Ch67 - Only son

Josef was halfway through shaving a Tête-de-Moine into delicate little rosettes for dinner when the sudden banging at the front door echoed through the house. He frowned, and walked out from the kitchen.

For God’s sake—who the hell comes at this hour?

“GRANDPA! It’s Matteo—open up!” a young male voice yelled from outside.

Josef’s expression soured even further. Figures.

He marched to the door. “What are you doing here? Weren’t you going out with your friends? Go on then. I’m not expecting you.”

Matteo hesitated. “Grandpa, I’m not going. I’m staying here with you for Christmas. Open the door.”

“Not happening.” Josef’s tone didn’t budge an inch. “I’ve got guests. There’s no room for you. And I don’t need company.”

Matteo panicked when he heard Josef’s retreating steps. He pounded harder. “N–NO, wait! It’s not just me—Mom and Dad are here too!”

Josef’s footsteps froze.

A moment later, the door swung open.

Three smiling faces greeted him in unison—a middle-aged couple and a young man in his twenties. At first glance, their smiles looked warm; look closer, and they seemed plastered on… tinged with flattery.

Josef still held the small knife in his hand like he was ready to use it.

“Dad,” the older man tried gently.

No reaction. He tried again, “Are you… still mad at us? I know you heard some things, but it’s all a misunderstanding. Just give us a chance to explain. I—”

“Laurent,” Josef cut him off instantly. “If you’ve got nothing worthwhile to say, get lost.”

He started swinging the door shut.

Claire—Laurent’s elegant, impeccably dressed wife, quickly slipped a hand in to stop it. 

Her voice was soft, placating. “Laurent was wrong last time. He shouldn’t have brought up the inheritance. He just… cares about you. It came out wrong. Could you at least give him a chance to apologize properly?”

Josef let out a cold snort. “Cares about me? Or my money? You think I’m old and senile? That I can’t tell the difference between sincerity and bullshit? Everything you think is written right across your foreheads.”

“DAD, that’s too much.” Laurent’s voice tightened. “I’m your only son, and you’ve never once acknowledged me as your successor. Do you know how people laugh at me out there? I’m just worried about the company’s future. How can you twist my intentions like that—”

He cut himself short the moment Claire tugged sharply on his coat. One glance at Josef’s expression was black as coal—and he shut up instantly.

He’d stepped right on a landmine. Especially the phrase “your only son.” Josef hated hearing that more than anything.

Because Josef didn’t only have a son—he had once had a daughter too. And even though she was gone, her place in his heart had never faded. Laurent’s phrasing—I’m your only remaining child—felt like a slap, a reminder, and a threat all in one.

To Josef, it wasn’t concern. It was pressure. And disrespect. And he was two words away from kicking them all back out the door.

“YOU really think you’re qualified to inherit the company? Or is it just the surname—you assume that makes everything yours by default?”

Josef’s voice was sharp, forceful, and utterly unforgiving. “Let me remind you: every inch of this workshop and this business is my life’s work. I won’t let it fall into the hands of someone who doesn’t understand it.”

Laurent’s jaw tightened. Being dressed down like this—right to his face—made his pride burn. He turned his head aside, feeling wronged, feeling humiliated, feeling that his father was impossibly stubborn. He’d come all this way, and yet Josef hadn’t offered him a single shred of courtesy, just that cold, stony face from beginning to end.

Claire’s hand was still tugging lightly at his coat hem, keeping him in check, reminding him why they were here at all. But the more he thought about it, the more the words forced themselves out.

“I trained under you since I was a boy,” Laurent muttered, frustration spilling through. “HOW could you say I’d ruin anything? You could show me a bit of trust.”

Josef let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Three days of work, two days of slacking, and you dare talk to me about effort? Talent doesn’t matter—anyone can improve if they actually put their mind to it.”

“BUT YOU?” His voice sharpened.

“You finish a piece and the moment it’s sold, you wash your hands of it. No responsibility, no pride. Do you have any idea how many disasters I’ve cleaned up for you over the years? Do you have the slightest sense of shame? At your age?”

It was merciless.

And every word was true.

Laurent had left the family brand before, starting his own workshop, hanging Josef’s name over the door to attract clients. But he cut corners, ignored quality, and eventually got buried under refunds and complaints. 

When his studio collapsed, he crawled back to Josef’s company, working an ordinary development job he resented. He believed he was being “underused.” Josef simply believed he was unreliable.

