," she said.

​"Fine," I replied and went to sit down as she smiled and took off her apron.

​"When will you ever stop wearing all black? Start wearing some color. Maybe a white shirt underneath, and maybe a tie…" she said, her eyes tracing over my dark suit.

When I stopped mourning, I thought bitterly. When the world stops reminding me that everything I touch turns to ash. When I finally feel clean again.

We had breakfast, and then I left for the hospital. Even though my driver took me there, it felt like a century of mounting tension before we arrived. The hospital greeted me with sterile lighting and the low hum of machines — a constant, mechanical reminder that life here depended more on wires and electricity than on hope.

The only reason I was sacrificing my time for this was because the hospital is the best, and Rick Gordon, one of the top neurosurgeons in the country, might be the only one capable of managing my father’s case.

His condition is a rare, aggressive form of neurological degeneration.

​"Why are you so damn stubborn, Jacob?" I said, dropping into the chair next to his bed.

​"Because all the doctors here, especially that Rick, are after my life and money. They can't help me, son, but you—you're a Pierce. You can find someone better. You can buy the cure."

​"Where's your wife?" I asked, bypassing his absurdity.

"With her lover," he said with a shrug. He was lying on the bed, looking so frail—nothing like the imposing man I once knew.

The man who once held my family together with iron pride now looked like he could barely hold his own body upright. Maybe that’s why my mother finally stopped pretending.

My parents have been having more problems than ever before, and this time they’ve even mentioned divorce, not just a separation. This instability, after decades of maintaining a picture-perfect façade, was the ultimate irony of our family name.

​"You can't accuse your wife of infidelity, especially if you are not sure," I said.

​"You think I'm not sure? Why don't you fucking ask her yourself, you rascal? And that's why, if this divorce happens, I'm coming to stay with you."

​"No," I blurted out. "Old man, I’m sorry to burst your ego, but you’re not going to live with me. If you and Beatrice get the divorce you both want, then I’ll find the best home for you—with the best people to take care of you. A place where you can be treated like a king without demanding that I be your warden."

​"You must be fucking joking."

​"No, I’m not. I’m not dealing with you, just like you never dealt with me," I said, catching myself before he could give his usual 'I did it for you' excuse.

The door opened. A boy appeared in the doorway; he looked about four or five—I was never good at guessing children’s ages.

​"Oh, hey, son," I said, a strange softness creeping into my tone. I crouched to his height as he walked toward me. When his amber eyes met mine, a powerful, inexplicable current passed between us.

​"What are you doing here? What's your name? Where's your mum?" I asked.

​He rubbed his nose. "Finn. And have you seen my mother?"

​"No... why don't I help you look for her?"

​"And leave me alone here to look for some chick..." Jacob sneered from the bed.

I threw him a look, my gaze making it clear he’d crossed a line as I stood up.

The door opened wider, and Rick Gordon walked in with a chart. He had come early and left to review some tests when I arrived.

The boy walked straight to him.

"Finn, what are you doing here?" Rick asked, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder.

​"Do you know him?" I asked, completely blindsided.

​"Yes, he's my boy," Rick replied. Even though the boy looked nothing like him, with his dark hair and amber eyes, he looked more like....