Now, with Josef pointing out every failure, Laurent’s face reddened then paled, then reddened again. He turned his head and stayed silent.

The others exchanged stiff, awkward glances.

Claire swallowed and forced herself forward. Even she seemed rattled by Josef’s anger, but backing down wasn’t an option. She forced a conciliatory smile.

“Well… since the family’s all here, maybe we shouldn’t talk about such heavy topics anymore.”

She tried again, gentler this time.

“Josef, we drove straight from Geneva today. None of us have eaten, and it’s already dark, most places will be closed now. Could we… stay for dinner?”

“My stomach’s empty,” Matteo added softly, rubbing it for emphasis.

Josef didn’t budge an inch. “Then figure it out yourselves. Or drive back to Geneva.”

Claire’s face stiffened.

She hadn’t expected everything—every plea, every softened tone, every attempt to bounce right off him.

They had been standing outside for so long, and still he hadn’t let them in.

The wind in the little alley cut straight to the bone.

Winter here meant early darkness—barely six o’clock and it already looked like ten. Only a streetlamp and the warm glow from Josef’s doorway lit their faces. Claire suddenly felt desperate to return to the heated car.

She exhaled quietly. This visit was going nowhere.

Maybe they should find a small inn nearby, let Josef calm down, and come back when he wasn’t bristling like a hedgehog.

She had just opened her mouth to tell her husband and son they should leave when a figure appeared inside the house—and Claire’s gaze snapped toward it, as if pulled by a string.

A young woman was coming down the stairs behind Josef, her hair a thick, warm shade of golden brown. As her face came into focus, Claire’s pupils contracted violently.

She SUCKED in a sharp breath.

No…

No, it couldn’t be. HOW—how could she be here?

Josef caught Claire’s frozen stare and responded with a cool indifference. “You see? I have guests. I don’t have time to entertain you.”

Claire’s mind went blank. Her lips parted soundlessly. Laurent, who had rarely seen his wife look genuinely shaken, leaned closer and whispered, “What’s wrong? Should we go?”

Before she could answer, Matteo finally noticed the girl inside the house.

He let out a surprised “Oh—! She’s so pretty! Grandpa, who is sh—”

A quick, sharp smack landed on his head.

“OW!” He clutched his scalp and looked up at Josef with wide, hurt eyes. “Grandpa, why’d you hit me?”

“Don’t stare. And don’t talk nonsense.” Josef’s hand remained half-raised, ready to deliver another swat if the boy so much as opened his mouth again. “Show some respect to my guest.”

GUEST? The word struck Claire harder than the slap Matteo had received.

Guest—so formal, so unfamiliar. Had she… mistaken the girl? Had her mind played a cruel trick on her?

Claire darted another glance toward the young woman, studying every line of her face as if to confirm or deny—the impossible thought forming in her chest.

Just then, Edward descended the stairs as well. Seeing Josef’s son and his family at the doorway, he offered a polite greeting, even if he privately wanted nothing to do with them.

Josef turned, spotting Edward and Violet disappearing toward the back of the house—likely helping prepare dinner. The thought made his brow twitch. How could he let guests handle the work? He needed these people gone. Now.

“Alright,” he said brusquely. “My guests are here, and I have dinner to make. You can see yourselves out.”

He moved to shut the door again.

Claire panicked. Her hand shot behind her husband’s back, pinching the soft flesh at his waist—hard.

Laurent yelped, bending forward with a strangled groan.

“Oh dear, what’s wrong?” she exclaimed loudly.

Laurent couldn’t answer—pain twisted his features too tightly.

“He must’ve eaten something bad—his stomach hurts,” she said quickly, grasping at the only excuse she could fabricate on the spot. She looked at Josef with pleading eyes. “PLEASE, could he just use your restroom? Only a few minutes—we won’t trouble you more than that…”

Matteo joined in, his young voice carrying earnest urgency.

“Grandpa, please? Just a minute?”

Their commotion carried into the house.

Edward and Violet poked their heads out from the back, concern flickering in their expressions.

Josef let out a long, exasperated sigh.

He could throw them out—he absolutely could—but with guests inside the house, even he couldn’t justify creating a scene too ugly, too socially unforgivable. Reluctantly, he relented.

“FINE,” he muttered. “Come in. Use the restroom—and leave.”